It was essential that she lay still. Her mind was slowly opening as had her eyes and it began its administrations with that warning, for the sickness would allow her to make the first move before letting itself be known.
Because her head was tilted forward by some soft support, she saw first the gaping mouth of the fireplace, empty of flame. Its mantle offered an impressive marble ledge that swept upward and inward at each end into thick half moons. Its back curled into the wall, climbing with scattered vines of molding that circled in ornamental edging around a lone, suspended sword.
The weapon’s hilt was masculine in its simplicity. Adorned by no curling flourish or glittered gem, the grip was grazed lightly with a spiral indention that ended in a solid silver knob. Its blade shone long and unsheathed, reflecting the smallest glint of light into a sinister wink.
She began to remember. Faces in a dream. She remembered men who were strangers and a helplessness so intense she could not breathe. She remembered an odd sort of fear and her own promise not to be gullible. Though she had been. Willingly, witlessly, she had accepted her blindfold and been effectively led into a trap. What naiveté to request a grace period from one who had no grace. What naiveté to feel betrayal from one she had never committed to trust.
Moving her head so slightly now to one side, she was forced to remember one face more. As if literally part of a dream, it was set still before her eyes, patiently letting her discover and discern. Hair, generous in darkness, and eyes of green brought an unbidden word to her lips.
“Mark.”
His own lips moved and his voice came to her in reality, she knew, and not from the sands of sleep. “Shawn, actually.” He said the last word slowly. Unsmiling.
She moved, having forgotten her mental warning, and rose to sit straight-backed on the couch. Strands of hair fell to cover one eye. “Where am I?”
“Wolvesbeth.”
“Wolvesbeth . . .” she repeated, letting her eyes roam as far as they could without moving her head. The room was enormous. A salon, elegant yet somehow aged. She recognized nothing and the word he offered, obviously an estate title, was unfamiliar.
“Are we in the forest?” she asked. And after a stretch of silence in which he failed to answer, her gaze again sought him.
He sat back in his chair, arms supported on the armrests with hands raised to steeple. His long legs bent straight to the floor---uncrossed---and his knees were turned lazily outward. The pose was of a man disinterested. Bored, even. But, as before, his eyes were intensely alert. He was her mark from the Alley.
Scenarios flashed into being as she struggled to make the connection. He must have been watching her all along just as the other faces that had stacked up against her, known and unknown, earlier that day. He showed no recognition now, and it was with relief that she met his intention to play a stranger. Confusion shouldered in again, however, with recall that it was she who approached him on the street. Ironically, that acknowledgement made her feel more manipulated by him than by those who had forced a claim on her. “Are you the wizard?” she wanted to know.
“I am Shawn Tarrent.”
“Tarrent...” She pondered the name. “Not their wizard then. I’ve never heard of you.”
A narrowing of eyes, barely perceptible. “Do not refer to me as ‘their’ wizard. And I wasn’t aware that being heard of by you was a prerequisite to my profession.”
She adjusted her posture on the couch, causing dull nausea to quicken. A slow breath soothed it as she sought energy to consider him. He was young enough, she thought, that D’Orso must be misguided. It was unlikely his years had allowed time enough to train a range of power that could be termed impressive. To achieve that range so early in life would require one who was powerful indeed... and too rare to be sitting in this room with her. “Am I to be your prisoner now, Wizard?”
“My prisoner?” He considered it. “If you intend to make yourself one. I have no intention, or desire, to be your keeper.”
He may have said more. She thought, for sure, the explanation was not complete, but they both became distracted by a flutter of motion in the room’s corner. Quietly, a woman entered through doors which stood open and moved to stand where only a long, low table separated her from the couch. Taking a single goblet from the tray she balanced, she bent to place it on the far edge, inches from Taved’s arm. Motherly mild, her short figure and her face both were softly rounded, though not quite plump, and hair of dove gray was pulled into a loose coil at her nape. Remarkably gentle was her smile as she straightened.
“Is there anythin’ I can bring to make you more comfortable, Miss? Perhaps you’re hungry?”
Caught off guard by kindness, Taved had no time to respond before Tarrent, himself, addressed the woman.
“Thank you, Moira. She’s fine for now.”
