Chapter 4: Soup

Betrothed.

The word dropped into my stomach.

The Commander's face did something I had not seen it do yet.

It closed.

"Sabine," he said. "You were not expected until midsummer."

"Uncle moved the date. Isn't that nice?"

She tucked her arm through his.

"And who is this?"

"The hauler," said Orrin, who had appeared out of the dark. "Under arrest."

"Not anymore," said the Commander.

"Aldric." Sabine's smile did not move. "The Marshal ordered the stockade."

"The Marshal can order it again in the morning. Tonight she is hungry."

I was, in fact, hungry.

It was the strangest reason I had ever been rescued.

He walked me into the mess hall himself.

Sabine hung on his elbow, Orrin followed behind us, and a long line of soldiers pretended not to stare.

The hall smelled of onions and woodsmoke.

A cook in a stained apron slid a bowl of soup in front of me.

He slid a second bowl in front of the Commander.

The soup was boiling, and steam rolled off it in a slow wave.

Aldric Eisenhart picked up his spoon and ate.

He ate steadily, without a pause.

A mouthful, then another, then another.

Across the table, Sabine took a sip of wine and watched me watch him.

"That's hot," I said.

"It is soup."

"It's boiling. Look at it."

"I am looking at it."

He lifted another spoon to his mouth, and I took the bowl out of his hand.

"What are you doing?"

"You're going to burn your tongue."

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