Gradually he became aware of his surroundings. Rose was a huddled warmth at his side. The Breakers had to be helping her escape from the City. They were criminals, but he couldn’t help feeling relieved that she was getting away. Her head had tipped onto his shoulder; she breathed softly, asleep. The Breaker woman had tied his hands tightly, and his arms ached. In the fight the sword cut had opened again so that blood seeped into his sweater, but he didn’t want to shift on the hard seat in case he waked Rose. Instead he watched the reflected moonlight flow in ripples past the boat. All he could see of the shore was a dark tangle of trees and other plants he didn’t know the names of. It smelled strange—like green, living things, he guessed, along with the tang of the river and a hint of woodsmoke.
Griff had seen the river and the lake from atop the cliff, but he’d never been outside the City walls. He’d been focused on becoming a Watcher, and training, and learning from Quirk, and trying to please his impossible-to-please father. It had been a hard life, but he’d never questioned it. Maybe he should have.
Well, it was too late for all of that, now.
As they continued down the river, a mist rose from the Forest, flowing over the surface of the water until they were enveloped in a dense, shifting fog that glowed white with the ambient moonlight. Even if anyone from the City was watching, or pursuing, Griff realized, the boat would be hidden by the fog.
After another hour of rowing, Bouchet set the oars aside and the young woman at the tiller steered the boat out of the current. The shore appeared out of the mist, dark and silent. They hadn’t gone far enough yet to get beyond the Forest, which let supplies in and factory products out by the river, but, as far as Griff knew, allowed nobody from the City to escape. And there was another outpost of Watchers farther down the river. The Breakers wouldn’t get past that barrier, so they must have figured out some other way of getting through to the outside world.
Beside him, Rose sat up, awake, but she didn’t speak. The boat glided, then bumped to a stop against the riverbank, and Bouchet climbed out and tethered it to a tree. The others followed, and Bouchet leaned in and jerked Griff to his feet, pulling him out of the boat. He’d hardly found his footing on the lumpy ground when Bouchet grabbed the collar of his ragged coat and brought him along with the rest of them. They made their way down a barely discernible path through the shadowed woods. As they walked, the fog lifted. Ahead Griff could see a flickering light through the trees; a few steps later they came out into a clearing that had a small cottage made of round river stones in its center; off to the side of it was a fire that had been built in a shallow pit in the ground. It burned brightly and had a pot of something strange-smelling bubbling over it. An old woman got up from one of the big logs around the fire and came to meet them.
The old woman was Precious, Griff guessed. The one who would decide what the Breakers would do with him. She had a sharp, lined face and gray hair that she wore in a thin braid down her back; she had on trousers and a long, green coat and sturdy boots. “You’re late,” she said sternly.
“Had some trouble,” Bouchet answered, and shoved Griff ahead of him. Griff stumbled, then found his balance.
Precious studied him, eyebrows raised, but didn’t speak.
“He’s a Watcher,” Bouchet said. “He followed us. Knows about the secret stair to the lake.”
“Hm.” Precious looked past him to where Quirk and Rose stood together just inside the ring of light cast by the fire. The young woman stood in the shadows behind Rose, almost like a guard. “And you’ve brought the girl,” Precious said.
“I’ve come, too,” Quirk put in.
“Yes, I can see that.” Precious turned back to Griff, frowning. “Well, Watcher? What do you have to say for yourself?”
Griff stared at her. The words he would have spoken were stuck in his throat, like stones.
“He’s not very chatty at the best of times,” Quirk put in. “His name is Griff, and he’s been my partner for the past six months.”
The bitterness arose again. Griff gritted his teeth against it and looked away, at the tangled, dark wall of the Forest beyond the clearing. It was a lighter gray than it had been before; he saw that dawn was rising.
“We need to get rid of him,” Bouchet put in. “He’s a danger to our plans.”
To Griff’s surprise, Rose stepped closer; her eyes were wide, hands clenched. “You can’t kill him,” she insisted.
“Keep her quiet, Quirk,” Precious interrupted. Quirk reached out and pulled Rose to stand beside him, muttering something that made her nod.
