The bed wasn't as lumpy as she'd claimed it would be.
It was simply more fun to be outlandish and dramatic about these fond little provincial matters, especially to unsuspecting outsiders.
Like Baylen.
She liked him. He was quiet. A man of few words. Of kindness. Unexpected little flashes of humor. He had a solid, steady air about him. She'd felt urges to beg him for a hug, like an impulsive, needful child. He had flirted openly with her while bringing her a continual supply of ale. It felt good to laugh and blush and become flustered. How long had it been since she'd been anything but solitary and withdrawn? A thought passed to grab his hand and pull him into the bedroom he had so graciously paid for at the end of the evening...but she had resisted it.
Such urges were pathetic, and she had scolded herself inwardly for them.
Nathanniel was boisterous and friendly. He didn't hold back his thoughts. And he was a Bree native. Which, of course, scored him extra points in her mind. His jokes were delightful, and spurred her to spit out a few of her own.
Egfor seemed more thoughtful. Good-humored at times. He threw out lewd jests here and there. Did he think she wouldn't pick up on their meaning? He and Nathan seemed to have an attachment, or at least didn't mind giving the impression of one. And just as quickly, he'd become more solemn again. He was the one who went after the young boy, to check on him and comfort him. A kind gesture. He was all right in her book. So far. After all, he'd admired her bow, and there was little higher praise one could give.
Kimbell, she didn't really know at all. The woman was so quiet. Shy, perhaps? But the tale was overheard of how she had taken the boy in, after losing his family. A woman without spine and heart couldn't manage such an adventure. Kimbell had blushed when they both leaned in to speak to Baylen at the same time. Maybe the woman had a fancy for him? If so, the huntress would not interfere.
She laid there on her back, her hands loosely folded on her stomach, fingers drumming and bouncing restlessly. A bit of lamplight seeped in around the threadbare curtain over the window. The hour must have been very late, for the street beyond was silent. Not so much as a barking dog or stumbling drunkard to be heard.
Had it been so easy, to slip back into a circle of friendly faces before the hearth-fire? To laugh and smile and joke and banter with new acquaintances? Or was it all a farce?
Where was all the hurt? The anger? The loneliness?
Was this how people behaved on the whole? Did they hide their scars and their wounds, and learn how to paint on smiles and force laughter up through their throats?
She had seen such people before. And she despised them.
The night dragged on. Sleep would come, eventually. But not before she had laid there nearly till dawn, picking herself apart like an agitated dog licking at a scabby wound that will not heal.
