A Touch of Death

Chapter 5

The next morning, Aoife woke to the smell of breakfast, and it took her a moment to remember where she was. The ceiling wasn't the wood panels of the manner, but a thick canopy over the bed. Her body felt heavy, like she'd managed to sink into the bed overnight and it would be an effort to extricate herself. Looking around, she quickly located the source of the breakfast smell. A tray of steaming food had been left on her bedside table— beans, eggs, and some kind of bread. Her stomach protested at the thought of food so early in the morning, but she thought it was kind of the incorporeal staff to bring it up, so she did her best to try to eat.

To her surprise, there was a selection of pants and shirts in her wardrobe, with no sign of the dresses from last night. She wasn't completely sure how the wardrobe contents worked, but she threw out a quick word of thanks to any of the house spirits that might have done it. She wound up in a pair of leggings and a sleeveless shirt with a high collar that draped to mid-thigh, possibly a man's shirt rather than something tailored for a woman. With her old leather gloves on, she was ready to face the day. Well... so she hoped.

After backtracking from only one wrong turn, she found the Enchanter in the garden. Without the long, red robes he seemed somehow smaller and larger at the same time. He wore a simple brown tunic, belted closed at the waist, plain pants, and practical boots, looking more like a woodsman than an Enchanter. His long hair fell haphazardly around his shoulders, stray strands floating in the breeze as he turned towards her, alerted by the sound of her footsteps.

"Ah, Aoife, you're here—" He stopped abruptly, eyes tracing down the pattern of scars on her arm. She fought the urge not to shy away from the gaze. Her left arm was a piece of work, and she knew it. Not only did the silver Mark run from the tip top of her shoulder down to her wrist, most of the outside of the arm was covered in pale, slashing scars, a leftover memento from her brief time on the run.

"If you want to ask about my scars, it would be less rude than staring," she pointed out.

"How did you get them?" he asked bluntly, though he still stared at her arm. The same as last night, she remembered.

"I'll tell you how I got them when you tell me why you're so interested," Aoife countered. His expression soured.

"Wouldn't anyone be interested in a scar pattern like that?"

"I keep it hidden to discourage interest," she said simply. He didn't press for more information on the scars, instead going off on a completely new tangent.

"So, I need details on your powers. Don't tell me you kill things; I know that already. You didn't kill that boy at the Festival. Why?" He paced in a circle around the courtyard, looking almost fidgety, like the answers to his questions were an itch he couldn't scratch.

"I don't think he was in contact with me for long enough," she said after a pause. A haunted look came over her face as she continued, gaze focused somewhere far away. "I don't really have conscious control over it. Most people get sick first. They can't tell what it is or how to cure it, but they get sick...and then they die. If they touch my bare skin and I'm scared enough, then they fall over like Erik. That's not the first time."

"Plants and animals?"

"Near-instant death for animals in most cases. Absolutely instant for plants. No exceptions." Her voice became softer with every word. She felt like walking away, like closing up. It was like baring her soul to a complete stranger, admitting this thing that she knew, but had never spoken the particulars of out loud. Aoife's arms unconsciously wrapped around her torso, as if she might be trying to shrink away into nothing.

"Today we're starting with your physical training."

"What?" she blinked.

"Physical training," he said again, more slowly this time.