Sing Me Home by Lisa Ann Verge

still in the troupe.”
    “They’re all going straight to Hell.”
    “Most likely.”
    He sounded so unconcerned. For her, the immortal state of her soul had been the center of her upbringing. Yet it bothered her how foolish she sounded for trusting every last thing she’d been taught.
    “That troupe of yours,” she sputtered, “is the very embodiment of the seven deadly sins.”
    “Are there only seven?”
    “Matilda Makejoy looks in every craftsman’s shop in every town with eyes of the deepest green. She is envy.”
    “Envy?” Colin cocked his head. “By the way you blush each time you look at her belly, I would have thought you’d assign her a different sin.”
    “That boar you call your leader, he’s gluttony if I ever saw it.” The words rose up, pressing against her throat. “And that drunken harpist of yours makes double the sin.”
    “If enjoying meat and drink is sinful, Maura, I’ll never be saved.”
    “Maguire is avarice,” she continued, “and don’t you tell me he lost that ear by accident, I know a poacher’s mark when I see it.”
    “Clearly, there’s no telling you much.”
    “The twins are vanity in the flesh. And that piper is sloth. I’ve seen cats who sleep less than he.”
    “In better beds, no doubt.”
    “And you,” she said, reckless, “you are lust.”
    One dark brow arched and that smile slipped across his face. “Lady, you do me wrong.”
    “So were you searching for Heaven’s Gate under that woman’s skirts yesterday?”
    He shrugged. “The two can often be easily mistaken.”
    “Only by a man who thinks with his beef.”
    She twisted away. Tears prickled at the back of her eyes. Why couldn’t she control her own tongue? She hardly knew what she was saying, but she knew she sounded like a judgmental fool. She strode away from Colin, away from her shame, baffled at the strange ways of the world, furious at the sisters for raising her with blinders like a skittish horse.
    “It’s a blessing we took you on, Maura,” he shouted, “because we’re missing one of the deadly sins.”
    “Anger,” she conceded. Her breath felt hot as she blew it out of her nostrils. “I have good reason to be angry.”
    “Not anger,” he corrected. “Pride.”
    ***
    After his accusation, Colin watched the anger leech out of her like ale out of a burst bladder. She refused to talk to him so he gave up trying. She didn’t look at him for the rest of the journey, even as they camped, even as she set a knife to the wild onions and roadside herbs that she’d ripped from the verges of the road, brewing up a thin but flavorful soup as she brooded.
    He felt as guilty as if he’d kicked her chattering little pet.
    “Dinner’s done,” she announced, knocking the wooden spoon on the edge of the pot. “It’s hot, so mind your tongues.”
    The minstrels made their way to the fire, dug their spoons out, and fell upon the stew. She marched over to where she’d deposited her pack and Nutmeg’s traveling basket, a bit away from the campsite, under the shelter of a tree.
    He watched as she made a fuss brushing the mud off the hem of her skirts. The bright yellow ribbon that hemmed her kirtle had already faded under the rain and dirt. Her sleeves sagged, showing off the gleam of her pale shoulders.
    Damn it all to Hell.
    “And what do you want?” she asked before he had even reached her side.
    She was sitting with her knees up, stroking the white belly of her pet, who sprawled across her lap.
    “We’ve been invited to the castle of the O’Dunns,” he said, pausing a few feet away. “These are Irishmen, Irish lords, not English, and we have to come up with a way to entertain them.”
    “Irish lords, English guildsmen,” she muttered. “Matilda says they all piss in the same sort of pot.”
    He raised his brows. He’d seen her walking beside Matilda’s donkey today, but he hadn’t realized they’d been talking.
    When he’d accused her of pride, he’d plunged the arrow