allow it.
Elide slumped onto her cot, groaning softly as
she bent to untie the laces of her boots. A day
of helping Yrene in the wagon was no easy
task, and the prospect of rubbing salve into
her ankle and foot seemed nothing short of
divine. The work, at least, kept the swarming
thoughts at bay: what she’d done to Vernon,
what had befallen Perranth, what awaited
them at Orynth, and what they could ever do
to defeat it.
From the cot opposite hers, Lorcan only
watched, an apple half peeled in his hands.
“You should rest more often.”
Elide waved him off, yanking away her
boot, then her sock. “Yrene is pregnant—and
throwing up every hour or so. If she doesn’t
rest, I’m not going to.”
“I’m not entirely certain Yrene is fully