ALLEN + MOIRINE // the flowering lady
Who: Moirine & Allen
When: The night of the 12th.
Where: An inn.
Rating & Warnings: PG-13?
He'd developed a routine. It was a much needed structure in his new life, a support he could cling to, depend upon. At dawn each morning he rose, washed, dressed, and took a breakfast of bread and milk in the inn's common room. As soon as he finished he set off for Mama Harren's. She still regarded him with the same stern scowl while he worked - running errands, cleaning, fetching things for her chiefly - but when he did well she told him so. She sent him home for the day an hour or so before dusk. He returned to the inn, ate a small supper of whatever was cheapest - stew, usually - begged a little hot water from the cooks, and then returned to his room. The teas he'd been advised to brew worked well, though their potency still faltered on nights he was especially troubled. He had dreams. They were never pleasant, never comforting; chiefly, he dreamed of doing all the sins he imagined could be branded as truly evil. The word haunted his thoughts. He woke convinced he'd murdered a woman, stolen a child, ordered a man executed. They were all things he didn't believe himself capable of doing, but he woke pale and trembling all the same. On nights when he couldn't sleep at all, he went down to the common room and ordered a cup of ale. Despite his protests on the ledgers, it seemed ale was good for one thing: making him very drowsy. A cup full and his thoughts went right out of his head, and he climbed the stairs with heavy feet and crawled into bed without nightmares or worries.
He sat now on the floor, cross-legged, frowning in tense concentration as he whittled away at a small block of wood. He'd intended to make it into the tower and sunburst of the Citadel, but it wasn't long enough, and so instead resembled a very squat house with a star behind it. Besides that, it was lumpy and uneven. Allen was resigned to the fact that he possessed no artistic skill, but it took up a good deal of his time and concentration, so he was reluctant to give it up.
Her plan had been to avoid Ira as long as possible. He might never find her, she thought, so long as she wore the necklace. He'd never be able to take money from her baby. Hours later, her stomach sunk low with worry, she realized that avoiding Ira was the stupidest thing she could possibly do. Allen... He didn't even know that he was involved in this.
She'd shoved the pouch into the Whisper's waxy white hand and strode away without another word. As soon as Moirine was out of sight, she slipped her necklace on. Trembling, she tried to think of nothing more complicated than putting one foot in front of the other. After passing several darkened streets, however, she saw Zafer in every shadow. He couldn't smell her while she wore the necklace. He couldn't. Head bowed, Moirine found herself running as best she could the rest of the way to Allen's inn.
At the top of the stair, she glanced around. She imagined werewolves as lumbering, clumsy creatures, not unlike Lord Myron. Half-wolf and half-man, stuck between four legs and two. Perhaps they could keep themselves hidden, though. She waited until after she knocked to take off the necklace, complexion blanching as she waited.
The knife in his hand stilled at the knock, and Allen looked over at the door curiously before he set both knife and wood aside and climbed to his feet.
"Cerys." He greeted her with a smile when he opened the door. He was getting better about remembering her new name in public. His pride at remembering started to fade when he noted her expression, and his smile turned into a frown of concern as he stepped aside to let her in. "What's happened? Is something wrong?" Another new thing to tell him? His stomach turned. He couldn't handle another. The moment he accepted one, he was bowled over again with a second. It would be better, in his mind, to hear them all at once and get it over with, but Moirine refused.
"Is it Jude?" he continued, worried. "Are you ill?"
With the door shut behind her, Moirine fell against Allen's chest, hugging him desperately. She wasn't crying; she was too afraid to cry. Zafer was going to kill her. Zafer, the man who'd once saved her life. He was going to kill her because she wouldn't give Ira away... Ira would do more than just kill her, though. "It's nothing," she mumbled, her voice hitching between words. "It's only the other maids. I hate them."
More lies. She didn't want to lie anymore. When she was younger, it had been fun. Then, it had become a way to keep herself in everyone's good graces. Now it felt that all she could do was lie. Allen expected her to still be a little girl. She could play on that without worrying him too much. "They're so cruel."
Startled, he embraced her and listened to her explanation with a frown. That was all? He felt a bit guilty for being relieved. Moirine was still upset. "I'm sorry," he said softly, stroking his fingertips through the ends of her hair. After a few short brushes it became unnervingly apparent that it was a wig he touched, not her real hair, and he stopped.
"Can you speak to someone about it? A mistress of the household or-" No, not her employer. A Lord wouldn't listen to a maid. "Someone. You don't deserve such things." Her belly was growing full enough that it separated them from embracing fully. It was firm and a bit uncomfortable to be pressed up against, but when he was about to ease out of the hug he felt a tremor from it. Allen looked down and splayed his hand over the swell of her stomach, his worried frown startled into an expression of awe when he felt another faint jolt against his palm. "Is he kicking?"
There were people she could talk to about her problem. Avith came to mind, as did any of the Magisters... Mari, she'd been bullied by a werewolf and survived. A mistress of the household wouldn't be such a tremendous help, though. "That will only encourage them."
She felt her stomach flutter. It was still hard to tell what caused it; generally it only felt as though she was nervous or that she'd eaten something that didn't agree with her. Now, though, Moirine liked to think she knew when he was kicking. Staring down at her belly, she nodded quickly. "Yes, yes. You can feel it?"
Grinning up at him, Moirine put her hand over Allen's and slid it this way and that as the kicks moved. There were quick spurts of activity, then nothing for hours and hours. "He's strong, isn't he?"
He let her move his hand, awe slowly giving way to a delighted smile. "Yes," he agreed. It was strange to think he'd done the same thing to their mother's belly when she'd carried Moirine, though their reactions were very different. His mother had snapped at him and shooed him away when he'd touched her belly; Moirine guided his hand, smiled, spoke proudly of the son she carried. "Mama Harren says that children - even so young as Jude - can hear everything outside. That's why an infant is so easily soothed by their mother's voice, or their father's... they know them already." He stroked his thumb over the curve of her belly and glanced up to meet her eyes, still smiling warmly.
Where was Jude's father? A nagging question, but one he wouldn't ask. Not now. She'd been pale and shaking a moment ago and now she smiled. Her smile was... Allen stared for a moment, his thoughts faltering. Beautiful, he decided. Dazzling, almost. He swallowed and looked back down to their hands. "You could read him stories. You have a wonderful speaking voice." Softly, "I miss hearing your readings."
