Free The Rebellion by Isobelle Carmody

infatuation.”
    “More’s the pity it wasn’t,” I said, suddenly emptied of ill humor. I stood up. “I am going to wash and put on some dry things.”
    “There are clothes in a trunk in the bathing room,” Kella said. A lantern was lit in the bathhouse from Dragon’s wash, and as I peeled off my soaking clothes, I caught sight of myself in a mirror hanging on the wall: a long, lean girl with irritated moss-green eyes and thick, black hair falling past her waist. I glared at myself and realized abruptly that I felt less pity for Dragon’s love than exasperation at the inconvenience of it.
    What a terrible business loving was. It was a troublesome and tiresome emotion destined more often to enrage the recipient than to please them. Rushton’s love for me, if that was what it could be called, had him determined to shut me up like a bird in a gilded cage, while Dragon’s love for Matthewhad driven him out of his home. What right had people to love you when you had not wanted it or asked for it?
    Of course, in Dragon’s case, the only wonder was that no one had foreseen the outcome of throwing together a volatile girl, who had spent most of her life in wretched loneliness, with a boy of Matthew’s easy charm. Yet Dragon had ultimately saved Obernewtyn with his help. Her heartache and his irritation must be considered a small price to pay for that.
    It seemed there was always a price to pay for loving.
    I had a sudden vivid memory of a time when, taken in by Dragon’s illusions, I had thought Obernewtyn destroyed. From my hiding place, I had spotted Rushton. He had been haggard, grim-faced with burning eyes, and I had imagined he was despairing over the loss of Obernewtyn. Only later had I understood that his sorrow arose from his belief that I was dead.
    I shook my head and turned to rummage for dry clothing, not liking the tenor of my thoughts nor the way Rushton’s face haunted me.
    I fled to the kitchen, bringing the lamp with me, and pulled up a stool to join Matthew and Kella in front of the fire. Maruman came over and leapt onto my lap. His mind was closed, and I did not try to force entry to it.
    “How long before Domick comes home?” I asked Kella, wincing as the cat’s claws penetrated cloth and flesh. “Are you expecting him tonight?”
    The healer nodded, the smile fading from her lips.
    I guessed she was wondering if our arrival would put Domick in danger, and for the first time, I was aware of the strain in her face. There were lines around her eyes, and her hands fidgeted constantly in swift, nervous gestures. I had been surprised at the strength of the longing in her voice asshe talked of Obernewtyn, but now I truly thought of what her life in the safe house must be like. Every day she watched her bondmate leave, knowing he went to work under the very noses of the Councilmen. If discovered, he would be killed.
    It seemed far easier to take action than to sit and wait. People like Kella had the worst of it—the waiting and wondering and being helpless. In asking when Domick would return, I had surely voiced a question she never dared permit herself to ask.
    Hearing the stair door creak and heavy footsteps in the hall, I felt an echo of the profound relief I saw on Kella’s face.
    But when the kitchen door opened, I did not recognize the dark-clad man who stepped inside.

7
    I T WASN’T UNTIL Kella crossed the room to embrace the man that I realized it was Domick.
    The last time I had seen the coercer was at Obernewtyn just around the time he and Kella had established the safe house. Then, Domick had been on the edge of manhood, brown as a gypsy, with shoulder-length dark hair and bold, serious eyes. There was no sign of that youth in the man who now stood before me.
    His skin was milk pale, and his long hair had been cropped very short. But most of all, it was his expression that made him a stranger—or the lack of expression. His face was a gaunt mask, the eyes two hooded slits. If he felt