Free The Crowded Shadows by Celine Kiernan Page A

night she had told him, and that calmed her. She nodded. Christopher straightened his back. She expected him to turn and look at the bandit, but instead, he slid his eyes to the left, his eyelashes casting long shadows on his cheek, and tilted his head, as if listening to something over his shoulder. He ran his thumb along the back of her hand, then lifted his eyes to her again.
    “Let’s get all our stuff out of here, girly. We can carry it to the bathhouse and sit outside, eh? Talk to Raz through the wall while we wait our turn? I’ll get that girl to bring us some cold cider and some apple pie. We’ll sit in the sun and make a bloody picnic of it before we head out again. What do you think?”
    Wynter nodded, and together they gathered their things and went outside. She did not look back at the man.

Naught But A Ghost

    T he bathhouse was in the orchard. Dappled in the lacy shade of the fruit trees, it was a little, dirt-floored, one-tub hut, and whether by accident or by virtue of Razi’s purse, they were the only ones waiting to use it. It felt miles from anywhere. Safe and at peace.
    Wynter sat beside their pile of belongings, leaning against the wall of the bathhouse, her face turned to the sun. There was a blackbird trilling in the apple tree above her. She closed her eyes and listened, while Christopher, a plate in one hand, a tankard in the other, elbowed his way in through the bathhouse door and let it swing shut behind him.
    “How do,” he said. “Brought you some cider and a pie.”
    “I don’t want it.” Razi’s voice was quiet and flat.
    “Aye. I know. It’s just an excuse to come in without you throwing things at me. I’ll leave them here.” There was a soft clink and a rustle as Christopher set the food down on the other side of the wall from Wynter. “You’ll be wanting it later, you know. You can’t have much left in your belly, after what you coughed up behind the barn.”
    There was an abrupt splash, as if Razi had sat forward suddenly, or lifted his arms, and then a long moment of silence.
    “Are we heading home now?” asked Christopher, eventually. “You and me and Wynter?”
    “No, Christopher. We are not.” Razi’s voice was muffled and Wynter suspected that he had lifted his hands to cover his face.
    There was another brief silence, then Christopher’s quiet voice pressed tentatively on. “At home, you could resume your practice. Wynter can build that hospital for you. I can… I can roll bandages or something. Open the stables again, go back to breeding horses.”
    Wynter opened her eyes. She knew that Christopher wasn’t talking about the palace; he would never refer to the palace as home. He was talking about the Moroccos. About Algiers. He was talking about starting a new life. She turned her head, waiting for Razi’s answer, not sure what she wanted it to be. Razi stayed silent.
    “Razi,” insisted Christopher. “Come
home
. Before these people see you dead.”
    This was met with more silence. Wynter could picture Razi lying in the tub, his elbows on the rim, his head tilted against the back. She imagined him, his hands pressed to his eyes, waiting for Christopher to let him be. The silence stretched on and Wynter heard Christopher sigh and shuffle his feet.
    “I’m sorry about Lorcan, Razi,” he said softly. “I’m sorry about that poor Arab boy.”
    Wynter closed her eyes again and rested her head against the wall. Razi still did not speak.
    “When your father finds out that it wasn’t you
…”
    “He will not. Jahm will be too frightened to let him know.” There was a gentle
splash
as Razi dropped his hands. “Those poor people,” he said, his voice cracking. “Those poor… I sent that poor man
…”
    “If your father thinks you are dead, he will try to avenge you. There will be chaos unless—”
    Christopher was silenced by Razi’s quiet laugh. “Vengeance often comes amazingly slow in our circles, Christopher, and then only if politically