Bastien stirs, and I hold my breath. Will he pull me in closer? Kiss my neck?
I feel his body jolt, and he curses in a low rumble. He stays absolutely still and I wonder what he’s thinking.
But then he rolls away, right out of the bed, and his footsteps recede into the living area.
My heart sinks. I take that to mean Bastien probably fell asleep and hadn’t meant to—mostly likely, he’s embarrassed to be caught in such an intimate position when he’s tried his damnedest to remain distanced from me.
I listen as he moves around, puts a kettle on, and opens up cabinets. Sighing, I get out of bed to face what the day may bring.
By the time I use the bathroom, wash my face, brush my teeth, and change out of my pajamas, the sun has broken over the horizon. Dappled light filters in through the windows. I find Bastien at the table with a teapot, two cups, and a platter of bread, fruits, and cheese. I notice the cup before him is empty, as is his plate, nothing but crumbs on it.
He’s critical in his perusal of me, perhaps wondering what bruises lie beneath my linen dress. I chose the sleeveless, knee-length sheath not necessarily for the style but for the light green that matches my eyes. Dresses are taking a bit of getting used to again after seven long years of wearing mostly jeans.
“How are you feeling?” he asks gruffly as I take the other chair.
“Sore,” I reply, reaching for the teapot. Most of my pain is from being yanked off King and hitting the ground, but it’s nothing a few days won’t cure.
“I can take you to the hot springs today if you’d like to soak,” he offers.
Not wanting him to feel beholden or awkward about me asking him to stay last night, I wave him off. “I can find my way if I want to go, but I’ll probably just take a healing potion.”
“You’re not going anywhere without me,” he announces, settling back in his chair and then nodding at the food. “You need to eat.”
I don’t disagree. I’m actually quite hungry, but I’m not happy with his dictate. “I don’t need a babysitter.” I butter a piece of bread.
“Call it what you want, but given that you were snatched from inside the protective cloak, I’m at your side at all times.”
His tone indicates he won’t be argued with, and I don’t bother. He’d win, and I’d only get angry.
Not to mention… I feel safer near Bastien.
“Do you have any thoughts on how the cloak was breached?” I ask as I drizzle my toast with honey from a small pot.
Bastien shakes his head. “The Conclave has all available Scrinia deep-diving the books, but honestly, I doubt there’s an answer other than Ferelith’s magic is just that powerful. She found a way to do it.”
I’m aghast at the implications. “Which means Clairmont isn’t safe. She knows I’m here. I have to leave.”
Bastien holds up his hand. “It seems she knew you were here, which indicates a potential traitor in our midst. But she can’t march her forces on us anytime soon. Our scouts tell us she’s engaged with Salema, so for the time being, Clairmont is safe. You, however, are still in danger.”
“I should leave,” I repeat.
“Perhaps,” he says gravely. “We have much to discuss with the Conclave. As soon as you finish eating, we’ll go there. I sent word to have everyone congregate as soon as day broke.”
I wolf down the bread and grab an apple to take with us for the short walk to Conclave Hall. To my surprise, when we exit the cottage, a contingent of twenty soldiers waits to accompany Bastien and me. He’s been very busy in the short time between getting out of bed this morning and now.
Townspeople look on in surprise as we walk to midtown, the sheer number of soldiers escorting me causing alarm. I smile and say polite hellos to those we pass.
When we reach Conclave Hall, Archer stands waiting for us, and my heart aches when I see his face, battered with cuts and bruises, and one arm in a sling. I break free of my guards and run the last few paces to him, almost throwing myself at him in a hug but pulling up short when I realize I’ll hurt him.
“Oh, Archer,” I murmur in dismay, reaching out to hold his good hand. “Look at you.”
“It looks worse than it feels,” he assures me with a smile, then grimaces because it pulls at a scab on his split lip.
“I’m so sorry,” I gush. “I can’t stand—”
“Stop it, Thalia,” Archer says, his voice a little harsh. “I was doing what I was supposed to be doing, and that was protecting you as we were ambushed. But I did an awful job, as you were taken and I got my ass kicked.”