by Jenna Rhodes
She looked up then, square into Mistress Greathouse’s face. The other sat back, and blinked. Robin then glanced from Lily to Tolby and back again.
“It cannot be.”
“It is,” Lily answered simply. She deftly fixed a small plate for Grace and placed it in front of her.
Grace leaned back hesitantly against Lily and whispered, “What’s wrong?”
Tolby bent over her, tucking in a napkin over her lap. “Not a thing, lass, not a thing is wrong. Eat up now. It’s an early lunch but hearty enough for all that.”
Robin reached across the corner of the table. “Give me your hand, child.”
Grace stretched her fingers out, trembling. The peddler caught it with strong, workman’s hands of her own, and drew her closer. Opening Grace’s hand, she turned it palm up, and traced the lines with keen eyes and her forefinger. She also traced the scar that peeked from under the braided bracelet.
“Tolby. Lily. What are you doing? Where has she come from?” Grace pulled back, but the other only held her a bit more tightly, refusing to let go of her.
“She came from the river,” Lily answered. She looked up from her plate with a set to her mouth and chin.
“I founded her,” Nutmeg supplied and waved her fruited biscuit. “She would have drowned.”
“She saved me,” Grace echoed, barely audible.
Robin looked into her face. “Did you run away?”
“I don’t know.”
“Or won’t say?”
Rivergrace’s hand shook in the other’s no matter how tightly held. “I c-can’t remember . . . before.”
“Shackle marks.” The forefinger traced the scarring. “The Accords deny slavery by the Vaelinars among our peoples, but I’ve heard they still take a few of their own. The disgraced. They look aside when it happens. Did your family all wear chains, little one?”
Grace flinched and put her cheek to Lily’s shoulder. “I don’t remember.”
A nod then. “This, you must remember.” Mistress Greathouse looked intently in the small, slender hand she held. “You will need all of your strength, and all of the strength of those who love you, to face what lies in your future. It must be won, you must never go back, for the lives of many and many rest upon you. You are both far less and far greater than you seem, and all depends on how well you know yourself.” The peddler curled Grace’s fingers up, as if closing a book, and let go her hand.
Grace’s face went pale as the moon.
Lily exhaled. “Mistress Greathouse—”
Robin waved a hand. “Forgive me for upsetting you, Lily. Sometimes things must be said.” She pushed back her chair, and stood. “I’ve a long way to go, and other news to carry.” She tightened the crimson scarf attempting to hold back her bounty of brunette hair that tumbled to her shoulders. “Garner, make sure one of your da’s messenger birds is put in the wagon.”
“Aye,” he said, and left to do it.
Tolby stood and bowed, his expression grave. “You may think me a fool—” he began, and she interrupted him with a gesture.
“Never. The Gods give and take away as only they know fit. But I cannot think of a warmer, stronger house than this . . .” Robin’s gaze fell upon Rivergrace again. “And she will need it.”
“You’ve not heard of anyone seeking her?”
Briskly, Greathouse pulled on her driving gloves. “Not yet. If they should ask, I probably wouldn’t hear them. Getting older, you know. I’ve a spot of hard hearing now and then.”
“We’re all getting older.” Lily got to her feet then, and Rivergrace sagged in the suddenly too big chair. Lily moved to her guest and hugged her tightly. She must have whispered something fiercely in Robin’s ear, for the other flushed a little, then nodded.
And then the peddler was outside, directing Garner, Hosmer, and Keldan to take the goods off her wagon they’d bartered for, and dispensing the coins earned for themselves and the household. The wagon ponies knew it was time to leave, and stomped a bit impatiently as if they yearned to trot freely upon the road. With a clatter and jangle and jingle, Mistress Greathouse set her wagon about, snapped her buggy whip, and drove back the way she’d come.
Garner dropped many coins into his mother’s hand. Lily made a fist about it, and shoved her hand into her apron. The peddler had paid her more than agreed, as she often did, and those coins would go into the stash she kept secreted away, for a future she never discussed with Tolby. Garner then joined Keldan and Hosmer who trotted after the wagon, whooping and hollering an escort to the main road.
Tolby slipped his arm about Lily’s shoulders. “It always puts the hair up on the back of my neck when she does that.”
“A reading? She cannot help it. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, she is sworn for the truth.”
“Aye, but it’s eerie nonetheless. The last time she did it, she told me Hosmer was meant for saddle and blade. Look at him. A farmer through and through.” Tolby shook his head.
“She told me I’d lose the child,” Lily whispered. “So who knows?” She turned away. “I’ve dishes to do, and you’ve goods to put away.”
Tolby gave a startled cluck, then grinned and headed to his outbuildings, whistling like a night wood owl at Garner and Hosmer to follow. Garner came trotting back from the road and caught up, but Hosmer lagged behind.
At the corner of the house, away from the sight of any eye, he came to a stop and pulled his parcel from his pocket. He did not undo it, but wiggled the paper down enough to see the dog-eared edge of a small handbook, and part of the worn letters on the leather cover: A Guard’s Training and Study Guide. He let his breath out before tugging the brown paper back into place and secreting the book away again.
Chapter Thirteen
“WE’LL BE NEEDING a beacon fire,” Hosmer announced the morning after the peddler had visited. All washed up for the day, his hair wet and slicked back, his face pink from the cold water, he tried to look grown up and solemn. The morning held the distinct chill of the winter coming fast, and the leaves of the forest abutting the orchards had begun to turn yellow and orange and red. He wiped his hands on a towel, eyeing his father at the wash rack. Soon, it would be too cold for them to wash up outdoors, and they’d have to be careful doing it inside, as Lily would fuss with every unnecessary slosh of water or dropped towel.
