The jolt of the carriage stopping pulled Iso from the depths of dreamless sleep. Her eyes snapped open, muscles tensing, fingers tightening around Vey's hand before her mind had fully registered where she was.
Velvet beneath her. Dim light filtering through curtained windows. The smell of horses and woodsmoke and something else, something warm and savory that made her stomach clench despite the food she had consumed earlier.
The carriage. Galus. We left the workhouse.
The reality of it crashed over her like cold water. She sat up straighter, blinking away the fog of exhaustion, and found Vey stirring beside her. His swollen eye had improved slightly, the healing magic that flowed through him doing its slow, unconscious work, and his good eye swept the carriage interior with the same wary assessment Iso recognized from her own thoughts.
"We've arrived." Galus's voice was calm, measured. He had already risen from his seat and was gathering his bag. "The inn where we'll spend the night."
Iso peered through the gap in the curtains. The building before them rose three stories high, its windows glowing with warm lamplight. A wooden sign swung gently above the door, though Iso couldn't read the words painted on its surface. Flower boxes adorned the lower windows, and the stonework appeared clean and well-maintained.
Nice, she thought, the word inadequate for what she was seeing. This is... nice.
Not posh. Not the grand establishments she had glimpsed through the workhouse fence when wealthy merchants passed by in their gilded carriages. But solid. Comfortable. Real in a way that made her chest ache with something she couldn't name.
Galus opened the carriage door and stepped down, then turned to offer his hand. Iso ignored it, climbing out on her own, her bare feet meeting cobblestones still warm from the afternoon sun. Vey followed, and they stood together in the fading light, two ragged children before a building that seemed to belong to an entirely different world.
The innkeeper met them at the door, a round man with a bristling mustache and kind eyes that widened only slightly at the sight of the twins before settling into professional neutrality. Galus exchanged quiet words with him, coins changing hands, and suddenly they were inside.
The common room sprawled before them, tables and chairs scattered across a clean wooden floor. A fire crackled in a massive stone hearth. The smell of cooking food intensified, and Iso's mouth watered despite herself. People sat at various tables, eating and drinking and laughing, and several heads turned as the twins entered.
Iso shrank closer to Vey. The attention prickled against her skin, uncomfortable and dangerous. She was acutely aware of her filthy tunic, her bare feet leaving smudges on the polished floor, her ragged hair sticking up in unwashed clumps.
They're staring. They're all staring.
Galus's hand settled briefly on her shoulder, light, careful, withdrawing the moment she tensed.
"This way," he murmured. "We have rooms upstairs."
The stairs creaked beneath their feet. The hallway above was quieter, lit by oil lamps that cast dancing shadows on the walls. Galus stopped before a door and produced a key, the lock clicking open with a sound that seemed impossibly loud in the silence.
The suite beyond was larger than any room Iso had ever occupied. A sitting area with cushioned chairs. A table already set with plates and cups. Doors leading to what she assumed were sleeping chambers. And there, in one corner, a large copper tub already steaming with hot water.
"A bath first, I think." Galus set his bag on one of the chairs. "Then dinner, then rest. You've had a long day."
As if summoned by his words, a door opened and two women entered, one middle-aged with streaks of grey in her brown hair, the other younger, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, with the same warm complexion and round face. Mother and daughter, Iso realized. They wore simple dresses covered by clean aprons, and they carried additional buckets of steaming water, towels draped over their arms.
"Ah, the young masters." The older woman, the innkeeper's wife, Iso assumed, smiled warmly as she approached. "Let's get you cleaned up, shall we? My Bess and I will have you looking proper in no time."
She reached for the hem of Iso's tunic.
Iso jerked away so violently she nearly collided with Vey.
"Don't touch me."
The words came out sharp, fierce, a snarl more than a statement. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, her body dropping into a defensive stance she had learned through years of protecting herself from wandering hands and cruel intentions.
No. No one touches us. No one gets that close.
The innkeeper's wife froze, surprise flickering across her features. Bess took a step back, her eyes wide.
"Child, we're only trying to help, "
"I said don't touch me." Iso positioned herself between the women and Vey, her muscles coiled tight. "Don't touch either of us."
A heavy silence descended over the room. Iso could hear her own breathing, harsh and rapid, could feel Vey's tension radiating against her back. The two women exchanged uncertain glances, and something in their expressions, confusion rather than anger, concern rather than malice, made Iso's certainty waver slightly.
"Iso." Galus's voice came from behind her, gentle and steady. "They're not going to hurt you. Either of you. They're simply trying to help you bathe. That's all."
"We can wash ourselves."
"I'm certain you can." He moved slowly into her field of vision, his hands open and visible at his sides. "But you've been traveling, and the water is hot, and sometimes it's easier to accept help when it's offered." A pause. "I give you my word, my word on everything I've promised you, that these women mean you no harm."
Iso's jaw ached from clenching. She glanced at Vey, finding his face a mirror of her own uncertainty. His good eye held hers, and she read the question there.