“Hm.” Precious studied Griff, laying a thin finger across her lips, thinking. Then she stepped closer and spoke in a whisper that only he could hear. “I know very well who you are, boy. And I wonder what the Lord Protector would give to have you back again.”
All Griff could do was shake his head. His father would give nothing at all.
“You are a curse eater, and, as Quirk reports, an extremely skilled and loyal Watcher,” Precious went on. “Yet I am not quite sure what to make of you.” Slowly she looked him up and down again. “You cannot stay here, and we cannot allow you to return to the City. And yet killing you . . .” She shook her head. “We are not murderers. And it would not serve our purpose.”
Griff wasn’t sure what the Breakers’ purpose was, beyond overthrowing the Lord Protector’s rule of the City. Rose would play some role in their plans; he didn’t know what.
Abruptly Precious raised her voice, speaking so the others could hear her. “I am sending him with you.”
“What?” Bouchet protested. “He’ll just try to escape back to the City.”
“No matter,” Precious said with an elegant shrug. She beckoned to Quirk, who still held Griff’s patrol knife. “Come and cut these ropes.”
As Quirk approached, Griff tensed. The Breakers would come after him if he ran, but if he could reach the shore, and the boat, he could use it to get back to the City. He felt Quirk’s small hand against his arm, holding him steady, then the rope was cut, leaving his hands free.
Immediately he pushed past Quirk, then paused, looking back. Precious gave him a nod, as if saying go ahead. Rose stood with her hands gripped together, her eyes wide—and just for a moment he hesitated. He wanted her to escape—better that than letting her end up in one of Luth’s prison cells. But then Bouchet bellowed and lunged toward him; Griff ducked his reaching arms, whirled, and raced for the path that led to the river.
CHAPTER
13
RUN, I WANTED TO SHOUT AFTER GRIFF. THE BIG MAN, Bouchet, swore and took a few steps toward the path.
“Wait,” Precious ordered, holding up a hand.
“But he’s going for the boat,” Bouchet protested.
Precious shrugged again. “Come and sit down and have some stew,” she said. “You’ll all need to eat before you set off again.”
“Mm, stew!” Quirk said with a wink at Precious; he went to the fire and stood on tiptoe, peering into the bubbling pot.
With a huff of annoyance, Bouchet stalked past Quirk and sat down on one of the sawn logs. Timothy gave him a resigned shrug, went to the fire, and held out her hands to warm them.
“Help serve the stew, Timothy,” Precious said. She stood with arms folded, watching the tree line as if waiting for something.
As Timothy handed a bowl and spoon to Quirk, Griff suddenly burst into the clearing from the path. He was panting and trailing vines and leaves, with twigs tangled in his hair. He stumbled to a halt and looked wildly around.
I was strangely glad to see him. But why had he come back, when he’d only just escaped?
“Ah, there you are, lad,” Quirk said. Bouchet had a dripping spoonful of stew halfway to his mouth; he and Timothy stared. Precious just looked smug.
Griff tensed as if he was poised to flee again, when his face turned bleak with understanding. “The Forest,” he said, catching his breath. He glanced at the path again.
“That’s right,” Precious said
with an approving nod. “It is our ally.”
Oh. The Forest was what made the City a prison. It wouldn’t let Griff escape. The same way it had given me a path, it had changed Griff’s path to lead him back here.
I went to the fire to join Quirk, who handed me a bowl of stew. Precious entered the cottage; a few minutes later she came out with a loaf of brown bread, which she handed to Bouchet. He tore off a chunk and passed it around.
I tried the stew. It was fragrant and savory with sage and black pepper. The bread came to me and I took some and dipped it into my bowl. Mmm. Shoe had been a wonderful cook; this tasted like something he would have made from the vegetables and herbs that we grew in our garden.
“Ask him to come have something to eat,” Quirk said quietly, pointing with his chin at Griff, who stood beyond the warmth of the fire, his face in shadows.
My mouth full of bread, I raised my eyebrows, a question.