The corners of her lips twitched. "Well," she began, letting go of his hand though Jude still felt like batting his tiny feet against it, "He'll know his uncle's voice." Moirine smiled and took off her bag and the shoddy cloak she'd finally bought for herself. Her ledgers clunked to the floor by the nightstand and she leaned against the edge of the bed, already tangling her fingers in her wig to work out the pins. She no longer felt self-conscious around this new Allen. Every wince, every frantic movement of her fingers to work out a snag was his to see.
"You can't," she murmured through a smile. "I used to have such a horrible stutter. I'm not much better now."
"I can," he argued gently, "And you did. But your stutter only lasted as long as your uncertainty. As soon as you found your voice, you spoke beautifully." He'd stammered too, the first few times he'd been called upon to read the Epistles during service. It was only when he saw his sister among the crowd, her pale hair and green, loving stare singling her out from the rest, that his own voice had calmed. He couldn't allow his little sister to see him frightened. By example, he had to show her confidence. He wondered if he'd succeeded.
He stooped to pick up the knife from the floor and the block he'd been carving and set both on the nightstand. Flushing faintly, he gestured to them and said, "A man suggested I take up a hobby. I tried this. I'm very poor at it, but it does... distract." He forced a smile. "Jude will have very ugly toys to play with, but I promise they were made with love."
Moirine doubted that was the truth. Even at seventeen, Allen had needed to coach her simply so that she could make it through a reading. People expected so much of the Occia. She couldn't be the center of attention and perform as well... "Perhaps I'll read to you and Jude tonight, then," she said, biting back a hiss when she tried to take her wig off and several pins still caught near the back of her neck. Seeing to those, she looked at Allen.
He was making something. Finally shaking the wig off and untangling her white hair with her fingers, Moirine leaned forward to look at the sculpture. Was it a flower? He'd need to make the stem much thinner. Still, she picked up the small statute and turned it over in her hands. "You made this?"
It didn't matter that it was ugly and clumsy. She finally understood Allen's pride in her.
"Yes." He looked slightly embarrassed. He'd not considered the complexity involved with making a block of wood into something recognizable, something fully formed. It required much more forethought than he'd expected. "I was trying to, ah..." He reached out to point at the base. "That was to be the tower, only I made it too short and the sunburst too large."
He glanced to her, then her hair. It was a relief to him that she'd kept it long, hadn't dyed it. His own hair he could part with, however much it pained him. Hers... However far she'd fallen, he couldn't bear the idea of Cita not loving her as much as he did. Would it have darkened permanently if she'd dyed it? He picked a pin from near her ear and set it aside. "Will Jude have white hair, I wonder," he murmured.
"It's the citadel," she said almost beneath her breath. She traced her finger carefully over its edges. She was bound to get a splinter if she kept this up, but it was easier to see what he'd been trying to capture this way. Setting the statue back on the nightstand, she shook her head. "I'm sure it will be beautiful once you've finished."
Moirine wondered the same thing all the time. Some nights she couldn't sleep for all the wondering. A white-haired boy would be suspicious, but he could be hidden. If Mama Harren was wrong and the child was a girl, though... "Only Cita knows," she said, scooting forward to take Allen's hands in hers. Tiny nicks marked his fingers. He wasn't very good with that knife of his. "Clumsy."
Allen flushed. "I wasn't meant to be an artisan," he joked quietly, letting her turn his hands. He'd slipped with the knife more than once, but they were small cuts, all of them. "Mama Harren asked if I'd been petting porcupines. I'd no idea what she meant. She had me fetch a book she owns of small creatures to find a picture. It's- it's a little round creature, like a very fat mouse, all covered in spines."
He glanced back to his carving. "The Citadel, yes. A poor representation, but I wanted... I wanted something I might pray to." He looked back to their hands and lightly brushed his fingertips against hers, smile distant. Her hands had callouses now. They never had before. "Lie back," he told her. "The Epistles is on the table. Read to me and Jude, and I'll wash your feet and brush out your hair."
Moirine glanced up at Allen, her eyebrows tucked together and an embarrassed grin on her lips. "Por-cue-pine? I think she's tricking you," she laughed gently. It was so nice to speak to him like this. It made her forget all about Zafer and Silence and Ira and Mari.
When he tickled her hands, she grit her teeth against a giggle, eyes squeezed tight. "Y-you don't have to."
Her hair, matted and tangled beneath a wig she had no choice but to wear. Her feet, hard like a man's and bloated like an old woman's... She wasn't young and beautiful and desirable anymore. She didn't want Allen to realize that, even if he no longer had any interest in her. "I-I'll- I'll have a bath here instead. Would that be alright?"
His smile fell, and he looked shocked for a moment before he said, "N-no-! Yes. I mean no, of course it's alright." He could feel his cheeks growing hot. "I'll tend to your hair afterward." He hadn't meant to think of that. It was incredibly odd that he had. Inappropriate, but, he told himself, just one of those unintentional thoughts. His mind wandered. All men's minds wandered. Allen swallowed and drew his hands from hers.
"I'll go fetch water."
Was it such an imposition? She refused to notice the way he flushed. Moirine merely forced an awkward smile and sat on the edge of the bed, unlacing her boots. "Thank you," she murmured. Her smile grew wider to hide her fear. She'd hugged him. Hounds could trace a smell from a cloth. What if Zafer tracked Allen rather than her?
The pallor returned to her cheeks. She couldn't keep him locked away forever. "Hurry back," she murmured, hiding the quaver in her voice.
Allen nodded and hurried away. The servants in the inn were, by now, used to him. They helped him fill two large pails of water and carry them up the stairs, though he insisted they not help him bring them inside. Moirine's hair was down; they couldn't afford a servant catching a glimpse of her. When they'd gone down the stairs again Allen shouldered his door open and lugged the pails inside, face slightly red from the effort. He'd always been thin and weak, and even though he felt he was improving from all the lifting and carrying he did for Mama Harren, he was still far from being a strong man.
"Steaming hot," he mumbled with a brief, still embarrssed smile after he'd closed the door, and bent again to lift the pails and bring them over to the tub. It was partitioned by a thin screen, and he was careful not to get the screen wet as he poured the contents of the buckets inside. The water sloshed and steamed, and he wiped at his forehead with his wrist and nudged the empty pails up against the wall.
"Would you like me to- to wait downstairs?" he asked cautiously. His sister was a woman now, not a little girl. It wasn't appropriate for him to share a room with her while she bathed.
"No," she said hurriedly, thinking of Zafer. She was down to her shift and a pair of knitted socks. "No reason to chase you out of your room. Read a while. Or," Moirine nodded to the block on the nightstand. "Finish the citadel."