Still smiling, the woman gave him a short nod. The empty tray balanced lightly at her shoulder as she turned and left them alone again in the large room. Taved watched her go and thought what an ill match she made with the night. The goblet’s content, she found, was an oddity as well. The apparent wine was emerald green—rather like the wizard-eyes which looked to it, then her. She was not about to partake, despite desperate thirst. But Shawn Tarrent, unconcerned, encouraged nothing.
“So you people plan to keep me here in this ‘Wolvesbeth’?” she continued.
“Again,” he said, “I am not 'you people.' And there are no bars on the windows here.”
“Then I can get up right now and walk out? You won’t try to keep me?”
“Try?” A glint of humor now. “You make it sound difficult. Have no doubt---it would be embarrassingly easy.” He sat up slowly then, leaning forward on the arm of the chair. “Although, I only keep those things which manage to interest me.”
“Then I’m glad I don’t seem to impress you.” She said this but, truly, was unsure what he was thinking. Unlike the face of Emmett, which gave away nothing, this man’s showed just enough to menace.
“Yes,” he agreed. “Take care it remains that way.”
Suddenly more bothered by him than was acceptable at that moment, she needed to move. Or maybe it was the urge to be in control of something. Any little thing. She stood. And several seconds later, when the sharp waves of sickness had mostly abated and left her marginally coherent, she realized that he, too, had risen. He stood several inches taller, head tilted down with his grip on her arm as he waited for her to balance on her own. Not bothering to point out that an attempt to leave would be quite futile, he merely said, “Your things have been brought to a room upstairs. Follow me.” His back was already turned when she caught the last part.“... if you can manage even that.”
Taved glared. And it wasn’t until she was alone in the room that she settled herself to follow. Hugging her arms around each other, she walked weakly onward, barely taking notice of the passage. Vaguely, she was aware of moving through a cavernous space with walls rising so high there seemed no ceiling in the darkness. A broad stair rose also, though its end was obvious in the suffused torchlight of a gallery. The wizard had ascended halfway before she met its base. Never once did he glance back. A full minute later, she found him standing in wait at the left end of the gallery---a raven usher to the doorway of some new chamber. Ignoring him, she crossed the threshold.
The chamber was a bedroom more than twice the length of her own. Light from a small fireplace cast a glow, illuminating delicate details that lured attention. There was a tall armoire, handsome in polished wood, whose lacey scrollwork matched the mirror frame of a dresser against the left wall. The coloring of a small settee reflected two rugs, the smallest one lain in front of the fire. Brightly lit by way of its placement, the pattern sewn into the rug was threaded in shades of red---from virgin rose to matron maroon---relieved by wisps of green and gold. The larger carpet was an elegant imitation of the other, unrolled at the foot of the dresser. Sheer drapes were drawn closed over glass doors to a balcony and tiny, curve-legged tables rested on either side of the room’s dominant feature---a bed canopied in translucent gauze. The hanging gauze was drawn back to show a nightshift spread neatly over the sheets. Her own. She recognized others of her possessions atop the mirrored dresser. Clothing, barrette, brush, hand mirror... all resting comfortably as if they had a right to be there. But seeing her personal things in the beautiful chamber made it seem more foreign than familiar.
Several steps into the room, she was noticing one thing more. A curious sway of canopy near the foot of the bed bid her lift the fine material in her hand. And, enchanted by the solid mist, her gasp was loud and genuine when something unseen nudged her boot from beneath, attempting to crawl over. A deep sigh later, she was on her knees, gathering Scamp into an embrace against her chest, as well as one can hug a lizard.
She stayed that way a long while until it became apparent that folding her legs had been a mistake. The slacking of muscle invited exhaustion to settle in a veritable crush. Without altering hold on Scamp she turned to look over her shoulder. The wizard stood watching, just within the chamber door. He towered above the mound she had made of herself, features angling dramatically in firelight. She wondered if it was fortuitous that the brightest strip fell across his eyes, highlighting their stare. She wondered; then stilled completely as she became aware of the call.
Sounding from far beyond the balcony glass, it came as a startling, solitary whine---creature-howl from within the forest. Shawn Tarrent tilted his head toward the glass, listening. Then he lowered his eyes to her once more with words that were slow and deliberate.
"There . . . are your bars."