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In that space of silence, Siv’s doubt and suspicions grew. It was no longer just a tickle; it was something solid, no longer in her head but now her throat, annoying and persistent, and she could not shake it. Whatever he really was, mercenary was not one of them. His mannerisms were too soft. No man who lived to kill would have traveled with a girl-child, let alone when both were so clearly starved. His lack of scars echoed her doubt; only three, deep gashes marked his chest. Sirius’ marks were similar. It was a fool’s courage that had earned them. She, without a blemish upon her, could hardly consider such things valuable.
She heard a shift in his tone, subtle as it was, and knew it for a lie. The dark she-wolf gave no sign of this, focused instead on the meat in her hands. Only his question drew her attention, and she looked at him as if she had known him for ages. The warmth in her face was a lie like his own, for the ice-laced heart within her felt affection for only one living thing. “I do not have many with me,” she admitted, smiling. “But I can give what I do not use.” And true enough, she passed the small bag to him—it was not dangerous, not like the others she carried. Only a mixture of catnip, mugwort, and what she knew as hedge garlic consisted of this blend.
“My home is a hard land,” the tall woman explained. “I suspect our Northern blood makes it that way.” A joke; she knew this was not half-so-north as some places in the world. Her eyes turned back to the golden wolf, but they were obtuse and the dark color of a fresh bruise. “Was that your first fight, the lion?”