Just farmers burning fields left to fallow, Molly had claimed, so the ashes might fertilize the earth for next year’s harvest. They had to be miles away, but the smoke and ash would travel far on the brisk northward wind. The wind that led home to Terrasen.

But they weren’t headed to Terrasen. They were headed due east, straight toward the coast.

Soon she’d have to cut northward. They had passed through one town—only one, and its denizens had already been fatigued of roving carnivals and performers. Even with the night barely under way, Elide already knew they would likely only make enough money to cover their expenses for staying.

She had attracted a grand total of four customers to her little tent so far, mostly young men looking to know which of the village girls fancied them, barely noticing that Elide—beneath the makeup pasted thick as cream on her face—was no older than they were. They’d scampered off when their friends had rushed by, whispering through the star-painted flaps that a swordsman was putting on the show of a lifetime, and his arms were nearly the size of tree trunks.

Elide had glowered, both at the feckless young men who vanished—one without paying—and at Lorcan, for stealing the show.

She waited all of two minutes before shoving out of the tent, the enormous, ridiculous headdress Molly had plunked on her hair snagging on the flaps. Bits of dangling beads and charms hung from the arching crest, and Elide batted them out of her eyes, nearly tripping over her matching bloodred robes as she went to see what all the fuss was about.

If the young men of the town had been impressed by Lorcan’s muscles, it was nothing on what those muscles were doing to the young women.

And older women, Elide realized, not bothering to squeeze through the tightly packed crowd before the makeshift stage on which Lorcan stood, juggling and throwing swords and knives.

Lorcan was not a natural performer. No, he had the gall to actually look bored up there, bordering on outright sullen.

But what he lacked in charm he made up for with his shirtless, oiled body. And holy gods…

Lorcan made the young men who had visited her tent look like … children.

He balanced and hurled his weapons as if they were nothing, and she had the feeling the warrior was merely going through one of his daily exercise routines. But the crowd still oohed and aahed at every twist and toss and catch, and coins still trickled into the pan at the edge of the stage.

With the torches around him, Lorcan’s dark hair seemed to swallow the light, his onyx eyes flat and dull. Elide wondered if he was contemplating the murder of everyone drooling over him like dogs around a bone. She couldn’t blame him.

A trickle of sweat slid through the crisp spattering of dark hair on his sculpted chest. Elide watched, a bit transfixed, as that bead of sweat wended down the muscled grooves of his stomach. Lower.

No better than those ogling women, she said to herself, about to head back into her tent when Molly observed from beside her, “Your husband could just be sitting up there, fixing your stockings, and women would empty their pockets for the chance to stare at him.”

“He had that effect wherever we went with our former carnival,” Elide lied.

Molly clicked her tongue. “You’re lucky,” she murmured as Lorcan hurled his sword high in the air and people gasped, “that he still looks at you the way he does.”

Elide wondered if Lorcan would look at her at all if she told him what her name was, who she was, what she carried. He’d slept on the floor of the tent each night—not that she’d ever once bothered to offer him the roll. He usually came in after she’d fallen asleep, and left before she awoke. To do what, she had no idea—perhaps exercise, since his body was … like that.

Lorcan chucked three knives in the air, bowing without one bit of humility or amusement to the crowd. They gasped again as the blades aimed for his exposed spine.

But in an easy, beautiful maneuver, Lorcan rolled, catching each blade, one after another.

The crowd cheered, and Lorcan coolly looked at his pan of coins.

More copper—and some silver—flowed, like the patter of rain.

Molly let out a low laugh. “Desire and fear can loosen any purse strings.” A sharp glance. “Shouldn’t you be in your tent?”

Elide didn’t bother responding as she left, and could have sworn she felt Lorcan’s gaze narrow on her, on the headdress and swaying beads, on the long, voluminous robes. She kept going, and endured a few more young men—and some young women—asking about their love lives before she found herself again alone in that silly tent, the dark only illuminated by dangling crystal orbs with tiny candles inside.

She was waiting for Molly to finally shout the carnival was over when Lorcan shouldered through the flaps, wiping his face with a scrap of fabric that was most definitely not his shirt.

Elide said, “Molly will be begging you to stay, you realize.”

He slid into the folding chair before her round table. “Is that your professional prediction?”

She swatted at a strand of beads that swayed into her eyes. “Did you sell your shirt, too?”

Lorcan gave a feral grin. “Got ten coppers from a farmer’s wife for it.”

Elide scowled. “That’s disgusting.”

“Money is money. I suppose you don’t need to worry about it, with all the gold you’ve got stashed.”

Elide held his stare, not bothering to look pleasant. “You’re in a rare good mood.”

“Having two women and one man offer a spot in their beds tonight will do that to a person.”

“Then why are you here?” It came out sharper than she intended.

He surveyed the hanging orbs, the woven carpet, the black tablecloth, and then her hands, scarred and calloused and small, gripping the edge of the table. “Wouldn’t it ruin your ruse if I slipped off into the night with someone else? You’d be expected to throw me out on my ass—to be heartbroken and raging for the rest of your time here.”

“You might as well enjoy yourself,” she said. “You’re going to leave soon anyway.”

“So are you,” he reminded her.

Elide tapped a finger on the tablecloth, the rough fabric scratching against her skin.

“What is it?” he demanded. As if it were an inconvenience to be polite.

“Nothing.”

It wasn’t nothing, though. She knew why she’d been delaying that turn northward, the inevitable departure from this group and final trek on her own.

She could barely make an impact at a backwater carnival. What the hell would she do in a court of such powerful people—especially without being able to read? While Aelin could destroy kings and save cities, what the hell would she do to prove her worth? Wash their clothes? Clean their dishes?

“Marion,” he said roughly.

She looked up, surprised to find him still there. Lorcan’s dark eyes were unreadable in the dimness. “You had plenty of young men unable to stop staring at you tonight. Why not have some fun with them?”

“Why?” she snapped. The thought of a stranger touching her, of some faceless, nameless man pawing at her in the dark…

Lorcan stilled. He said too calmly, “When you were in Morath, did someone—”

“No.” She knew what he meant. “No—it didn’t get that far.” But the memory of those men touching her, laughing at her nakedness … She shoved it away. “I’ve never been with a man. Never had the chance or the interest.”

He cocked his head, his dark, silken hair sliding over his face. “Do you prefer women?”

She blinked at him. “No—I don’t think so. I don’t know what I prefer. Again, I’ve never … I’ve never had the opportunity to feel … that.” Desire, lust, she didn’t know. And she didn’t know how or why they’d wound up talking about this.

“Why?” And with all of Lorcan’s considerable focus honed in on her, with the way he’d glanced at her red-painted mouth, Elide wanted to tell him. About the tower, and Vernon, and her parents. About why, if she were to ever feel desire, it’d be a result of trusting someone so much that those horrors faded away, a result of knowing they would fight tooth and claw to keep her free and never lock her up or hurt her or leave her.