Silver Secrets

Chapter 23: Mel

I scramble off Rowan's lap and he shifts into a crouch, his sword whispering out of his scabbard.

Someone is standing in the doorway, holding a flaming torch out in front of them. Not a ghost, then—ghosts have no use for torches. The hand not holding the torch is splayed against the door, so they're not armed, but the silence from their mind is more terrifying than any blade could be. Mistil snorts and shies away from the flame, but then she suddenly falls silent. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle.

"State your name and intention," Rowan barks, drawing himself up to his full height. Suddenly he's no longer the werewolf who was just kissing me by the campfire, but a soldier in the service of King Lysander I of Serovan, even if he has lost the black cloak.

The stranger steps into the hall and lowers the torch.

It's a woman. The fire casts strange shadows on her face, making every crease seem like a crevasse, but she's definitely a woman. Her sharp eyes flick between me, Rowan, and Rowan's sword, finally coming to rest on my face. She inhales sharply, her eyes widening.

I stand up and put my hand on Rowan's forearm. "Put your sword down," I murmur. "She won't let you use it."

If Rowan had hackles, I imagine they'd be rising about now. "What?" His eyes don't leave the woman, who is watching with her head tipped to one side.

"She's a psychic."

The woman's face cracks into a grin which does not quite reach her eyes. "Very good, Melanthe."

"How do you know my name?"

The woman nods at Rowan. "It's in his thoughts. All I can hear, actually. Melanthe Melanthe Melanthe, like an echo in a canyon."

I can't help feeling a little smug at that.

"To answer your questions," the woman continues, "my name is Aster. Of Highhold, but I hope you'd already guessed that."

Rowan sheaths his sword. His cheeks are pink. "And your intentions?"

Aster glances pointedly at the remains of our little fire. "Making sure a young couple don't freeze to death."

~

Aster takes us back to her cottage, which sits a little way down the mountain at the edge of a meadow, though it's too dark to see more than two squares of light from the cottage's windows.

She goes on inside to clear out her spare room for us, and I wait for Rowan and help him unsaddle the horses. He moves jerkily, his sword hand twitching at every little noise of the night.

"Hey," I say as I unfasten Ember's girth. "Is something wrong?"

Rowan snorts. "No, I love staying overnight in random people's houses."

I fold my arms. "There's no need to be sarcastic. She's offering us a bed, Rowan. The last time you got to sleep in a real bed, you were practically dying. We've been sleeping on the ground for a month."

"I'm aware of that," he grunts, slinging a saddle over Aster's garden fence. "But you can't tell me you're not suspicious."

"Suspicious of what?"

"She's a psychic, and obviously powerful one. She knew your name by hearing it in my head!"

"I could do that one day, you know. Honestly, Rowan, she's one woman." I give his arm a light thump. "Don't tell me this big, bad werewolf's afraid of an old lady who lives on a mountain by herself?"