She hiked her shift up as she stepped into the bath. Certain that the screen hid her, Moirine peeled off the rest of her clothes, set them a good ways from the tub, and sunk herself in the scalding water. It was nice. So hot that her skin didn't know if it was burning or freezing, Moirine submerged herself for as long as she could before soaping up.
When the water was tepid, she climbed out and dried herself, then slipped into the same shift. She ought to borrow a nightshirt from Allen, she thought, as her damp hair turned the back of the garment transparent. Sidling into the room, she asked, "May I borrow a robe?"
He concentrated on carving rather than the slosh and splash of the water as Moirine washed. It looked no better by the time he heard her step out, and there was a fresh cut on the side of his thumb that he'd stopped with a small strip of bandage. "Hm?" Allen glanced up, then quickly down again, and set the wood and the knife aside to climb over to where his clothes sat folded at the edge of the bed. He didn't have many; he'd come only with the clothes on his back and the single set Moirine had given him. "Yes," he mumbled, feeling hot again. "Of course." He pulled his robes from the stack and shook them out, then climbed off the bed to give them to her.
Keeping his eyes averted, he added, "I'm not sure they'll fit." He was bigger than his sister, but his robes had been made for a man, and a thin one at that, not a woman nearly five months pregnant.
Moirine tried slipping them on awkwardly. It wasn't just her belly that had grown. That was the least of her troubles, actually. Her bust, her hips, her face... Her entire life, she'd been prized for her beauty and now she considered herself more and more hideous every time she passed by a mirror. The robes fit, though she was too short for them. Putting a hand on Allen's arm, she sighed. "Your fat sister is decent."
"What would you like me to read?" Her favorite story from The Epistles had changed so many times. She'd never be able to guess Allen's.
He looked up to frown at her. "All women gain weight when they're with child," he said gently, "And you're no less beautiful for it." His robes fit her oddly, but it was far more an issue of the cut than her figure. He led her back to the bed and sat on the edge of it.
"Whichever you'd like, sister. Whichever speaks to you." Did she still believe the words she'd read? His sister's faith had needed nurturing as a child; had it flourished as a woman, or had it withered up when she'd lost her position?
She bowed her head. Her white hair didn't hide her expressions half so well as the wig. Sliding up onto the bed, Moirine reached for the copy of The Epistles. What did she want her boys to hear? "The Flowering Lady?" she asked.
Did Allen truly think her beautiful? Smiling, she flipped through the book to find her place. "I can never remember where it starts..."
"Here," he murmured, leaning into her to reach over and flip through the pages until he found it. He didn't have a naturally good memory, but he'd read the Epistles more times than he could count and done everything he could to make sure he knew it from back to cover. The others had liked too much to quiz him, to try to trip him up and expose himself as an unworthy recipient of his sisters' favours.
When he'd spread the pages at the proper place he sat back, though their arms still touched, and tried to focus his thoughts on the book. This was very unlike him. He wasn't often distracted by women, let alone... Allen's eyes darted to his sister, guilty and nervous. Sister, he reminded himself. Occia. While the latter wasn't necessarily true any longer, it gave strength to his guilt. "Remember," he said quietly, forcing a small smile, "It's only us you're reading to."
"I'm still nervous..." she said with a smile. Setting the book on the small bump of her belly was rather convenient. Moirine read over the first few lines, glancing at Allen every few words or so, then began reciting.
It was the story of a woman who had wished for beauty her entire life. Born homely, she was ignored in favor of prettier women, only to be bartered off to one of her father's friends. She bore him many children. The boys were handsome, yet the girls plain. She wept night after night to know that none of her daughters would find love. Her heart finally broke and the woman collapsed in the fields. Before her family could collect her body, a hundred-thousand wild flowers grew from her. Everyone swore the patch of flowers was the most beautiful thing they had ever laid eyes on. Each of The Flowering Lady's girls found a husband, as they recognized the wonder that grew in their brides as well.
Jude didn't kick once as she was reading. Maybe this was his favorite story, too. She looked down at her belly, then over at Allen. "Was that alright?"
A woman who didn't believe she was beautiful... was that why Moirine chose the story? The thought of it made him sad, and the longer she read the more he leaned in to her, listening intently to the soft rise and fall of her voice.
"Yes," he said when she'd finished. He looked over at her and wondered how she could ever believe herself anything but beautiful. Her beauty stemmed from far more than her face or her figure. Allen smiled and squeezed her hand. "I'm sure Cita Himself stopped to listen."
She'd read words in the wrong order a few times and slipped on her pronunciation, but she trusted Allen to tell her the truth. Even if no one agreed, he thought she'd done a good job. Moirine looked over at him, then bashfully lowered her eyes. Was she imagining it? Was he really looking at her the way he used to? She squeezed his hand so that she had something to hold onto.
"Then Jude is in very good company," she said beneath her breath. Leaning her head on Allen's shoulder (a safe place), she asked, "Would you like another story?"
"Please." Her hair was still wet; he could feel it begin to seep into his tunic, but he couldn't bring himself to care. His eyes drifted to the swell of her belly. He hoped Jude could hear them. He hoped Jude would love his mother as much as he did. It would be hard for him to grow in such a stressful environment, but with both his mother's love and his uncle's, Allen hoped the boy would be happy.
"If you grow tired," he added, his hand loosening around hers to stroke it gently. Moirine always looked on the verge of exhaustion; he didn't want to keep her up reading to him if sleep would serve her better.
"No, I'm fine." She felt herself drowsing against Allen's chest, but flipped forward several pages. The Flood. That was a good one. Before she began to read, however, Moirine frowned. "Are you at all happy?" she asked. The reasons she'd brought Allen back were many and varied. Now that he was here, though, his happiness seemed the most important one of all.
He turned his head as much as she could with hers still resting on his shoulder and tilted it to frown at her. "I--" Was he happy? He could think of a few isolated moments of happiness, small pockets of time when he'd felt content and safe. He lifted his head again, expression tense and shuttered. "I'm happy when I'm with you," he said finally. It was the most positive answer he could give while still remaining truthful.
"The rest... is difficult for me," he continued quietly. "I'll grow accustomed to it." He smiled wanly. "I'm not nearly as strong or as brave as you are, sister, and I've much still to understand. Don't be too disappointed in me."
'You haven't disappointed me yet,' she thought. And if his crimes couldn't turn her against him, nothing could. Slowly, she wrapped her arm around his side. "You're so much braver," she said, already forgetting The Epistles opened before her. Allen never took the easy way out, as she did.
Did he mean that? Was he happy when he was with her, or did he worry about upsetting her? Moirine smiled slightly as she closed her eyes. "So much braver now."
