The Wisterian

Chapter 15: Taken

Rowan West leans on the market stall, a trembling hand raises to her lips. Instead of soft skin, her fingers brush against the rough material of her hood, almost breaking her reverie. She called me hers. She's never belonged to anyone other than herself. Well maybe Reed, but not like this.

Hers.

Rowan's mouth curves into a radiant smile, eyes shining brightly as she recalls how Briar pouted after Arachne flirted with her and then claimed Rowan as her very own.

Her gigantic, dopey grin never fades. Not when she rounds the corner to take her place selling furs in the booth and not when a rude customer insults her Skvader pelt, calling it both hideous and a fake, and also an insult to the gods themselves. Not even when every single person at the inn stared at her during dinner, and not when she finally laid down on her narrow cot late in the night.

Her untouchable mood belongs not to her but to someone special. Someone that is hers as well.

Mine.

Rowan counts the minutes until she sees Briar again. Her days become monotonous. No trips to the southern woods, she can't risk losing any time, and no picking fights with the scumbag guards, even when she really, really wants to. Instead, she spends her time hunting, fishing, and operating their stall at the market.

Until Wednesday morning arrives.

Rowan swings out of bed, an extra pep in her step as she dresses in her neatest clothes, shining every button on her boots and vest. Her sharpened and polished knife slides into the well-oiled sheath at her waist, her bow and quiver slung low over one shoulder.

Last of all, her hood slides down over her shoulders, the material hanging loose and covering only half of her braids. She nods to Reed on her way out the front door and struts into town, a swagger in her step and a tune from the masquerade whistling on her lips.

The door to the Pickled Rabbit slams open. A group of rowdy men spill from the door, drunk and staggering towards the market, their laughter raucously following them down the lane. Their dress is unusual and filthy, with colorful flowing tunics, tall laced boots, and tight-fitting brown breeches. Long curved swords dangle at their waists, red fabric tied loosely at their necks, and black brimmed hats sitting low over their eyes.

She catches the door before it closes, shouldering past one of the men. His gold-flecked eyes flick over her, his mouth curling into a sneer.

"Watch it, peasant." He spits as their shoulders knock together.

Her smile falters as she slides past him and into the bar.

"What was all that about?" Rowan asks Hazel Thorn, the barkeep. Spilled beer covers her usually tidy apron and graying hairs escape from her once tidy bun. The top of the bar, littered with mugs and half-eaten bowls of stew, contains piles and piles of glittering coins.

Her nose wrinkles, the bar reeks of man sweat, stale beer, and worse. She didn't recognize any of the men and frankly doesn't care at all for their character.

"Just a bunch of blokes from Blight passing through."

"Blight? How the heck did they make it down the Old Salt Road?" She wouldn't dare tread foot there, not in a million years.

Not if you paid her a million Crin. Too many unearthly creatures roam where the dark magics are dense and hungriest. Too many have perished.

"There are ways, young one," Hazel shrugs, unfazed. "I get pirates in here often enough to know the roads still allow some passage."