“He doesn’t trust me at the moment,” Quirk said, with a wry twist of his mouth.
I nodded and finished my bite, then got to my feet. As I approached, Griff took a wary step back.
“I’m sorry you’ve gotten caught up in this,” I said softly. “I know you don’t trust any of us. I can hardly blame you, really. I don’t trust us either.” Not even myself, entirely.
He glanced at my face, then away. The beauty. It seemed to make him uneasy. Well, it made me uneasy, too.
“Here’s the thing, Griff,” I went on. “The Breakers do seem to want to help me.”
He was silent a moment. “Why?” he asked, his voice gruff.
Maybe that’s what I would call him—Gruff instead of Griff. It certainly suited him. As I looked up at him, I couldn’t help smiling at the thought, and his eyes widened. “I don’t know why.”
He frowned and gave a skeptical shake of his head.
I was doubtful, too. But like him, I didn’t have any choice in the matter. “Yes, well, come and have some dinner.” I eyed the sky over the clearing, which was pink, now, with dawn. “Some breakfast, I mean.” I turned and went back to sit with Quirk.
After a few moments, Griff came to the fire, where Precious handed him a bowl and the heel of the bread. He nodded and went to sit on a sawn-off log across the fire from us.
Quirk gave my arm a companionable nudge. “Watch Griff’s face when he tries the stew,” he whispered.
“Why?” I murmured.
He grinned. “He has only ever eaten food from the citadel kitchen.”
“You mean that horrible fish soup?” I asked.
“Lentils, oats, watery fish soup, stale bread, potatoes. No spices, no herbs,” Quirk said conspiratorially. “Not even salt.”
We both watched. Griff looked as if he was deep in thought—probably trying to figure out another way to escape back to the City. Absently, he stirred the stew.
“Wait for it . . . ,” Quirk whispered.
Griff ate a spoonful. His eyes widened with surprise. He stared down at his bowl as if it had bitten him.
I felt a laugh bubbling up in my throat.
He froze and glanced across the fire at me.
I couldn’t help it—I laughed aloud. And to my surprise, his austere face lightened into a wry smile.
At the same moment, the rising sun peeked over the trees, flooding the clearing with golden-pink light. I blinked, dazzled, and despite the uncertainty about who I was and where I was going, for the first time since Shoe had died I felt as if my story would again have a measure of happiness in it. Maybe only a wry smile’s worth, but that, at least, was something.
ONCE THE SUN was fully up and Precious had packed another knapsack and blanket roll for Griff, we stood at the edge of the clearing, waiting for the Forest to give us a path, one that would lead us to the outside world. I was fleeing from darkness and sorrow into further darkness, and maybe danger, but I was eager to find out what would happen next, where my story would take me. Or maybe where I would take my story.
The big man, Bouchet, was carrying the biggest pack; he stood talking quietly with Timothy, who glanced at me, curling her lip in disdain. Griff stood alone, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his ragged black coat, gazing at the trees that surrounded the clearing. He’d been quiet before, in the City, but now he was even quieter, as if drawn into himself.
Precious stood with us, but she would stay behind in the cottage, with the big woman whose name I still didn’t know. The Forest, Quirk told me, had made a place for her. She hadn’t lived inside the City for a long time, not since Pen, as he called the Penwitch, had gone away and a new Protector had taken her place. After a few years, he had decided he was a Lord Protector who could keep Story from rising through the practice of strict rationality. And, apparently, by serving only very bad food.
“So the Forest is going to let us through?” I asked Quirk. “Even though it won’t let anyone else out of the City? How does that work?”
“Ah,” Quirk said, tapping his nose, which was crooked, as if it had been broken.
“Oh really.” I tapped my nose back at him. “What does that mean?”
“That I know something that you don’t know,” he said.
“You know a lot of things that I don’t know,” I grumbled.
Quirk gave me a lopsided grin. Then he nodded toward Precious, who stood at the very edge of the clearing with her head bent and a fist over her heart. “Wait and see.”