He could feel a flush rising from his chest up to his cheeks, and Allen embraced his sister awkwardly. What was wrong with him today? He regularly stood in on examinations Mama Harren gave other women and had never so much as flinched. Yet when his sister hugged him, spoke warmly to him...
"I'm not brave," he argued. "But if I'm better than I was before, I'm... I'm glad for it."
Not better. Moirine could never bring herself to think that. She made a soft noise in response as she nestled against her brother. Even without the necklace, she felt that nothing bad could happen to her so long as she was at his side.
"You're still here. Makes you brave," was the last thing she murmured before falling asleep on him.
It was hours later when Allen woke. The Epistles was still open, half buried beneath the covers they'd drawn up over each other. Moirine slept beside him; he could see the rise and fall of her chest, hear the soft murmurs she made whenever she turned over. Very carefully, he folded the covers back and slipped his legs out from beneath them. The floor was cold when his feet touched it, and he tread the floorboards carefully as he crept over to where her bag lay against the nightstand.
There were two ledgers inside. He opened the first - Cerys - and closed it, instead taking out the other. Moirine Burrell, read the inside cover. How long had she had this? Would everything he'd done be written in it? Allen looked over his shoulder at his sister's outline in bed. It would be better to know it all. Better to not force Moirine to tell him. Better not to fear everything that came out of a stranger's mouth. He would already know. He'd be ready.
Allen opened the ledger to the very beginning and began to read.
She awoke early in the morning, cold and huddled near the edge of the bed. At some point in the night she must have rolled away from him. Moirine blinked a few times, forcing herself up onto one elbow. It didn't matter when she returned to Myron's, not really... He excused every reported absence as an effect of the necklace. Guiltily, she took advantage of his trust. He was such a good, kind man. Moirine forgave Myron his Otherness entirely.
"Allen," she mumbled, glancing around for him. Had he gone to Mama's already?
"I'm here," he said flatly. He hadn't moved back onto the bed when he'd finished reading; he'd tucked Moirine's ledgers back in their place and leaned his back against the wall. He had no idea what time he'd finished reading at, or how long it had been since then. His back hurt from resting it against the wall, and his legs hurt from resting against the floor. Allen lifted his head slightly to look over the bed, at what he could see of Moirine. "I couldn't sleep," he explained, "And I worried I would wake you."
He felt cold, but it was hard to determine whether it was from the natural chill of the air or just in his head. His stomach hadn't settled since he'd began reading. He felt a faint relief in the fact that he'd gotten it over with, that he'd read every word he'd found of his own handwriting in Moirine's ledger and every word of hers in reply. He knew now everything that she'd hidden from him. It explained everything. He'd opened the window once, during the night, to retch over the sill. He'd been relieved when it hadn't woken her. Allen drew his hands over his eyes and rubbed at them; they still felt dry and puffy.
What was he doing on the floor? Moirine furrowed her brow and leaned a bit off the bed, trying to get a better look at him in the scarce light. "I'm awake now," she said with a weak smile, "Come back to bed."
Were his old habits returning? He'd been doing so well. Allen was eating, sleeping, not pushing himself to exhaustion day in and day out. Worried, Moirine began fiddling with a lock of hair. "I'll wake you in time to go to Mama Harren's."
"No, thank you." He drew a deep breath. "I'm fine." The hollowness of his own voice put him in mind of a woman he'd met perhaps two years prior. He'd been sent to tell her that her two sons had both died in the Citadel's care; they'd been in a farmhouse nearby when it'd been set aflame by raiders. The woman had simply stared at him calmly, then thanked him for the news. Allen had been so disconcerted - he'd expected her to weep, to wail - that he'd lingered longer than he should've; the woman had smiled for him and explained that she had nothing left to fear - the worst had already happened. He hadn't understood her sentiments then, but he did now. His sister carried his child. No matter how he examined that fact, turned it over, he felt only a hollow numbness. Perhaps he'd break later, cry, tear at his hair. Perhaps he never would.
"Do you need to get back?" Allen asked quietly. "I can walk you."
Something was wrong. Moirine fought the urge to go to him; now she was certain he'd flinch away from her. His question felt pointed, yet Allen was too kind to ask her to go. What could have happened while they slept? She swung her legs out of the bed and went to change back into her dress in the washroom. "No, I'm safer when I'm alone."
Pausing in the door frame, she narrowed her eyes. This wasn't a state she was used to seeing him in. It hurt to think that she had to relearn his reactions, that they might as well be strangers. Would he even tell her if she asked what was wrong? They were both so good at keeping things from one another...
"Please. Get some sleep."
"Safer?" he asked sharply. "You're in danger when you're with me?" No, that wasn't what she'd meant. His reaction had been too quick, too sensitive. Allen shut his eyes and climbed to his feet. His knees wobbled, and he braced himself against the bed with one hand. "Nevermind."
Wearily, he sat on the edge of the bed. "I'll try." He wouldn't be able to. He knew that already. He would have to wait for exhaustion to take him later that day, and hope it was stronger than horror. "Thank you for reading to me last night," Allen forced himself to add, in hopes it might reassure her. He couldn't tell her what he'd done, not yet. "I enjoyed it."
She winced. That wasn't at all what she meant. In public, Allen would either lose her if she was wearing the necklace and be placed in Zafer's way if she wasn't. Still, she didn't respond through the door, only slipped the nightgown off and hurriedly fastened her dress. It seemed like all she did was upset him, though Allen was telling her how much he'd enjoyed their time together. How could she possibly believe him?
Once dressed, she left the washroom to collect her bag. "I'm sorry," she murmured, "For whatever-" I've done, "Has gone wrong." Automatically, she started to reach out for his hand. "I'll see you soon?"
He flinched. He could see the swell of her belly. Jude. All of his naive reassurances that Jude would grow up loved, even without a father... Had she pitied him when he'd said those things? Allen forced himself to take her hand and squeeze it. His own trembled.
"You've done nothing," he choked out. She needed to leave. He couldn't look at her, couldn't look at her belly. "Bad dreams. I had bad dreams. That's all." Slowly, Allen nodded, his eyes still on the floor rather than her. "Yes. Soon."
"Alright."
Letting go of his hand, Moirine slipped her bag over her shoulder, none the wiser that Allen had been through it. She forced a smile as she opened the door. "I'll pray that you have better dreams, Martin." Without waiting for a reply, she closed it behind her and took out her necklace. All she wanted was to know what troubled Allen, but... he'd made it very clear she'd pestered him enough already. Work would take her mind off of him, Moirine told herself. She wouldn't worry that he had already grown tired of her as she scrubbed on hands and knees.