What do we do?
The women hadn't moved. Hadn't tried to force anything. The older one's expression had softened into something that looked almost like understanding, and she had withdrawn her hands, holding them clasped before her.
"We don't have to touch you if you don't want us to, lovey." Her voice was quieter now, gentler. "But that water's getting cold, and you've got a fair bit of scrubbing ahead of you. We can step out if you'd rather, or we can help if you'll let us. Your choice."
Your choice.
When had anyone ever given them a choice?
Iso's fists unclenched slowly, finger by finger. The defensive tension drained from her shoulders, leaving exhaustion in its wake. She was so tired. So tired of fighting, of protecting, of being afraid.
"Fine." The word scraped past her lips. "You can... you can help."
The women moved carefully after that, telegraphing every motion before they made it. They helped the twins out of their tattered tunics with efficient movements, neither commenting on the scars and bruises that marked their skin nor the too-prominent ribs and jutting shoulder blades that spoke of years of insufficient food.
The hot water was a shock. Iso gasped as she sank into the copper tub, the heat seeping into muscles she hadn't realized were knotted with tension. Vey joined her, the tub was large enough for them both, and for a moment they simply sat, steam rising around them, warmth soaking into their bones.
Then the scrubbing began.
Bess started with Iso's hair, working some kind of soap through the ragged strands. The lather turned grey almost immediately. She rinsed, lathered again, rinsed again. By the third round, the water had become so murky that her mother called for fresh buckets.
"Goodness." Bess's voice carried no judgment, only mild amazement. "When was the last time you had a proper wash?"
Iso tried to remember. The workhouse had a pump in the yard where they could splash water on their faces and hands, but an actual bath? Soap and hot water and someone helping to scrub away the accumulated grime?
"I don't... I don't remember."
The words hung in the steam-thick air. Bess said nothing, simply continued her work with gentle determination.
The first tub of water had to be drained and replaced entirely. The second grew dark within minutes. By the third filling, actual skin began to emerge from beneath the layers of dirt, pale and thin, dotted with freckles Iso had never seen before.
Is that what I look like?
She stared at her own hands, turning them over in the water. Clean hands. Pink hands. Hands that belonged to someone real, someone who existed beyond the filth she had used as armor.
Vey sat beside her, his own transformation equally startling. The bruises on his face stood out more sharply now, purple and yellow against skin scrubbed raw and clean. His dark hair, freed from months of accumulated grime, fell in damp waves around his face.
"There." The innkeeper's wife stepped back, surveying them with satisfaction. "Two proper children under all of that. Let's get you dried and dressed."
The towels were soft, softer than anything Iso had ever touched. She wrapped herself in the fabric, marveling at the way it absorbed the water from her skin, the way it smelled of something clean and faintly floral.
The nightclothes appeared next. Simple garments, loose shirts and trousers in undyed cotton, but Iso's fingers trembled as she held them up. No holes. No patches. No fraying threads or worn-thin spots. The fabric was whole and intact, edges neatly hemmed, seams straight and strong.
New, she realized with a start. These are new.
She pulled the shirt over her head, the cotton sliding against her clean skin like a whisper. Beside her, Vey did the same, and they stood together in clothes that had never belonged to anyone else, their old tunics lying in discarded heaps on the floor.
"What, " Vey's voice cracked slightly. He swallowed and tried again. "What will happen to those?"
He gestured at the burlap garments, stained and torn and reeking even from across the room. The innkeeper's wife glanced at them, then at Galus, who had remained discreetly in the far corner of the suite throughout the bathing process.
"We were going to burn them, to be honest." She picked up one of the tunics between two fingers, her nose wrinkling. "Not much else to be done with rags like these."
"Wait." Galus stepped forward. "If the children want to keep them, we can have them cleaned. Properly cleaned, not, " He paused, seeming to reconsider his words. "They can decide."
Iso stared at the tunics. They represented everything she had been for the past five years. The workhouse. The fear. The constant struggle to survive another day, another week, another month. The armor of filth she had wrapped around herself, the ragged edges she had used to become invisible.
"No." The word came out steady, certain. "Burn them. They're... they were a part of our past."
She glanced at Vey, half-expecting him to argue. But her brother's expression held only agreement, his jaw set with quiet determination.
"Burn them," he echoed.
The innkeeper's wife nodded, gathering the garments with brisk efficiency. Bess collected the soiled towels and followed her mother out of the room, leaving the twins alone with Galus.
"Come." He gestured toward the main sitting area. "You should eat something before you sleep."
The table had been transformed while they bathed. Platters covered nearly every inch of the surface, roasted chicken glistening with herbs, thick slices of bread studded with seeds, wedges of cheese in three different colors, a bowl of roasted vegetables dripping with butter, a tureen of something that smelled of cream and onions. Goblets of water sat beside each place setting, and a pitcher of what looked like cider stood ready for pouring.
