Thread of Frost

Ch. 32: Can't Escape It

Anna knocked on the door.

She shifted from foot-to-foot, shivering in the dim corridor. Candlelight cast odd shadows across the citadel, catching on oil paintings and gilded statues of saints. She wrapped her arms around herself. She was dressed in a black wool jumper and trousers, but she'd gone barefoot on the cold tile floor. A crucial mistake.

"Come in," Ryne called.

She pushed open the door.

The room was bathed in shadow. Slaine had explained that it had once been used as a chapel, although the healers had converted it to a bedroom a decade ago. Still, you could see fragments of what it had once been: a rose window framing the moon; a wooden pew; the lingering scent of incense.

Ryne stood near the window. A white towel was slung low on his hips, and his dark hair was damp. He was holding a pot of something that smelled like peppermint. Anna watched as he twisted, attempting to slather it on his back.

Good gods. His back.

Anna bit her lip. The skin was a mess of shiny burns and pustules, as if someone had poured a pot of boiling water onto Ryne's back. She'd caught only a glimpse of it earlier. Seeing it now, six hours later...

Anna exhaled. "Gods."

"Looks worse than it is," Ryne said.

He applied the salve to his lower back, wincing slightly. Anna leaned against the wall. "How are you feeling?"

Ryne's smile was wry. "I've had better days."

He started on his upper back next, twisting awkwardly to get the angle right. Anna stepped forward. "I can do it."

Ryne raised an eyebrow. Still, he handed her the pot, turning to face the window. Silver moonlight wreathed his hair; she could see the muscles in his back contracting and expanding as he breathed. She dipped her fingers in the salve.

"This takes me back," Ryne murmured.

"Last time I did this," Anna said, "I was trying to get a key out of your pocket and steal your throne."

She could hear the smile in Ryne's voice. "Not much has changed, then."

"No," Anna murmured. "I suppose not." She traced a burn, her fingers light. "Delafort, about what happened in the pools..."

"Which part?" Ryne asked.

"The end bit."

"Ah," Ryne said. "The bit where I said that I was in love with you."

"Yeah," Anna said.

She applied salve to his shoulder. The muscle flexed under her fingers, shifting like currents under a calm surface. His skin was warm under her hands. For a moment, neither of them spoke; then Ryne half-turned, his green eyes bright.

"You must have suspected it," Ryne said.

Anna kept her gaze on his back. "It turns out that you're a very good liar."

"Not my finest moment, admittedly," Ryne said. "There's something very undignified about drowning in a vat of boiled beetroot. I always thought I'd go out in a much more glorious fashion." He braced his hands against the windowsill. "Well?"

Anna paused. "Well, what?"

"Aren't you going to ask me about it?"

"I don't see why." Anna stepped back, screwing the lid back on. "You've never asked me about why I'm taking on your curse."

"What shall we discuss then?" Ryne sat on the window seat. "Politics? The weather? Knitting patterns?" He crossed his arms. "I'm quite partial to a purl stitch myself. It's basic, I know, but you can't fault—"