Princess of Thorns

“The hair.” I motion to my warrior’s knot. “It takes a long time to dry.”

“Then cut it.” He sets off toward the stairs and the tavern below the i

The traditional Goreman meal—fish, sweet corn, and potatoes with onions—is on the menu tonight, which I suspect is the main reason Niklaas chose this i

“Fey men never cut their hair. Everyone knows that.” I bound after him, so much lighter in my new vest that I feel I might float away. It makes me hopeful. Hopeful that there will come a day when I will be back in my fairy dresses, with nothing but whisper-soft skirts to weigh me down. “They’d no more trim their hair than cut off a finger.”

“You’re not Fey,” he says over his shoulder. “You’re human, and human men don’t waste two hours fussing with their hair.”

“Human men also smell like wild hogs and relieve themselves in the street. I prefer the Fey ways, thank you.”

“Let’s see if you say that after your meal tonight,” he says with a laugh. “Not even the Fey make food like this.”

He pauses at the bottom of the stairs, reaching back to catch my arm and pull me behind him, sheltering me with his body as he scans the room. I stay where he’s put me, knowing he must be checking the tavern for possible spies, and try to ignore the heady soap and spice and … Niklaas smell of him.

No matter how much I teased him about it, he never smelled of onions, but he had begun to stink of the road. Now he smells like summer, like warm skin, tall grass, and the breeze off the ocean. He smells like adventure and safety, the familiar and the unknown, woven together, making me long to press my face against the back of his shirt and breathe deep.

Against my will and good sense, I’m begi

“The company looks harmless, and there’s a table in the corner so far from the windows it’s nearly night over there already,” he whispers, close enough for his mint and rosemary breath to warm my lips. “Assuming they don’t have a rat problem, we’re safe.”

“Good.” I duck my head. “Let’s go,” I say, voice cracking as I try to move past him.

“You all right?” he asks, stopping me with a hand on my shoulder.

“Fine. Why?”

“You sound a little … strange is all.”

“Just starved to the bone.” I shrug off his hand and punch him lightly in the stomach, but for the first time the chummy gesture feels awkward. I force a smile, praying Niklaas hasn’t noticed. “Come on. Let’s sit. I’m going to eat my age in fish.”

Niklaas snorts. “Just don’t drink your age in beer and we’ll be all right.”

I follow him with my eyes on the ground, doing my best not to attract the attention of the patrons already taking their di

We arrive at the table Niklaas has chosen and I agree it’s perfect—shoved into the shadows at one end of the bar, with only a tiny, flickering candle to light it and no way for anyone, or anything, to spot us from the street outside. It’s probably the safest place we’ve been in days, and the perfect spot to tuck into my first hot meal in over a week.

My stomach growls. “Let’s eat like it’s our last meal,” I say as I pull out my chair.

“Like condemned men,” Niklaas agrees, motioning to the i

And eat we do. And eat and eat, gorging ourselves on butter-smothered whitefish so tender it melts on the tongue, fresh sweet corn bursting with juice, and Niklaas’s much-adored potatoes and onions. By the time we’re finished, my stomach is a hard knot at the center of my body, my heartbeat sluggish with the effort of digesting it all.

“I feel like a tick,” I say, sipping my beer. I’m still on my second mug. Niklaas is on his fifth but doesn’t seem any worse for it. As big as he is, it probably takes more than a few beers to make him drifty.

“A happy tick.” Niklaas holds up the empty bowl of potatoes, motioning for the i

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I say. “You’re having more?”

“I am,” he says. “Anything else for you? Another beer?”

I shake my head. “I’m already drifty. I should stop.”

“You’re a better man that I was at your age.” Niklaas sits back, stretching his hands high over his head, as if doing so will make more room in his stomach. “The night I had my first beer, I had my eighth and ninth. I was sick as black magic the next day.”

“I’ve had beer before,” I say with a smile. “And wine and spirits. I like wine best, especially the sweet ice wine at the Marrymeet festivals.”

“I wouldn’t recommend the wine here,” Niklaas says. “Probably closer to vinegar. Goreman isn’t known for its wine.” He shoots his mug a critical look. “Or its beer, for that matter. Too dark and bitter. The beer in Kanvasol is much better.”

“It doesn’t matter.” I wave a hand in the air before resting it on my too-full belly. “No room for wine anyway. My stomach’s on the verge of rebellion.”

“Then you’ll just have to watch while I finish up,” he says, gri

“And here’s another beer for yeh,” she says, placing a sixth beer in front of Niklaas as she stacks our dirty dishes. “No charge for that one. Just a thank-yeh for taking yer meal here with us tonight.”

“Thank you, my lady.” Niklaas grins one of his wicked grins, the ones that seem to melt women from the inside out.

“Aw now,” she mutters, “call me Nell. All the boys do. We’re like family here. Somebody’s got to keep an eye on all these young ones so far from home.”

“You’re as sweet as your cooking, Nell.” Niklaas caresses her name with his voice, while I try not to roll my eyes. “I’m Niklaas, and this is my friend Ror.”

“Nice to meet yeh both,” she says, though she doesn’t spare me a glance. “Enjoy yer night and keep out of trouble, boys.”

“We will.” Niklaas’s naughty wink is in direct conflict with his words, making Nell giggle again as she turns from the table.

“Ugh.” I shake my head as the woman scurries away, watching her peek back at Niklaas as she collects the dirty dishes from the other tables. “You’re terrible.”

“I’m charming.”

I grunt. “Charming or not, you certainly have an effect on the fairer sex.” My nose wrinkles as I remember the way the whores flung themselves into the street as we rode past their houses, caressing Niklaas’s leg, begging him to frequent their establishment while in town. It was all I could do not to bat their grabby paws away with my staff.

“Jealous again?” Niklaas asks, jaw working as he digs into his potatoes.

For a second I’m startled speechless, until I realize he means jealous of him, not the other women.

“Not in the slightest,” I say with an exaggerated roll of my eyes. “It must be exhausting, having women swooning at your feet all hours of the day.”

“It is,” he says with a put-upon sigh that makes me snort. “Pity me, Ror.”

“I’m serious,” I say, though I can’t help smiling. “How can you be expected to think of women as anything other than giddy things with fluff between their ears when they’re always acting the fool for you?”

“I’m serious, too. I really do wish you’d pity me.” He bats his lashes, making me wonder if he’s feeling those beers after all. “I’m tired of being a wanted man. I’m ready to be married. I swear I will be a good and faithful husband. Won’t you consider putting in a kind word with your sister for me, my good, good friend?” He stabs another forkful of potatoes and shoves them into his mouth, somehow managing to make even chewing look tragic and pitiable.