12

Rain came down in thick sheets while the wind whipped around the cabin, howling, but the fire kept the one-room home warm and cozy. Quietly, Greyson slipped outside to get an armload of wood. Coming back into the cabin, his eyes shot to the bed. Cyrus was sprawled on his stomach, asleep. Greyson set the wood in the metal firewood rack and hung his cloak before stoking the fire to make sure the house stayed warm for Cyrus.

Cyrus was always cold.

He was still deciding whether to make the journey to the northern coast. They would have to travel over Validus Peak, and with winter approaching, the temperature would start to drop drastically. His brow furrowed as his lips pursed. They could wait for the letter to arrive from the capital, but he didn't like the idea of sitting here, doing nothing.

I could always take him to the representative, Greyson reasoned. A vise squeezed his lungs, stealing his breath. That was not an option.

While keeping Cyrus was not the wisest plan, it was the only chance at finding something out. Well, that and Frederick. His thoughts went round and round, arguing the different sides—take Cyrus to the representative or keep him. In the end, it might be best to take Cyrus to Lord Darius because what would Greyson do if Cyrus planned to hurt them? Would he kill Cyrus?

The very thought made him go cold.

Greyson shoved it aside. It didn't matter. He would simply plan for the immediate future. If he was going to travel across the mountains, he would need to have warmer clothes made for Cyrus. He'd been saving the pelts of the animals he'd trapped for quite some time now.

A plan began to form. He would take the pelts to Annabeth and have a fur-lined cloak and vest made for Cyrus. He might even have enough for a blanket. That should be enough to keep Cyrus warm.

He pulled some herbs, fresh and dry, from the cupboard, then removed his mortar and pestle. Greyson would need money to pay Annabeth, though she would probably trade the work for some of his poultices.

Time passed quickly, and the world disappeared as he steadily worked. The soothing motions of creating healing poultices and the grinding of the stone in his ears made all the tension flee his body. Greyson could almost hear his mother's gentle voice as she instructed him in the delicate art. She'd taught him well, and he'd surpassed her skills, crafting near-perfect potions and poultices, even though he did not share her healing magic.

Sitting up straight, eyes closed, Greyson stretched his tight shoulders. Looking up, he started. Cyrus sat not far from him, watching him.

"You're awake from your nap?" Greyson asked, his voice tight.

"I woke up a while ago."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

Cyrus smiled softly. "You seemed so serious."

Scoffing, Greyson stood, back tight. "You should've told me so I could make dinner."

"It's fine."

The fire was dying, so Greyson chucked a couple of pieces of wood onto it. They did not immediately catch. Crouching, he blew on the red-hot coals. After a moment, they sparked to life. Greyson hung a kettle over the flames, then turned around, and Cyrus watched him with an intense gaze. His serious expression made Greyson's stomach flutter. Clearing his throat, he stalked to the kitchen, head down.

As he passed by, Cyrus snagged Greyson around the waist and held him against his broad chest. "I'm okay. You don't have to make anything."

Greyson wiggled out of his hold, as he tried to banish the thrill that went down his spine. Ignoring Cyrus' comment, he made a quick meal. Once it was finished, Greyson poured a bit of tea, then added a dollop of milk, careful not to overfill the cup, and stirred in a couple of spoonfuls of sugar. He pushed the cup toward Cyrus, who shook his head but accepted the tea.

Taking a sip of his tea, Greyson asked, "What do you think about traveling to the coast?"

"I don't really care."

His brow furrowed. "You don't care? Don't you want to find the person who did this to you?"

"You already said they can't restore my memory, so it doesn't matter."

That seemed odd to Greyson, but maybe he was more of a revenge person than Cyrus? He suggested, "We can wait for my friend to respond and see why you're here in the first place."

Whatever Cyrus saw in his expression made him grin widely. "You don't like waiting around, do you?"

"Not really."

"Then we can go."

"It'll be cold," Greyson said. "And long."

"If you're with me, I'll be fine."

He nodded, swallowing. Trying to find anything to say, Greyson said, "You should try your tea."

Cyrus lifted the cup to his lips and took a sip. His face immediately scrunched, and he set it down. "I don't like it."

"Heathen."

Unexpectedly, Cyrus laughed. "You'll have to enjoy it by yourself, I guess."

"I guess, I will."

The next day, the sun shone brightly, and the air held a crisp edge that Greyson quite liked. He and Cyrus strolled to the village with a bag full of pelts slung over his shoulder. Cyrus snaked an arm through his left arm and stepped in time with him. Greyson rolled his eyes, but let Cyrus keep ahold of him. He kept doing that, allowing Cyrus to come closer, and he refused to contemplate why.

"Why are we going to Annabeth's?"

"One, so you can meet her, and two, so she can make fur-lined clothes for you so you don't freeze on our trip."

