Snow in July by Kim Iverson Headlee Page B

of stone at her back.
    Rat came stomping in only to be sent out to fetch deadfall for the fire. Each time he returned with an armload, he dropped the wood with a horrific clatter and shot a pointed glance first at the lewd mosaic and then at Kendra.
    She did her best to ignore Rat, focusing instead on the growing flames as they devoured the wood.
    Snake disappeared into the shadows between a pair of upright columns. A series of sounds emerged: the scrape of stone on stone, the clang of metal, Snake’s sharp oath. He returned a few minutes later with a kettle in one hand and several iron rods tucked in the opposite armpit. While Rat departed for water, Snake set the kettle down and proceeded to fit the rods into a three-legged structure straddling the fire. A fourth, shorter rod ending in a hook dangled from the apex. Upon Rat’s return, Snake ordered him to fill the kettle and hoist it onto the hook.
    Again Snake rose and went to the kettle’s hiding place, this time returning with a battered tin ladle, three tin mugs, and a small packet wrapped in muslin. When he offered to brew her a posset, she politely declined, asking instead for a mug of hot water. He grunted and settled beside Rat to wait for the flames to complete their work.
    Kendra grabbed her saddle pack and hunted for the ground willow bark, which she hoped would take the edge off her aches. She debated whether to add valerian but decided to conserve her dwindling supply. Her stomach noisily reminded her that she hadn’t eaten since her capture, and she made short work of her remaining bread and cheese.
    When Snake brought the mug to her, padded with a scrap of leather, she asked, “Is this where you live?” It would be a comfort to know she’d be held no more than a day’s ride from home.
    “This?” He surveyed the crumbling ceiling. “This be naught but a way station. Serves all who know of it.” He grinned, though it seemed forced. “We enter Dragon’s den on the morrow.”
    A chill crept up her spine that the mug’s warmth was powerless to dispel.
    Chuckling, Snake straightened and withdrew to the other side of the fire, where Rat had already bedded down, wrapped in his cloak with his saddle pack for a pillow.
    She dropped in a pinch of powdered willow bark but didn’t wait long for it to steep before taking a sip. Thinking better of it, she set the mug beside her and stared into the flames. For a moment, she fancied Del’s face wavering there. Her fingers crept toward her neck, where the locket’s cord should have been, and found naught but skin. With a start, she recalled that Snake had cut it off and given it to one of his men to take back to her father as proof of her abduction. She shuddered, imagining how easily he could have sliced her throat. Her dagger wouldn’t be much of a deterrent against his seax.
    Even after Del’s death, she had never felt more helpless, afraid, or so utterly alone.
    Stripped of her last tangible link to her dear brother, her mind grasped on to the memory of another man, one who’d given her a single red rose. She drew her knees to her chin, hugged her shins, and squeezed her eyes shut against the welling tears.

    AS THE Normans approached Edgarburh’s hall, a burst of shouts emanated from within. The outlaws, Alain guessed, were still wrangling over his proposal. He and Ruaud stopped on the last step, and Ruaud shot him a glance as if to ask whether Alain intended to proceed. Alain pounded on the door. Beneath the noise, he heard Ruaud’s sigh.
    Two guards opened the doors, and a hush conquered the crowd. One would have thought the king himself had appeared. Alain gave Ruaud a subtle nod and he strode in, with Alain trailing a discreet half pace behind.
    Without even so much as a meat knife, Alain felt naked as they passed the outlaws, who gave them measuring stares. Since they concentrated most of their scrutiny upon Ruaud, Alain suspected “naked” couldn’t begin to describe how his friend must