9. Paris

Owen offered to help me pack my trunks. It seemed I only got one round of servitude from him, and then I was on my own. Or, well, at the very least, I wasn't to be attended more than I could tend to myself.

Irksome as that was, it was... nice of him to help me. When I looked around, I saw that everyone was taking care of their own things, Chief Brett right beside the rest of his people, disassembling the tent and tying the bed rolls.

Should that be a comfort to me? At least I wasn't alone in toiling, but it was—gods, it was terrible.

I heaved one side of my trunk up, struggling while Owen laughed—a full, deep-chested sound. The thing thunked hard against the wooden floor of the wagon and I groaned at the effort of pushing it in.

"One down," Owen said, shoving it all the way to the front of the wagon. "Only three left."

By the time we were finished, I was sweating, panting, and leaning against the back of the wagon. My heart thundered in my chest, sweat on my brow. I'd taken my jacket off, hung it over the back wheel, and leaned over. I thought I was going to be sick.

Owen chuckled, resting against the wagon beside me. His hand came to my shoulder and he squeezed before sweeping out toward my spine and back. Was that—was that meant to be comforting? I remembered Father sitting on the edge of my bed, stroking my back in a similar fashion when I was ill. I peeked up at him, squinting one narrowed eye.

"Maybe don't pack so much next time?" Owen suggested, brow cocked once more.

"You've made your damned point. Let it go," I grumbled into the fold of my arm. Bent over the wagon's back edge, I buried my head in my arms.

Under other circumstances, I wouldn't have dared speak so crassly to my hosts, but Owen only laughed and patted my back, so it didn't immediately occur to me how far I might've overstepped. King Albany? He'd taken people's tongues for less.

"They must not feed you up in the northern kingdom. Scrawny little arms."

"We—we eat plenty." I thought we did, anyway. Feasts in the castle were staggering in their opulence. It wasn't even that I never moved. I—I danced. Played music. There were games and plenty of sport and?—

Well, it was all very different from relying on my strength alone or pushing past the limits of what I thought I could do because there was no other choice. I wasn't going to leave my things out here in the middle of nowhere. I needed them—every damned stocking.

"Are you all right?"

I straightened at the sound of Brett's voice, blood rushing back into my flushed face all at once. I hardly wanted him to see me bent double, about to heave because I'd done a bit of lifting.

Though it wasn't much better when I swayed and had to catch myself on the wall of the wagon. He lurched out too, but froze when I steadied myself. We stared at each other for one slow breath before he relaxed.

"Quite well," I said, smiling—gods, had it only been five days since I'd determined to smile until it felt right again? A natural smile would be impossible now. "Just catching my breath."

Truth was, it was more than that. My arms trembled, my shirt stuck to my torso, and the sweat on my forehead collected the loose locks of hair that'd slipped free from the ribbon I'd hastily tied at the nape of my neck to keep it out of the way while working.

"Is there anything I can do to help get us ready to leave?" I asked. Mostly, I wanted to distract him from the mess I was.

Gods be good, he'd say no . . .

"Actually," Brett said, looking over his shoulder at those of his clan who were still working, "we're going to set out first. The wagon will be slower than a—than a single rider."

His eyes went shifty then, flitting between Owen and myself. It wasn't the first time I felt like I was missing something, but, well, we were not allies yet. There were no treaties signed, no arrangements made. It was all too reasonable for him to want to keep me from learning everything about his people.

Still, it was easy to tell that something was going on. The night before, they'd spoken of mourning, of a snake. I wondered if it had anything to do with that poor man's murdered daughter, but I didn't dare ask.

Say Chief Brett was, in fact, as vicious as the man claimed; he very well might slit my throat just for questioning him. What did I care for Nemedan politics anyway? My purpose was to do as the king had requested, get home, and hope that was enough to satisfy him.

Little as I wanted to travel, sweaty and unwashed after spending four days on the road already, I was eager to get away from any other chores that might need doing. If Chief Brett was offering an escape, I'd take it.

"Wonderful. I'm ready to get on the road whenever you are." I glanced at the wagon. It was far more rustic than the carriages I was used to, but it had room enough for my things and seemed sturdy.

"Where would you like to sit?" Brett asked, his cheeks hollowed.

"Oh—" I looked at him, then back at the carriage once more. There was a proper bench at the front, near the horses leading the thing, but Owen and a young woman approached as well. I picked up my jacket, fiddling with some of the stitching. I'd never ridden at the front of a carriage before, but there was something appealing about sitting with the wind blowing in my face, especially while my back was so sweaty. "Would it be all right if I sat in the front? That way I could see more of your country on the journey."

Brett's eyes narrowed, but once again, he didn't seem angry or displeased, merely skeptical. "Of course."

And somehow, by the time I managed to climb onto the front, he'd found a cushion for me to sit on.

Gods, I hoped that didn't mean our journey would be long.