When: The night of the 12th.
Where: An inn.
Rating & Warnings: PG-13?
He'd developed a routine. It was a much needed structure in his new life, a support he could cling to, depend upon. At dawn each morning he rose, washed, dressed, and took a breakfast of bread and milk in the inn's common room. As soon as he finished he set off for Mama Harren's. She still regarded him with the same stern scowl while he worked - running errands, cleaning, fetching things for her chiefly - but when he did well she told him so. She sent him home for the day an hour or so before dusk. He returned to the inn, ate a small supper of whatever was cheapest - stew, usually - begged a little hot water from the cooks, and then returned to his room. The teas he'd been advised to brew worked well, though their potency still faltered on nights he was especially troubled. He had dreams. They were never pleasant, never comforting; chiefly, he dreamed of doing all the sins he imagined could be branded as truly evil. The word haunted his thoughts. He woke convinced he'd murdered a woman, stolen a child, ordered a man executed. They were all things he didn't believe himself capable of doing, but he woke pale and trembling all the same. On nights when he couldn't sleep at all, he went down to the common room and ordered a cup of ale. Despite his protests on the ledgers, it seemed ale was good for one thing: making him very drowsy. A cup full and his thoughts went right out of his head, and he climbed the stairs with heavy feet and crawled into bed without nightmares or worries.
He sat now on the floor, cross-legged, frowning in tense concentration as he whittled away at a small block of wood. He'd intended to make it into the tower and sunburst of the Citadel, but it wasn't long enough, and so instead resembled a very squat house with a star behind it. Besides that, it was lumpy and uneven. Allen was resigned to the fact that he possessed no artistic skill, but it took up a good deal of his time and concentration, so he was reluctant to give it up.
Her plan had been to avoid Ira as long as possible. He might never find her, she thought, so long as she wore the necklace. He'd never be able to take money from her baby. Hours later, her stomach sunk low with worry, she realized that avoiding Ira was the stupidest thing she could possibly do. Allen... He didn't even know that he was involved in this.
She'd shoved the pouch into the Whisper's waxy white hand and strode away without another word. As soon as Moirine was out of sight, she slipped her necklace on. Trembling, she tried to think of nothing more complicated than putting one foot in front of the other. After passing several darkened streets, however, she saw Zafer in every shadow. He couldn't smell her while she wore the necklace. He couldn't. Head bowed, Moirine found herself running as best she could the rest of the way to Allen's inn.
At the top of the stair, she glanced around. She imagined werewolves as lumbering, clumsy creatures, not unlike Lord Myron. Half-wolf and half-man, stuck between four legs and two. Perhaps they could keep themselves hidden, though. She waited until after she knocked to take off the necklace, complexion blanching as she waited.
The knife in his hand stilled at the knock, and Allen looked over at the door curiously before he set both knife and wood aside and climbed to his feet.
"Cerys." He greeted her with a smile when he opened the door. He was getting better about remembering her new name in public. His pride at remembering started to fade when he noted her expression, and his smile turned into a frown of concern as he stepped aside to let her in. "What's happened? Is something wrong?" Another new thing to tell him? His stomach turned. He couldn't handle another. The moment he accepted one, he was bowled over again with a second. It would be better, in his mind, to hear them all at once and get it over with, but Moirine refused.
"Is it Jude?" he continued, worried. "Are you ill?"
With the door shut behind her, Moirine fell against Allen's chest, hugging him desperately. She wasn't crying; she was too afraid to cry. Zafer was going to kill her. Zafer, the man who'd once saved her life. He was going to kill her because she wouldn't give Ira away... Ira would do more than just kill her, though. "It's nothing," she mumbled, her voice hitching between words. "It's only the other maids. I hate them."
More lies. She didn't want to lie anymore. When she was younger, it had been fun. Then, it had become a way to keep herself in everyone's good graces. Now it felt that all she could do was lie. Allen expected her to still be a little girl. She could play on that without worrying him too much. "They're so cruel."
Startled, he embraced her and listened to her explanation with a frown. That was all? He felt a bit guilty for being relieved. Moirine was still upset. "I'm sorry," he said softly, stroking his fingertips through the ends of her hair. After a few short brushes it became unnervingly apparent that it was a wig he touched, not her real hair, and he stopped.
"Can you speak to someone about it? A mistress of the household or-" No, not her employer. A Lord wouldn't listen to a maid. "Someone. You don't deserve such things." Her belly was growing full enough that it separated them from embracing fully. It was firm and a bit uncomfortable to be pressed up against, but when he was about to ease out of the hug he felt a tremor from it. Allen looked down and splayed his hand over the swell of her stomach, his worried frown startled into an expression of awe when he felt another faint jolt against his palm. "Is he kicking?"
There were people she could talk to about her problem. Avith came to mind, as did any of the Magisters... Mari, she'd been bullied by a werewolf and survived. A mistress of the household wouldn't be such a tremendous help, though. "That will only encourage them."
She felt her stomach flutter. It was still hard to tell what caused it; generally it only felt as though she was nervous or that she'd eaten something that didn't agree with her. Now, though, Moirine liked to think she knew when he was kicking. Staring down at her belly, she nodded quickly. "Yes, yes. You can feel it?"
Grinning up at him, Moirine put her hand over Allen's and slid it this way and that as the kicks moved. There were quick spurts of activity, then nothing for hours and hours. "He's strong, isn't he?"
He let her move his hand, awe slowly giving way to a delighted smile. "Yes," he agreed. It was strange to think he'd done the same thing to their mother's belly when she'd carried Moirine, though their reactions were very different. His mother had snapped at him and shooed him away when he'd touched her belly; Moirine guided his hand, smiled, spoke proudly of the son she carried. "Mama Harren says that children - even so young as Jude - can hear everything outside. That's why an infant is so easily soothed by their mother's voice, or their father's... they know them already." He stroked his thumb over the curve of her belly and glanced up to meet her eyes, still smiling warmly.
Where was Jude's father? A nagging question, but one he wouldn't ask. Not now. She'd been pale and shaking a moment ago and now she smiled. Her smile was... Allen stared for a moment, his thoughts faltering. Beautiful, he decided. Dazzling, almost. He swallowed and looked back down to their hands. "You could read him stories. You have a wonderful speaking voice." Softly, "I miss hearing your readings."
The corners of her lips twitched. "Well," she began, letting go of his hand though Jude still felt like batting his tiny feet against it, "He'll know his uncle's voice." Moirine smiled and took off her bag and the shoddy cloak she'd finally bought for herself. Her ledgers clunked to the floor by the nightstand and she leaned against the edge of the bed, already tangling her fingers in her wig to work out the pins. She no longer felt self-conscious around this new Allen. Every wince, every frantic movement of her fingers to work out a snag was his to see.