"You'll stay with me, right?"

"No," Greyson replied. "I need to start gathering supplies. You'll be fine. Annabeth is very nice, and when she's done, you can see Widow Abney."

Cyrus frowned, visibly deflating. Greyson swallowed as his chest unexpectedly tightened. He bumped Cyrus with his shoulder. Cyrus smiled and returned the bump. Averting his gaze, Greyson continued toward the village with Cyrus by his side.

When they reached the outskirts, Greyson shook off Cyrus' arm and strode to Annabeth's house—a one-story home with fragrant herbs growing in planters under the windows. Greyson rapped on the door. A few moments passed before it opened and revealed a slim woman with black hair and hard features.

"Greyson," she said, opening the door the rest of the way. Her light brown eyes darted to Cyrus, and her lips flattened into a tight line. Greyson wondered in the back of his mind if he'd made a grievous mistake. Annabeth had lost her older sister and brother in the rebellion—the last bit of her family.

"Annabeth," he said. "I need a favor."

She glowered at Cyrus, not reacting. Greyson had no idea if Cyrus had directly killed Annabeth's siblings, but he'd been the face of the war much as Greyson had been the face of the rebellion.

"I don't know if I'm inclined to grant that favor."

He pinched the bridge of his nose, then glanced at Cyrus. "Can you give us a moment?"

Cyrus frowned deeply, lines forming between his eyebrows. He looked between them, unmoving for so long Greyson thought Cyrus wouldn't leave. Stiffy, he moved back, leaning against the stone well with his arms crossed.

"Annabeth," Greyson started.

She interrupted him, "How could you bring him here? To my house?"

"He doesn't remember."

"And that's supposed to make this better? I've seen him traipsing after you, and all I can think about is my family. Gone. Dead."

Greyson scrubbed a hand through his hair. "The war is over."

"Really?" She scoffed. "You"re going to say that to me?"

"Please. Someone wiped his memory, and I need to find them. I need to know why Cyrus is here and what that means for us."

"And this concerns me how?"

"I need you to make him fur-lined clothes so he can survive the journey to the northern shore."

"The poor baby gets cold." A mean sneer pulled at her lips. "Let him freeze." She slammed the door in his face.

"That went well," he muttered and strode toward Cyrus, who watched him with narrowed eyes.

"What happened?"

"She doesn't want to help us."

"Why?"

"For unimportant reasons," Greyson answered.

"Did you used to court her?"

What does that have to do with anything?"Years ago for a short while."

"Maybe she's still upset."

"Trust me," Greyson said, "that has nothing to do with it."

"Okay," Cyrus replied, voice deepening. "What are we going to do?"

"What I always do: ask Widow Abney."

Widow Abney stood in front of Cyrus, taking his measurements with sure movements. Greyson had left as soon as the old woman agreed to sew the garments, not saying even a word as he disappeared outside. Cyrus peered out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of Greyson, even though it was pointless.

Wrapping the measuring tape around his chest, she asked, "What's troubling you?"

"Nothing."

She pinched his side. "Don't lie to me, young man."

"I wanted Greyson to stay," Cyrus said, "but he insisted on leaving me behind, again."

With a shake of her head, she remarked, "You're a bit needy."

"Excuse me?"

"You're only apart for a short time and you're already pining for him."

"I guess. I like being with him."

"I noticed," Widow Abney said.

Strong emotions swelled in his chest. He desperately wanted to see Greyson. They'd only been apart for a short while, and Cyrus wanted to be with him, walking next to him, talking, or even doing nothing.

Widow Abney studied him. After several long moments of silence, she placed a wrinkled hand on his arm. "You're in love with Greyson."

"What?"

"You're in love with Greyson."

He swallowed. Love. In love with Greyson, he thought. The word scorched him to his very soul. "I'm in love with Greyson."

"Yes," she said, continuing to take measurements. "I noticed."

"How did that happen?"

"The usual way. You saw him, talked to him, and fell in love. It happens," Widow Abney said with a shrug.

"I can't believe it."

"I can," the old woman said. "I saw you mooning over him the first day he brought you into the village."

"Still."

"It's not revolutionary. You just fell in love with someone. It happens to the best of us."

"But it happened so fast," Cyrus remarked, shaking his head.

"Maybe you liked him before you lost your memory."

Cyrus froze. That was possible. But Greyson didn't act like they had any romantic relationship previously. Of course, he might have never told Greyson.

The mere thought of Greyson was enough to send his pulse racing. Images of his scowl, the way his hair fell around his sharp cheekbones, his long fingers, his body, and the way Greyson took care of him, even when he said he wouldn't, played through his mind. Cyrus had a hard time believing it, but Greyson had apparently claimed his heart.

"How in the world am I going to tell him?"

"That's your problem," she said with a croaky chuckle.