Iso's stomach clenched so hard it hurt.
She took a step forward, her clean feet silent on the floor, her hand already reaching,
Vey caught her arm.
"Wait." His voice was low, urgent. "Iso, wait. We need to be careful."
She turned to face him, impatience and hunger warring in her expression. "It's food. Galus said we could eat."
"I know, I know, but, " He glanced at the laden table, his good eye calculating. "Remember the feast days? When the foremen ate and we got the scraps? Remember what happened to the children who gorged themselves?"
The memory surfaced, unwelcome but undeniable. Children doubled over with stomach cramps, retching in corners, spending the next day too ill to work and earning beatings for their weakness. Rich food did strange things to bodies accustomed to gruel and stale bread.
"We should go slowly," Vey continued. "Our stomachs aren't used to... to this much. This kind of food. If we eat too fast, we'll be sick."
He was right. Iso recognized the truth of it even as her body screamed for her to ignore his warning and devour everything in sight.
"Okay." She forced her hand back to her side. "Slowly. Carefully."
They approached the table together, settling into chairs that seemed impossibly comfortable after years of hard benches and bare floors. Galus took his own seat across from them, but made no move to eat, simply watching with an expression Iso couldn't quite read.
Iso reached for a piece of chicken.
The meat fell apart in her fingers, tender and hot, juices running down her wrist. She brought it to her mouth and bit down, and the flavor, salt and herbs and something rich and complex she had no name for, exploded across her tongue.
Every good intention evaporated.
She grabbed for more chicken, for bread, for cheese. Beside her, Vey did the same, his earlier caution forgotten in the face of abundance. They ate with their fingers, grease smearing their clean skin, crumbs scattering across the table. No utensils, they had never learned to use them, and no thought for manners or propriety.
But they shared.
Every piece of chicken was torn in half, one portion for each of them. Every slice of bread was broken down the middle. Even the cheese, even the vegetables, even the bites that were almost too good to divide, everything was split between them.
Always share. Always half. This is how we survive.
Galus made no comment on their eating. His face remained carefully neutral, though something flickered behind his eyes that might have been sorrow or might have been understanding.
The food seemed endless, and yet somehow they reached the end of it. Iso sat back in her chair, her stomach distended beneath the clean cotton of her new shirt, a sensation of fullness so complete it bordered on discomfort. Beside her, Vey looked equally stunned, his good eye glazed with satisfied exhaustion.
"There's more if you want it." Galus's voice was gentle.
Iso shook her head, too full to speak.
"Then perhaps it's time for rest." He rose from his chair and moved toward one of the adjoining doors, pushing it open to reveal the room beyond. "Tomorrow will be another long day of travel, and you've both had quite enough excitement for one evening."
The room contained two beds. Actual beds, wooden frames supporting thick mattresses, covered with blankets and pillows that looked impossibly soft. A small window let in the last light of evening, and a lamp burned low on a table between the beds.
Iso stepped inside, her bare feet sinking into a rug that covered most of the floor. She approached the nearest bed and pressed her hand against the mattress, feeling it yield beneath her palm.
Soft. So soft.
She climbed onto the bed slowly, uncertain of herself, and lay down. The mattress embraced her, conforming to her body's shape in a way the stone floors and packed dirt of the workhouse never had. The pillow cradled her head. The blanket, when she pulled it over herself, was warm and light and smelled of sunshine.
Across the room, Vey had done the same thing, stretching out on the second bed with an expression of wonder that matched her own.
For a long moment, they simply lay there, experiencing the novel sensation of comfort.
Then the strangeness of it crept in.
The bed was too soft. The blanket was too warm. The distance between them, barely three feet, but it might as well have been miles, was too vast. Iso stared at the ceiling, her stomach full, her skin clean, her body cradled in luxury, and she had never felt more alone.
"Vey?" Her voice came out small.
"Yeah." His response was immediate. "I know."
She heard movement, the rustle of blankets, the soft thud of feet meeting floor, and then Vey was there, lowering himself to the rug between the two beds. Iso slid down to join him, dragging her pillow and blanket with her, finding the familiar comfort of hard surface beneath her back.
They arranged themselves in the old way, back to back, shoulder blades touching, sharing warmth and reassurance through the simple contact of skin and bone. Vey's hand found hers in the darkness, and their fingers interlaced in a grip worn smooth by years of practice.
The fullness in Iso's stomach had settled into something warm and pleasant. The exhaustion she had been fighting all day crashed over her in waves, dragging her down toward sleep.
Together, she thought, the word a comfort and a prayer. Whatever happens. Together.
Their breathing synchronized, rising and falling in the rhythm they had developed in the workhouse, in the orphanage, in every cold and frightening place they had ever been.
The lamp burned low.
The inn settled around them, creaking and sighing like a living thing.
And on the floor between two perfectly good beds, curled together beneath borrowed blankets, the twins slept.