"You can't," she murmured through a smile. "I used to have such a horrible stutter. I'm not much better now."
"I can," he argued gently, "And you did. But your stutter only lasted as long as your uncertainty. As soon as you found your voice, you spoke beautifully." He'd stammered too, the first few times he'd been called upon to read the Epistles during service. It was only when he saw his sister among the crowd, her pale hair and green, loving stare singling her out from the rest, that his own voice had calmed. He couldn't allow his little sister to see him frightened. By example, he had to show her confidence. He wondered if he'd succeeded.
He stooped to pick up the knife from the floor and the block he'd been carving and set both on the nightstand. Flushing faintly, he gestured to them and said, "A man suggested I take up a hobby. I tried this. I'm very poor at it, but it does... distract." He forced a smile. "Jude will have very ugly toys to play with, but I promise they were made with love."
Moirine doubted that was the truth. Even at seventeen, Allen had needed to coach her simply so that she could make it through a reading. People expected so much of the Occia. She couldn't be the center of attention and perform as well... "Perhaps I'll read to you and Jude tonight, then," she said, biting back a hiss when she tried to take her wig off and several pins still caught near the back of her neck. Seeing to those, she looked at Allen.
He was making something. Finally shaking the wig off and untangling her white hair with her fingers, Moirine leaned forward to look at the sculpture. Was it a flower? He'd need to make the stem much thinner. Still, she picked up the small statute and turned it over in her hands. "You made this?"
It didn't matter that it was ugly and clumsy. She finally understood Allen's pride in her.
"Yes." He looked slightly embarrassed. He'd not considered the complexity involved with making a block of wood into something recognizable, something fully formed. It required much more forethought than he'd expected. "I was trying to, ah..." He reached out to point at the base. "That was to be the tower, only I made it too short and the sunburst too large."
He glanced to her, then her hair. It was a relief to him that she'd kept it long, hadn't dyed it. His own hair he could part with, however much it pained him. Hers... However far she'd fallen, he couldn't bear the idea of Cita not loving her as much as he did. Would it have darkened permanently if she'd dyed it? He picked a pin from near her ear and set it aside. "Will Jude have white hair, I wonder," he murmured.
"It's the citadel," she said almost beneath her breath. She traced her finger carefully over its edges. She was bound to get a splinter if she kept this up, but it was easier to see what he'd been trying to capture this way. Setting the statue back on the nightstand, she shook her head. "I'm sure it will be beautiful once you've finished."
Moirine wondered the same thing all the time. Some nights she couldn't sleep for all the wondering. A white-haired boy would be suspicious, but he could be hidden. If Mama Harren was wrong and the child was a girl, though... "Only Cita knows," she said, scooting forward to take Allen's hands in hers. Tiny nicks marked his fingers. He wasn't very good with that knife of his. "Clumsy."
Allen flushed. "I wasn't meant to be an artisan," he joked quietly, letting her turn his hands. He'd slipped with the knife more than once, but they were small cuts, all of them. "Mama Harren asked if I'd been petting porcupines. I'd no idea what she meant. She had me fetch a book she owns of small creatures to find a picture. It's- it's a little round creature, like a very fat mouse, all covered in spines."
He glanced back to his carving. "The Citadel, yes. A poor representation, but I wanted... I wanted something I might pray to." He looked back to their hands and lightly brushed his fingertips against hers, smile distant. Her hands had callouses now. They never had before. "Lie back," he told her. "The Epistles is on the table. Read to me and Jude, and I'll wash your feet and brush out your hair."
Moirine glanced up at Allen, her eyebrows tucked together and an embarrassed grin on her lips. "Por-cue-pine? I think she's tricking you," she laughed gently. It was so nice to speak to him like this. It made her forget all about Zafer and Silence and Ira and Mari.
When he tickled her hands, she grit her teeth against a giggle, eyes squeezed tight. "Y-you don't have to."
Her hair, matted and tangled beneath a wig she had no choice but to wear. Her feet, hard like a man's and bloated like an old woman's... She wasn't young and beautiful and desirable anymore. She didn't want Allen to realize that, even if he no longer had any interest in her. "I-I'll- I'll have a bath here instead. Would that be alright?"
His smile fell, and he looked shocked for a moment before he said, "N-no-! Yes. I mean no, of course it's alright." He could feel his cheeks growing hot. "I'll tend to your hair afterward." He hadn't meant to think of that. It was incredibly odd that he had. Inappropriate, but, he told himself, just one of those unintentional thoughts. His mind wandered. All men's minds wandered. Allen swallowed and drew his hands from hers.
"I'll go fetch water."
Was it such an imposition? She refused to notice the way he flushed. Moirine merely forced an awkward smile and sat on the edge of the bed, unlacing her boots. "Thank you," she murmured. Her smile grew wider to hide her fear. She'd hugged him. Hounds could trace a smell from a cloth. What if Zafer tracked Allen rather than her?
The pallor returned to her cheeks. She couldn't keep him locked away forever. "Hurry back," she murmured, hiding the quaver in her voice.
Allen nodded and hurried away. The servants in the inn were, by now, used to him. They helped him fill two large pails of water and carry them up the stairs, though he insisted they not help him bring them inside. Moirine's hair was down; they couldn't afford a servant catching a glimpse of her. When they'd gone down the stairs again Allen shouldered his door open and lugged the pails inside, face slightly red from the effort. He'd always been thin and weak, and even though he felt he was improving from all the lifting and carrying he did for Mama Harren, he was still far from being a strong man.
"Steaming hot," he mumbled with a brief, still embarrssed smile after he'd closed the door, and bent again to lift the pails and bring them over to the tub. It was partitioned by a thin screen, and he was careful not to get the screen wet as he poured the contents of the buckets inside. The water sloshed and steamed, and he wiped at his forehead with his wrist and nudged the empty pails up against the wall.
"Would you like me to- to wait downstairs?" he asked cautiously. His sister was a woman now, not a little girl. It wasn't appropriate for him to share a room with her while she bathed.
"No," she said hurriedly, thinking of Zafer. She was down to her shift and a pair of knitted socks. "No reason to chase you out of your room. Read a while. Or," Moirine nodded to the block on the nightstand. "Finish the citadel."
