Thread of Frost

Ch. 4: You Want the Honest Truth?

She woke to rocking.

Penny blinked. A wooden ceiling hovered inches from her face, smelling faintly of balsam and lemon polish. There was a slapping sound, like water striking rock. Waves? She rolled over in the narrow bunk bed, and her head gave a painful throb. Stars above. What had she been doing last night?

Her vision cleared.

Grayson sat below her, scribbling something on a sheet of parchment. His white shirt was rolled up to the elbows, and his blond hair was mussed, as if he'd been running his hands through it. They were on a ship, Penny realized, taking in the cramped wooden walls; she must have fallen asleep on the top bunk.

Grayson looked up. Paused.

"You're awake," he said.

Penny rubbed at her head. "Where are we?"

"A ship," Grayson said. "Sailing for Lox."

Penny frowned. She scanned the room; only one trunk lay open on the wooden floor, and it was stuffed with wool hats, gloves, and heavy gowns. One of the dresses looked familiar. She'd seen it on someone before. After a moment, it came to her: Maribel. Grayson's sister must be on the ship somewhere, too.

Penny propped her head up. "How long was I out for?"

"Two days." Grayson's eyes were careful. "How much do you remember?"

Penny closed her eyes. "I remember..."

The citadel. Camille, in a golden wedding dress. Her mother bleeding all over the tiled floor. Ryne's neck snapping. Images came back to her in painful bursts, knocking the air from her lungs. Penny sat bolt upright, cracking her head on the ceiling.

Pain radiated through her skull. "You took me away from them."

Grayson's mouth tightened, but he remained silent. Her rage doubled.

"You hit me in the head with a sword," she said.

Grayson's voice was cool. "I did what I had to."

Something in her snapped.

Penny shot down the ladder. She was aware of what she must look like — dressed in a white shift, barefoot, her red hair wild and frizzy — but she didn't care. Blood pounded in her ears, striking in time with the waves.

"Turn this ship around," she said.

Grayson looked away. "It's too late."

"Turn. It. Around."

Penny punctuated each word with a step closer. Frenzied energy filled her. She wanted to climb the walls. Wanted to rip each board off the ceiling. Stars, she would swim back to Wynterlynn if she had to. She was going to put a sword in that bitch's heart, and she was going to make it hurt.

"Penny." Grayson's voice was gratingly gentle. "There's no point. We need God-Slayer before we can even consider—"

"Where's Tristan?" she demanded.

Grayson's eyes shuttered. There were purple smudges beneath them, as if he hadn't been sleeping properly, and a dark sense of satisfaction filled her. Good. Let him suffer. "Tristan didn't make it out."

"So you left him," Penny said.

Grayson's jaw tightened. "He was injured, Penny; he'd spent weeks in that tower without proper food or water. Tristan knew he was a liability."

Acid rose in her throat. "And now he's probably dead."

Grayson's eyes were arctic waters. "Do you think I wanted to leave him?" He crossed to the sideboard, pouring a generous amount of brandy. "Do you think I enjoyed it?"