A grateful look crossed Rowan’s face, and he squeezed her a little tighter before turning and leading her quickly through the trees. They speed-walked for about half an hour, racing the lowering sun and the lowering temperature. Lily clamped on to Rowan’s hand, frightened that he was going to freeze to death before they got there.
“Can’t you take some heat from me?” she asked. Rowan shook his head tightly. “Does that mean you can’t or you won’t?” she pressed.
“W-won’t. You’re c-cold, too,” he said haltingly, his lips nearly numb. Lily started to protest, but Rowan cut her off. “The cabin is over the next rise,” he said, pulling her down behind a bush and crouching down next to her. “Wait here. I’ll go check it out. Don’t make a sound until I come back.”
“Rowan—” Lily began, but he’d already pulled out his knife and crept away on cat-quiet feet.
Lily peeked around the bush, trying to figure out where he’d gone. She couldn’t see anything but forest. She strained her ears listening for him, but all she heard was the wind and the creaking of the frozen limbs of the trees as they swayed and rubbed together. Lily stayed still, her breath tight in her chest as the forest darkened. More sounds joined the ghostly chorus of the trees—skittering, rustling sounds.
Lily edged her way back into the bush, drawing her knees up to her chin protectively as time passed. Too much time. She didn’t know anything about Woven behavior, but surely if Rowan were attacked, he’d fight back. She’d be able to hear that. Wouldn’t she?
Lily felt pressure on her forearm and jumped, clapping a hand over her mouth to keep herself from screaming.
“It’s me,” said Rowan’s disembodied voice. “The nest is empty.”
He dissolved out of the background and became visible again—the same way he had that night when he’d caught her trying to run away with Juliet. Lily almost threw her arms around him she was so relieved but settled for smiling at him instead.
Rowan pulled her up to her feet and held her hand as he led her through the dark trees. They walked for about five or ten minutes before Lily saw a clearing with a small stone cabin in its center. The cabin had a thick oak door studded with iron bolts, and a wide chimney that tilted atop the slated roof. It looked like it came out of a storybook. Lily could easily imagine a jack-o’-lantern by the front door and a black cat hissing at them from the crooked roof.
They pushed the door open, and Lily smelled the murky scent of moldering leaves and wet ash. Rowan’s willstone glowed, lighting up the pitch-black room. As he walked in front of her, Lily saw that Rowan’s body was edged with a halo of opalescent magelight. He looked big and otherworldly.
“There’s a candle around here somewhere,” he said. It took him a few moments to find it, and when he did, he brought it over to Lily.
One of his ice-cold hands snaked up the sleeve of her jacket and wrapped around her forearm.
“May I?” he asked tentatively.
Lily nodded, not sure what she was agreeing to. She felt a chill creeping under her skin and realized that Rowan was draining some of her heat. His eyes closed, and he swayed toward her until his sinking forehead nearly touched hers.
“Thank you,” he sighed. “I just need a little bit more to light this.”
Lily inhaled sharply as the cold sank down deeper into her. Rowan’s willstone sparked and the wick ignited. She shivered.
“Sorry,” he whispered, his eyes still closed.
“It’s okay.”
Lily watched the planes of his face, turned golden by the light of the candle between them. She wanted to touch his mouth. Rowan’s eyes flicked open, and he lifted his sagging head up and away from hers. He released her arm and pulled his hand out of her sleeve.
“There are preserves put up in the cabinet,” he said, turning toward the hearth.
A little bewildered about what had just happened, Lily followed the direction of his pointing finger to a small pantry while Rowan used the candle to light a fire in the hearth. Lily searched the nearly bare pantry and found four dusty jars.
“Blueberry jam,” Lily said, reading the first label. She turned the second jar around. “Dried crickets,” she read, confused. “Why would someone put dead bugs in the cabinet?”
“Because they’re nutritious,” Rowan replied evenly.
“No way,” Lily replied. “You don’t actually eat crickets, do you?”
“I haven’t had them in years,” Rowan said, more to himself than her, like he was reminiscing.
“Seriously?” Lily grimaced at the thought, but tried not to look too disgusted. She didn’t want to offend him.
“Only the richest of the Outlanders can afford to keep and protect livestock from the Woven. But nearly all of them have cricket farms in their living quarters.” He looked up at Lily’s wan expressi
on, his eyes glinting with humor. “I’d prefer the blueberry jam, though.”
Lily went back to inspecting labels. “Pickles!” she exclaimed happily, and more than a little relieved that he wasn’t going to try to make her taste cricket. “I love pickles.”