She hiked her shift up as she stepped into the bath. Certain that the screen hid her, Moirine peeled off the rest of her clothes, set them a good ways from the tub, and sunk herself in the scalding water. It was nice. So hot that her skin didn't know if it was burning or freezing, Moirine submerged herself for as long as she could before soaping up.
When the water was tepid, she climbed out and dried herself, then slipped into the same shift. She ought to borrow a nightshirt from Allen, she thought, as her damp hair turned the back of the garment transparent. Sidling into the room, she asked, "May I borrow a robe?"
He concentrated on carving rather than the slosh and splash of the water as Moirine washed. It looked no better by the time he heard her step out, and there was a fresh cut on the side of his thumb that he'd stopped with a small strip of bandage. "Hm?" Allen glanced up, then quickly down again, and set the wood and the knife aside to climb over to where his clothes sat folded at the edge of the bed. He didn't have many; he'd come only with the clothes on his back and the single set Moirine had given him. "Yes," he mumbled, feeling hot again. "Of course." He pulled his robes from the stack and shook them out, then climbed off the bed to give them to her.
Keeping his eyes averted, he added, "I'm not sure they'll fit." He was bigger than his sister, but his robes had been made for a man, and a thin one at that, not a woman nearly five months pregnant.
Moirine tried slipping them on awkwardly. It wasn't just her belly that had grown. That was the least of her troubles, actually. Her bust, her hips, her face... Her entire life, she'd been prized for her beauty and now she considered herself more and more hideous every time she passed by a mirror. The robes fit, though she was too short for them. Putting a hand on Allen's arm, she sighed. "Your fat sister is decent."
"What would you like me to read?" Her favorite story from The Epistles had changed so many times. She'd never be able to guess Allen's.
He looked up to frown at her. "All women gain weight when they're with child," he said gently, "And you're no less beautiful for it." His robes fit her oddly, but it was far more an issue of the cut than her figure. He led her back to the bed and sat on the edge of it.
"Whichever you'd like, sister. Whichever speaks to you." Did she still believe the words she'd read? His sister's faith had needed nurturing as a child; had it flourished as a woman, or had it withered up when she'd lost her position?
She bowed her head. Her white hair didn't hide her expressions half so well as the wig. Sliding up onto the bed, Moirine reached for the copy of The Epistles. What did she want her boys to hear? "The Flowering Lady?" she asked.
Did Allen truly think her beautiful? Smiling, she flipped through the book to find her place. "I can never remember where it starts..."
"Here," he murmured, leaning into her to reach over and flip through the pages until he found it. He didn't have a naturally good memory, but he'd read the Epistles more times than he could count and done everything he could to make sure he knew it from back to cover. The others had liked too much to quiz him, to try to trip him up and expose himself as an unworthy recipient of his sisters' favours.
When he'd spread the pages at the proper place he sat back, though their arms still touched, and tried to focus his thoughts on the book. This was very unlike him. He wasn't often distracted by women, let alone... Allen's eyes darted to his sister, guilty and nervous. Sister, he reminded himself. Occia. While the latter wasn't necessarily true any longer, it gave strength to his guilt. "Remember," he said quietly, forcing a small smile, "It's only us you're reading to."
"I'm still nervous..." she said with a smile. Setting the book on the small bump of her belly was rather convenient. Moirine read over the first few lines, glancing at Allen every few words or so, then began reciting.
It was the story of a woman who had wished for beauty her entire life. Born homely, she was ignored in favor of prettier women, only to be bartered off to one of her father's friends. She bore him many children. The boys were handsome, yet the girls plain. She wept night after night to know that none of her daughters would find love. Her heart finally broke and the woman collapsed in the fields. Before her family could collect her body, a hundred-thousand wild flowers grew from her. Everyone swore the patch of flowers was the most beautiful thing they had ever laid eyes on. Each of The Flowering Lady's girls found a husband, as they recognized the wonder that grew in their brides as well.
Jude didn't kick once as she was reading. Maybe this was his favorite story, too. She looked down at her belly, then over at Allen. "Was that alright?"
A woman who didn't believe she was beautiful... was that why Moirine chose the story? The thought of it made him sad, and the longer she read the more he leaned in to her, listening intently to the soft rise and fall of her voice.
"Yes," he said when she'd finished. He looked over at her and wondered how she could ever believe herself anything but beautiful. Her beauty stemmed from far more than her face or her figure. Allen smiled and squeezed her hand. "I'm sure Cita Himself stopped to listen."
She'd read words in the wrong order a few times and slipped on her pronunciation, but she trusted Allen to tell her the truth. Even if no one agreed, he thought she'd done a good job. Moirine looked over at him, then bashfully lowered her eyes. Was she imagining it? Was he really looking at her the way he used to? She squeezed his hand so that she had something to hold onto.
"Then Jude is in very good company," she said beneath her breath. Leaning her head on Allen's shoulder (a safe place), she asked, "Would you like another story?"
"Please." Her hair was still wet; he could feel it begin to seep into his tunic, but he couldn't bring himself to care. His eyes drifted to the swell of her belly. He hoped Jude could hear them. He hoped Jude would love his mother as much as he did. It would be hard for him to grow in such a stressful environment, but with both his mother's love and his uncle's, Allen hoped the boy would be happy.
"If you grow tired," he added, his hand loosening around hers to stroke it gently. Moirine always looked on the verge of exhaustion; he didn't want to keep her up reading to him if sleep would serve her better.
"No, I'm fine." She felt herself drowsing against Allen's chest, but flipped forward several pages. The Flood. That was a good one. Before she began to read, however, Moirine frowned. "Are you at all happy?" she asked. The reasons she'd brought Allen back were many and varied. Now that he was here, though, his happiness seemed the most important one of all.
He turned his head as much as she could with hers still resting on his shoulder and tilted it to frown at her. "I--" Was he happy? He could think of a few isolated moments of happiness, small pockets of time when he'd felt content and safe. He lifted his head again, expression tense and shuttered. "I'm happy when I'm with you," he said finally. It was the most positive answer he could give while still remaining truthful.
"The rest... is difficult for me," he continued quietly. "I'll grow accustomed to it." He smiled wanly. "I'm not nearly as strong or as brave as you are, sister, and I've much still to understand. Don't be too disappointed in me."
'You haven't disappointed me yet,' she thought. And if his crimes couldn't turn her against him, nothing could. Slowly, she wrapped her arm around his side. "You're so much braver," she said, already forgetting The Epistles opened before her. Allen never took the easy way out, as she did.
Did he mean that? Was he happy when he was with her, or did he worry about upsetting her? Moirine smiled slightly as she closed her eyes. "So much braver now."