Bouchet went to stand near Precious, as if lending her his strength. Quirk sat on the mossy ground next to me, then lay back and closed his eyes, using his pack for a pillow. Almost as if she couldn’t help it, Timothy wandered over and stood looking down at Quirk.
“Hello, sweetheart,” he said, without opening his eyes.
With a huff of impatience, she turned and went away again.
The sun crept higher in the sky. A few birds twittered and hopped in the lowest branches of the trees.
“Over there,” Quirk said suddenly, sitting up and pointing. I turned to look, and sure enough, there was a shadowed opening in the trees not far from where Griff stood. A new path.
“Finally,” Timothy murmured and shouldered her pack.
Precious raised her head, shivered, and blinked as if waking up. “Good,” she said in a rusty voice. She held something out to Timothy; I saw a flash of sunlight on silver as she dropped it into the girl’s palm. Timothy stowed whatever it was in the pocket of her leather coat. Precious spoke to her quietly, and Timothy nodded, listening.
“What was that?” I asked Quirk.
“A thimble,” he answered. “It’s a kind of talisman; a thing of power. It doesn’t command the Forest, but it will open a path for us.”
Precious turned to the rest of us and cleared her throat. “It is a three-day journey to the edge of the Forest,” she said briskly. “Do not linger. Stay on the path.” She turned to Bouchet. “If the thimble fails,” she began, then added something in a low voice.
“We’ll see it done,” Bouchet muttered in reply. With a nod to Timothy, who led the way, he stepped onto the path.
Quirk handed me my pack and took up his own.
“So this thimble,” I asked him. “It’s magic?”
Quirk nodded. “Yes. Magic of a kind.”
“Oh,” I said. “I thought that sort of thing only existed in stories.”
He turned and squinted up at me. “Well, you are in a story now, lass, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” I nodded. “But not one of Story’s making.”
“Mm,” Quirk said noncommittally.
I gave him a narrow look, which he pretended not to see.
Once I was beyond Story’s reach I would try to prove that I wasn’t a catalyst, or a servant of Story. I was determined to make the rest of my life my own, true, real story. Escaping from the City was a good start.
FEELING UNEASY, GRIFF followed the rest of the travelers. What would his father say if he could see him now? He’d be coldly disapproving, Griff knew. For half a blink, he hoped his
father might be worried about him, missing from the citadel with no explanation. With a shake of his head, he pushed that thought away. The Lord Protector could barely bring himself to look at his son; admitting to worry would be impossible for him.
To distract himself from thoughts about his father, Griff paid attention to his surroundings. He had been trained to observe, and he felt a little overwhelmed by the abundant tangles of greenery that edged the path, so different from the sterile gray of the City. The Forest on either side of the path was impenetrably dense with plants he had never seen before.
He looked ahead and caught Rose glancing back at him. She’d been walking next to Quirk, but now she took a skipping step down the path to join him.
“Hello, Gruff,” she said cheerfully.
He wasn’t sure what she had to be so cheerful about. And . . . Gruff?
“Would you hold this for me?” she asked, and held up a length of string.
He took it.
She thanked him with a brief smile; with quick fingers, she started combing out her hair and then rebraiding it. “Quirk told me that you’ve never been outside the City before,” she noted.
Quirk. He shook his head.
“Moss,” she said.
“What?” he asked.
She pointed with her chin at the path. She’d come to the end of her braid, and then she stopped, looking up at him. He gazed down at her, completely unable to look away. It wasn’t the beauty that held him; it was her. Her eyes were shining. “Could I, um, have the string?”
He held it out to her; for just a moment their fingers touched, and her cheeks flushed pink. He wanted . . . he didn’t know what he wanted. The moment stretched, and then broke.
She blinked and pulled away from him. How had they come to be standing so close together? “We’re walking on moss,” she said brightly, wrapping the string around the end of her braid. “Green antler moss, to be specific.” She flipped her braid over her shoulder. “It grew in our valley, too. The trees through here are hickory”—she pointed at one gray-barked tree—“and black oaks, with the occasional red oak and chestnut.”
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