“How is Hadrian?” Those were the first words out of his mouth when Royce finally woke. He had no concern for himself. This, she knew, was a good man.
“He’s fine.” She could tell from the look in his eyes that such a simple answer wouldn’t do. She added, “A doctor tended to his wounds and he’s sleeping quietly.”
“It was you on the street.” His expression shifted from recognition to confusion. “Who are you? Why did you help us?”
In all of her imaginings of that moment, she had always expected him to know who she was and why he was there-he was supposed to be the one with all the answers, filling in the blanks for her. In that instant she realized this man hadn’t a clue, and Gwen smiled at the thought of actually telling him, I’m the daughter of a fortune-teller, and I’ve traveled across four nations to make Medford my home just to be here when you arrived so that I could save your life. But that wasn’t the time; the man was barely alive.
“My name is Gwen DeLancy. I run this brothel. I helped because you needed me.”
This didn’t alleviate his confusion, but he didn’t inquire further. He was still exhausted, still in pain.
“Who are you?” She had to ask. After waiting so long for this foretold meeting, she needed to know. He didn’t answer for a long time, only stared at her.
“Royce,” he finally said. The word had come out reluctantly, grudgingly, handed over only out of obligation.
She let him sleep again after that-she had enough; she had his name.
He was quiet after that first exchange. In the following few days, he asked only about Hadrian, and it wasn’t until she finally helped him walk into the other room to see his friend that he had started to relax.
“You don’t look like you should be walking yet,” Hadrian had said from his bed as Gwen helped Royce stagger into Etta’s room.
“He shouldn’t be,” Gwen replied.
“You all right?” Royce asked, his voice harsh and demanding.
Hadrian offered a lopsided smile. “Last thing I remember, you were knee-deep in a bloody puddle and I was trying to dig you out from under a dead horse in the pouring rain. And oh yes-I had just been shot with an arrow.” He looked around at Etta’s bedroom, which had an excess of lace and an abundance of flowers. “Yeah … I’d say I’m doing better.”
“Okay,” Royce said, and with Gwen’s help had turned to leave.
“You got up and came in here just for that?” Hadrian asked.
“I was bored,” Royce replied.
“He’s been worried to the point of not sleeping,” Gwen said.
Royce scowled. “I wanted to make certain these people weren’t … you know.”
“By Mar, Royce.” Hadrian shook his head, amazed. “They saved our lives. You can trust them.”
By the time Gwen had Royce back in bed, he was bleeding again, and she had to redress the wound in his side. Before they arrived, someone had done such a terrible job of stitching him that the doctor was forced to fix it. When she was done, he caught her hand.
“If you … if you’re up to something … if you’re trying to…” Royce hesitated, holding her, his arms weak and shaking. She could see him struggling. “Why did you really do it? Why’d you help us?”
“I told you.”
His expression didn’t change. He didn’t believe her.
Gwen smiled.
Royce smirked. “I don’t get it. Something’s not right, and trust me, I’m not the kind you want to cross. Understand?”
She nodded, still smiling.
“Well … good.” He let go of her. “And you should probably be careful, because just about the entire world is looking for us.”
Royce had never provided details, but Gwen understood the two were wanted and on the run. She was housing criminals, a hanging offense if she was caught.
Looking back on those months, Gwen saw them as the most intensely lived of her life. She was never more frightened and never so euphoric. She spent her days tracking gossip and trying to squelch any rumors about a man who had cried for help on Wayward Street the week of the big storm. Her nights had been spent feeding, cleaning, and dressing Royce, during which they held short-often cryptic-conversations she never fully understood. Weak as a kitten, he needed her for everything, and she could see it pained him more than his wounds.
At first he was quiet, but as the days passed they began to discuss such serious things as cooking, sewing, the snow that soon fell, and Wintertide.
“You probably celebrate the holiday with a feast and decorations,” Royce said. By then he was able to sit up and the two spoke in the light of the single candle. “Lots of family and friends, dancing and songs.”
Gwen noticed a twinge of sadness, even spite in his voice. She shook her head. “I’ve never celebrated Wintertide. My mother and I were always traveling, usually alone, and we never had money for any feasts. Since she died”-Gwen shrugged-“I’ve been struggling just to survive. It’s hard to celebrate when your choices are starving or being a slave.”
She remembered he appeared surprised, even suspicious. “You don’t look like you’re hurting for food.”
“No, not now. I finally decided I didn’t want to be a victim anymore. I got to the point where I was just tired of being afraid.”
He reached out then and for the first time touched her for no reason. He placed his hand on hers and gave a soft squeeze. The hint of malice she’d seen in his face had been replaced by sympathy-not pity, but understanding, a shared appreciation that nearly made her cry.
Until then she had always been the loyal daughter, the detested Calian immigrant, the whore. Even the girls, who knew most of her story, viewed her as either some sort of hero or opportunist, depending on their mood. In Royce’s eyes she could see the pain of struggling to survive reflected back. They were the same, two pieces of wood from different worlds but whose grain lined up, and it was then she knew she was falling in love.
That was the closest either had come to discussing themselves. Gwen had hoped he would volunteer more about himself, but he never did. From his and Hadrian’s comments she guessed the two were bandits, highwaymen perhaps-but who was she to judge after so many had judged her.
She never did tell him about her gift to tell the future by reading palms or how her saving Royce had been foretold years before. With the touch of his hand and that gentle squeeze, such things became trivial-part of a past that she preferred to let go. She had him finally, and it didn’t matter who he was or what he had done.
Snow fell outside while inside Royce and Hadrian convalesced. As they grew stronger, they came downstairs to sit with the rest around the fire. They had sung songs and told stories-at least Hadrian had. Royce made a habit of sitting quietly beside her-always beside her. And she couldn’t help noticing the glares he had given Dixon.
Dixon was quite literally the man of the House, a local carter with a strong back and a soft spot for Gwen. She had employed him to do the heavy lifting in the days when they built Medford House. Since then, Dixon remained as the unofficial guardian of the girls.
“Listen,” Royce told her, and then hesitated. He did that a lot, as if every sentence suffered a debate in his head. It had been two months after they had arrived and Royce and Gwen were in the bedroom. Outside, snow was falling again as Wintertide neared. “I … ah…” He faltered once more. “You didn’t have to help us. Shouldn’t have, really. Makes no sense. Dangerous and nothing in it for you. You spent money paying that doctor and more feeding us, not to mention all the time you … you … well, you know what you did. So anyway…” He sighed and shook his head. “This doesn’t come easy to me, but … I want to thank you, okay?”
She waited. Gwen thought he might kiss her then. She hoped he would-hoped he’d throw his arms around her, say he was in love and that he’d stay with her always, but he didn’t. Instead he announced he and Hadrian would be leaving at dawn.