She wanted to speak to her husband.
There was not a gracious way to do so, not when they were in someone else’s home and the rooms were not their own.
She could not quite bring herself to eat any longer, not with the threat of interrogation forthcoming, but politeness meant she should at least make an attempt. Sips of water were easiest, bits of bread dipped into the remaining broth.
She startled when she felt feet touch hers beneath the table, and she pulled hers quickly backward, only to find Grimult giving her a pointed look when she glanced about the table.
She relaxed, and did not move away this time when he made contact, and she felt marginally better when her feet were nestled between his, as close as they could be given the circumstances.
His eyes told her to be calm, and she took a few deep breaths, trying to force herself to listen to his silent plea, but it was difficult when she felt anything but.
“Who shot you?” Danyl’s voice broke through the silence, addressing Grim as he mimicked the supposed action with the motion of his spoon hitting the palm of his hand—presumably the wing in question.
Wide blue eyes were expectant, as if merely by asking he would be regaled with quite the story, and Penryn looked to Grimult, wondering how he might handle such a blatant enquiry.
He remained placid, taking another spoonful of stew while both parents looked rather dismayed at their son’s lack of decorum.
“Danyl, we do not pry into the business of another,” his mother chided, leaning forward and touching his arm to ensure he looked at her. “If these two have been hurt, the elders will handle it. And if they cannot, the sages will see to it.” At that, her lips thinned, as if even mentioning the name of them was somehow distasteful.
Danyl did not seem to appreciate such an answer, but he made no further vocal enquiry, but Penryn could see the beseeching look he gave to Grim, as if that alone would convince him to tell the tale.
Penryn was almost sorry for him when Grim did not engage, finishing his bowl of stew before seeing to the bread, content with the silence.
She wished she could be the same. She was too mixed up inside, the agitation making her give out a yelp when there was a solid knock that rang through the whole of the dwelling.
Were they angry?
Most likely.
However unintentionally, Grim and Penryn had brought trouble with them, and they were ensuring the safety of their people.
Braun sighed, wiping his mouth with a cloth before he rose to allow them entry.
“Are you still hungry?” Milsandra addressed Grim, noticing his empty bowl.
“I thank you, but no,” Grimult assured her. Penryn hoped that it was true.
Her hands were trembling, and she clasped them tightly in her lap, wishing for a sense of quiet confidence that would make her tongue steady, her story sure.
That she would know what to do, even in this.
“There are some who would like a word with you,” Braun said from the doorway of the partition, his smile reluctant.
Penryn stood from her seat, mustering some semblance of good posture.
She saw the fledglings from the corner of her eyes, jerking in their seats as they tried to get a better view of who was in their living space, but their father quelled them with a glance. “Eat,” he reminded them, and both sank back with a sigh, remembering their spoons.
“Thank you for the meal,” Penryn said to Milsandra, doing her best to return the woman’s smile as she did so.
“You look as if you are going out to meet a terrible danger,” Milsandra added evidently noting Penryn’s reluctance. “They are kind. They will want to see to your protection, nothing more.”
Penryn wished she could believe her.
But denial seemed a fruitless thing, not when she could not offer a full explanation in return, so she gave a bow of her head and followed her husband beyond the warmth and safety of the kitchen.
There were not as many as she might have expected. And the word elder had given her a false sense of the age amongst them. Most of the sages were older, and while many bore fine lines about their eyes and a smattering of white hair about the temples, they were hardly ancient.
“Braun, if we might make use of your home for our discourse, we would appreciate it,” the tallest of them said, almost as a formality.
Or, as Penryn realised quickly enough, a dismissal.
“Of course,” Braun assented, returning to his dinner table and leaving them to talk.
Grimult bowed his head as the others did in greeting, but Penryn stood awkwardly, feeling entirely unversed in how she might engage with such peoples.
She was used to hiding behind a title, of respect being passed through the centuries rather than earned for her own sake.
She felt as much an outsider as she ever had, regardless of Grim’s insistence that these people were her own.
The living space was not a very large one, and already it felt too cramped by the entrance of the four strangers and their questions.
“We should sit,” the first instructed, perhaps their leader, perhaps only the most vocal.
Penryn looked to Grimult for direction. It was a suggestion, not a command, and she did not know if they were sacrificing something they should not if they accepted a more relaxed posture.
He stared for a moment, his jaw tight and his eyes assessing, and for a brief, prideful moment, she was so very glad that he was her husband.
That he was on her side.
For she would not want to be in opposition to such a look.
But then he forced himself to ease his posture, settling onto one of the benches before looking to Penryn to join him, leaving the one opposite for the others to occupy. It was too short and would not accommodate them in the least, forcing the remaining two
