Free Ferryman by Claire McFall Page B

wanted a wash but the sink looked ancient, like it hadn’t been used in years and years. Up close it didn’t appear any more optimistic. Both taps were covered in rust. Still, she grasped one and twisted. Nothing happened so she tried the other. When it stuck as well, she increased the pressure, feeling the edges of the tap digging into her palms. She felt something start to give and so squeezed and twisted a little harder, hope burgeoning. With a scrape and a clunk, the top of the tap came away entirely in her hand, the metal weakened by rust.
    “Oops.” She turned and grimaced at Tristan showing him the broken cap.
    He grinned at her and shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. That tap hasn’t worked in years.”
    Dylan nodded, guilt alleviated, and tossed the broken piece into the sink. Then she turned and walked quickly over to the bed. She felt Tristan’s eyes on her, and when she twisted round to sit down on the mattress, noticed his gaze was evaluating her.
    “What?” she asked, smiling slightly. Now that the truth was out in the open she felt, oddly, much more comfortable around him. It was as if the secret had been a wedge keeping her in the cold.
    He couldn’t help smiling back at her. “I’m just astonished at your response, that’s all. Not one tear.” His voice tailed off as her smile fell, and sadness took its place.
    “What good will crying do?” she asked, with the wisdom of a much older soul. She sighed. “I’m going to try to sleep.”
    “You’re safe here. I’ll keep watch.”
    And she did feel safe, knowing he was there, alert. Her protector.
    “I’m glad it’s you,” she mumbled, just as sleep overcame her.
    Tristan’s face was confused, unsure of her meaning, but it made him happy all the same. He watched her sleep for a long time, looking at the shadows of the fire flicker and play across her face, untroubled in unconsciousness. A strange longing to touch her, to stroke down her smooth cheek and brush away the hair that fell over her eyes, came over him, but he didn’t move from where he sat. It was simply her youth and vulnerability that was bringing out these feelings in him, he told himself. He was her guide, her temporary protector. Nothing more.

     
    Dylan dreamed again that night. Although her encounter with the demons had given her ample fodder for a nightmare, they didn’t feature. Instead she dreamed of Tristan.
    They were not in the wasteland, but Dylan had the strangest feeling she’d been here before. They were in a forest. It was filled with large oak trees with gnarled trunks and wide, sprawling branches that interwove to create a canopy above them. It was night, but the moonlight filtered down through the trees, dappling gently and casting rippling shadows as the leaves swayed in the breeze. The light wind ruffled her hair, tickling her neck and shoulders. The floor underfoot was a carpet of leaves that rustled as they walked. At some point recently it must have rained, because the air smelled slightly of dampness and nature. Somewhere to her left she could hear the faint trickle of a slow-running stream. It was absolutely exquisite.
    In the dream, Tristan held her hand as they walked, slowly weaving in and out of the trunks, following no set path but simply choosing a winding route to nowhere. Her skin seemed to burn where his hand touched it, but she was frightened even to twitch her fingers in case he let go.
    They didn’t speak, but it didn’t feel uncomfortable to Dylan. They were content just to be near each other, and words would have ruined the peace of this beautiful place.
    In the cottage, as she slept, Tristan watched her smile.

Chapter Nine
     
     
    T he first light of the morning sent the sun’s rays streaming through the windows of the cabin, and even filtered by the dust and grime on the panes it was strong enough to wake Dylan. She stirred feebly, brushing her hair from her face and rubbing her eyes. For a moment she wasn’t sure where she