He could feel a flush rising from his chest up to his cheeks, and Allen embraced his sister awkwardly. What was wrong with him today? He regularly stood in on examinations Mama Harren gave other women and had never so much as flinched. Yet when his sister hugged him, spoke warmly to him...
"I'm not brave," he argued. "But if I'm better than I was before, I'm... I'm glad for it."
Not better. Moirine could never bring herself to think that. She made a soft noise in response as she nestled against her brother. Even without the necklace, she felt that nothing bad could happen to her so long as she was at his side.
"You're still here. Makes you brave," was the last thing she murmured before falling asleep on him.
It was hours later when Allen woke. The Epistles was still open, half buried beneath the covers they'd drawn up over each other. Moirine slept beside him; he could see the rise and fall of her chest, hear the soft murmurs she made whenever she turned over. Very carefully, he folded the covers back and slipped his legs out from beneath them. The floor was cold when his feet touched it, and he tread the floorboards carefully as he crept over to where her bag lay against the nightstand.
There were two ledgers inside. He opened the first - Cerys - and closed it, instead taking out the other. Moirine Burrell, read the inside cover. How long had she had this? Would everything he'd done be written in it? Allen looked over his shoulder at his sister's outline in bed. It would be better to know it all. Better to not force Moirine to tell him. Better not to fear everything that came out of a stranger's mouth. He would already know. He'd be ready.
Allen opened the ledger to the very beginning and began to read.
She awoke early in the morning, cold and huddled near the edge of the bed. At some point in the night she must have rolled away from him. Moirine blinked a few times, forcing herself up onto one elbow. It didn't matter when she returned to Myron's, not really... He excused every reported absence as an effect of the necklace. Guiltily, she took advantage of his trust. He was such a good, kind man. Moirine forgave Myron his Otherness entirely.
"Allen," she mumbled, glancing around for him. Had he gone to Mama's already?
"I'm here," he said flatly. He hadn't moved back onto the bed when he'd finished reading; he'd tucked Moirine's ledgers back in their place and leaned his back against the wall. He had no idea what time he'd finished reading at, or how long it had been since then. His back hurt from resting it against the wall, and his legs hurt from resting against the floor. Allen lifted his head slightly to look over the bed, at what he could see of Moirine. "I couldn't sleep," he explained, "And I worried I would wake you."
He felt cold, but it was hard to determine whether it was from the natural chill of the air or just in his head. His stomach hadn't settled since he'd began reading. He felt a faint relief in the fact that he'd gotten it over with, that he'd read every word he'd found of his own handwriting in Moirine's ledger and every word of hers in reply. He knew now everything that she'd hidden from him. It explained everything. He'd opened the window once, during the night, to retch over the sill. He'd been relieved when it hadn't woken her. Allen drew his hands over his eyes and rubbed at them; they still felt dry and puffy.
What was he doing on the floor? Moirine furrowed her brow and leaned a bit off the bed, trying to get a better look at him in the scarce light. "I'm awake now," she said with a weak smile, "Come back to bed."
Were his old habits returning? He'd been doing so well. Allen was eating, sleeping, not pushing himself to exhaustion day in and day out. Worried, Moirine began fiddling with a lock of hair. "I'll wake you in time to go to Mama Harren's."
"No, thank you." He drew a deep breath. "I'm fine." The hollowness of his own voice put him in mind of a woman he'd met perhaps two years prior. He'd been sent to tell her that her two sons had both died in the Citadel's care; they'd been in a farmhouse nearby when it'd been set aflame by raiders. The woman had simply stared at him calmly, then thanked him for the news. Allen had been so disconcerted - he'd expected her to weep, to wail - that he'd lingered longer than he should've; the woman had smiled for him and explained that she had nothing left to fear - the worst had already happened. He hadn't understood her sentiments then, but he did now. His sister carried his child. No matter how he examined that fact, turned it over, he felt only a hollow numbness. Perhaps he'd break later, cry, tear at his hair. Perhaps he never would.
"Do you need to get back?" Allen asked quietly. "I can walk you."
Something was wrong. Moirine fought the urge to go to him; now she was certain he'd flinch away from her. His question felt pointed, yet Allen was too kind to ask her to go. What could have happened while they slept? She swung her legs out of the bed and went to change back into her dress in the washroom. "No, I'm safer when I'm alone."
Pausing in the door frame, she narrowed her eyes. This wasn't a state she was used to seeing him in. It hurt to think that she had to relearn his reactions, that they might as well be strangers. Would he even tell her if she asked what was wrong? They were both so good at keeping things from one another...
"Please. Get some sleep."
"Safer?" he asked sharply. "You're in danger when you're with me?" No, that wasn't what she'd meant. His reaction had been too quick, too sensitive. Allen shut his eyes and climbed to his feet. His knees wobbled, and he braced himself against the bed with one hand. "Nevermind."
Wearily, he sat on the edge of the bed. "I'll try." He wouldn't be able to. He knew that already. He would have to wait for exhaustion to take him later that day, and hope it was stronger than horror. "Thank you for reading to me last night," Allen forced himself to add, in hopes it might reassure her. He couldn't tell her what he'd done, not yet. "I enjoyed it."
She winced. That wasn't at all what she meant. In public, Allen would either lose her if she was wearing the necklace and be placed in Zafer's way if she wasn't. Still, she didn't respond through the door, only slipped the nightgown off and hurriedly fastened her dress. It seemed like all she did was upset him, though Allen was telling her how much he'd enjoyed their time together. How could she possibly believe him?
Once dressed, she left the washroom to collect her bag. "I'm sorry," she murmured, "For whatever-" I've done, "Has gone wrong." Automatically, she started to reach out for his hand. "I'll see you soon?"
He flinched. He could see the swell of her belly. Jude. All of his naive reassurances that Jude would grow up loved, even without a father... Had she pitied him when he'd said those things? Allen forced himself to take her hand and squeeze it. His own trembled.
"You've done nothing," he choked out. She needed to leave. He couldn't look at her, couldn't look at her belly. "Bad dreams. I had bad dreams. That's all." Slowly, Allen nodded, his eyes still on the floor rather than her. "Yes. Soon."
"Alright."
Letting go of his hand, Moirine slipped her bag over her shoulder, none the wiser that Allen had been through it. She forced a smile as she opened the door. "I'll pray that you have better dreams, Martin." Without waiting for a reply, she closed it behind her and took out her necklace. All she wanted was to know what troubled Allen, but... he'd made it very clear she'd pestered him enough already. Work would take her mind off of him, Moirine told herself. She wouldn't worry that he had already grown tired of her as she scrubbed on hands and knees.