“Then you’re doing quite well. Not one has gone in your mouth yet.”
“You mean I’m allowed to do that?”
I smiled inwardly. His voice was almost playful, though I couldn’t imagine any such expression on his face. “No, you’re not allowed,” I replied.
“Just as well. It’s not a taste I should acquire. There aren’t many berry bushes where I’m from.”
“And just where would that be?”
His hand paused on a berry like it was a monumental decision whether to pluck it or not. He finally pulled and expla
ined he was from a small town in the southernmost part of Morrighan. When I asked the name, he said it was very small and had no name.
It was obvious he didn’t want to reveal exactly where he was from. Maybe he was escaping an unpleasant past like me, but that didn’t mean I had to swallow his story with the first bite. I could play with him a little. “A town with no name? Really? How very odd.” I waited for him to scramble, and he didn’t disappoint me.
“It’s only a region. A few scattered dwellings at most. We’re farmers there. Mostly farmers. And you? Where are you from?”
A nameless region? Maybe. And he was strong, fit, tanned from the sun like a farmer might be, but there was also so much that seemed very unfarmerish about him—the way he spoke, even the way he carried himself—and especially his unnerving blue eyes. They were fierce, like a warrior’s. They weren’t the eyes of a content farmer passing his days turning the soil.
I took the berry still poised in his fingers and popped it in my mouth. Where was I from? I narrowed my eyes and smiled. “A small town in the northernmost part of Morrighan. Mostly farmers. Only a region, really. A few scattered dwellings. At most. No name.”
He couldn’t restrain a chuckle. “Then we come from opposite but similar worlds, don’t we?”
I stared at him, entranced that I was able to make him laugh. I watched his smile slowly fade from his face. Gentle lines still creased his eyes. His laugh seemed to relax everything about him. He was younger than I originally thought, nineteen maybe. I was intrigued by—
My eyes widened. I had been studying him and hadn’t even answered his question. I looked away, my chest thumping, and returned with renewed vigor to my half-filled basket, plucking several green berries before his hand reached out and touched mine.
“Shall we walk for a bit?” he suggested. “I think this bush is stripped clean unless Berdi wants sour fruit.”
“Yes, maybe we should move on.”
He let go of my hand, and we walked a little farther down the canyon, gathering berries as we went. He asked me how long I had worked at the inn, and I told him only a few weeks. “What did you do before that?”
Anything I did in Civica wasn’t worth mentioning. Almost. “I was a thief,” I said, “but decided to try my hand at making an honest living. So far, so good.”
He smiled. “But at least you have something to fall back on?”
“Exactly.”
“And your parents? Do you see them often?”
Since the day of my escape with Pauline, I hadn’t discussed them with anyone. There will be a bounty on my head. “My parents are dead. Did you enjoy the venison last night?”
He acknowledged my abrupt change of subject with a nod. “Very much. It was delicious. Gwyneth brought me a generous helping.”
I couldn’t help but wonder what else she had been generous with. Not that she ever overstepped the bounds of propriety, but she did know how to lavish attention on certain patrons, and I wondered if Rafe had been one of them.
“You’ll be staying on, then?”
“For a time. At least through the festival.”
“You’re devout?”
“About some things.”
It was a neatly evasive answer that still left me wondering if his principal interest in the festival was food or faith. The annual festival was as much about food and drink as it was about holy observances, some partaking in more of one than the other.
“I noticed the nicks on your hands. Did you get them from your work?”