Tolby leaned a shoulder against the corner of the house frame, watching as Nutmeg and Rivergrace chased each other out of the convenience house and went to wash up as well. “What makes you think so?”
Hosmer’s mouth worked. First one side and then the other, and then he looked down at his boots. Tolby waited.
Hosmer shifted his weight, then muttered, “Mistress Greathouse suggested precautions.” He looked at the girls, his mouth twitched, and he fell into silence, holding Tolby’s gaze intently.
Tolby nodded slowly. “I see.” He looked out across the expanse of the back grounds, toward the orchards and wild groves, and the small rolling hills that surrounded them. So much land. Once he’d thought it could buffer his family from the evils of the world. Yet wilderness itself held a dangerous edge. Neighbors to stand with them in times of trouble or raids were far away. The corner of his own mouth twitched as if it ached to ask why the peddler would say anything to Hosmer instead of himself, but those words did not fall out. Instead, slowly, consideringly, he said, “Up there, I suppose,” with a gesture of his hand.
Hosmer followed the jut of his thumb and nodded.
“Get to it, then, but don’t be making a fuss about it. No sense to worry the lasses. Get your brothers to help you, but only after the other chores are done. Know what you’re about making one?”
“Stone cairn, brush cleared all about, and so forth. Dried, hard wood for long burning, like a pyre. I helped Zamar Barrel do theirs last year.”
“And you’ve been itching to have one for us, I imagine.”
Hosmer put his chin up.
Tolby inclined his head. “I’ll leave it
up to you, then. Means a watch, or havin’ a beacon won’t be doing any good.”
“We can do that.”
“See to it, then.” Tolby straightened up and sauntered into the kitchen, following the smell of a hot morning brew and bread, done with talking.
Nutmeg nudged Rivergrace in the leg. Grace looked up from the harness she was trying to thread into one of the new buckles they’d gotten from Mistress Greathouse, and wrinkled her nose. “What? It’s wrong?” She held it out for Nutmeg to inspect, smelling of leather grease that they’d both worked into the harness so it would be supple enough to mend and work.
“They’re up to something.”
Grace wrinkled her nose. “Up a ladder?” she offered helpfully.
Nutmeg fell over in a peal of giggles. “No, no,” she managed to gasp out. “No, they’re doing something sneaky. For a few weeks now, and they think I don’t notice.”
“Oh. Always that.”
“True. Brothers are sneaky.” Nutmeg leaned against Rivergrace. “Maybe tonight we’ll be sneaky, too.”
“How?”
“I’ll think of something,” Nutmeg promised her, with a nod. Grinning to herself, her nimble fingers corrected Rivergrace’s work and raced back to finish her own. “We’ll show them.”
Grace had tumbled into dark, gripping sleep filled with a voice she could not quite hear and the sound of the river in her ears when Nutmeg shook her awake. She roused with a gasp, but Nutmeg’s hand was already over her mouth to catch the sound. Her sister leaned close over her. “Ready to catch the sneaky boys?”
It didn’t feel right or safe, but if she said no, Nutmeg would go out alone and that would be even worse. Rivergrace nodded her head slowly. “Get dressed, then. It’s cold out. Maybe even frost tonight.”
Grace dressed in as much as she could get on, under the heavy warmth of the comforter, and then wiggled out to put on boots and coat. The hooded coat was tight across her back and not long enough in the arms, but that did not matter. It kept her warm as she tugged her shirt about to keep it from bunching. Nutmeg was perched at the top of the stairs, lip caught between her teeth, waiting impatiently. They scurried down as quietly as they could.
Outside, the moon hung low and thin against the sky. Despite its full face, its silvery- pale and translucent light barely seemed to reach the lands below. Rivergrace put a hand up to the stream of light, turning her fingers over in it from front to back to front again, then tried to cup it. Nutmeg tugged on her elbow.
“They’ve been going to the ridge. Too far to walk. We’ll take Acorn.”
Grace drew back. “The horse?”
Nutmeg snorted. “He’s just a pony, and a fat old retired one at that. But he can carry the two of us, and he won’t run or anything.” Towing Grace with her, she went to the barn and grabbed a bridle, then headed out to the far pasture where the horses and ponies slept, one or another waking to graze quietly before going back to the herd and closing its eyes.
Acorn snuffled as Nutmeg caught him by his bristly mane and hauled the bridle onto his head. His hide gone all thick and wooly for the upcoming season, he looked like a round dustball with hooves sticking out the bottom. Nutmeg threw Grace aboard and then climbed on behind her, Nutmeg’s arms around Grace to handle the reins. The pony let out a grunt and then trotted to the pasture gate where Nutmeg slid off, opened it, led the pony through, and latched the gate behind her before climbing back on. Grace’s booted feet almost touched the ground as Acorn broke into a quick, shambling walk. She hung onto the mane with both fists, her head nodding with every jolting step. Nutmeg’s teeth clicked behind her ear.
Sometime just before Grace’s head was ready to fall off and her bottom seemed bruised beyond feeling, Nutmeg pulled Acorn to a halt. She pointed up the deep, dark hill in front of them. “Up there on the ridge,” she whispered. “Dat’s where they go.”
“We follow?”
Nutmeg nodded. “Pony stays here, though.” She jumped down, and put her arms out to catch Grace, who followed and landed unsteadily on legs both numb and aching. “I don’t like horses,” she stated.
“Pony,” corrected Nutmeg stubbornly. She looped the reins around a bramble bush and tugged on them. “Tight enough to keep him here, but he can break free iffen he has to.”
“Why?”
Nutmeg shrugged. “Da taught me that.” She took Grace’s hand in hers. “Time for sneakiness.”
Crouching side by side, they crept up the hill to the ridge, vines tangling about their boots and tearing at their pants, brush snagging their sleeves. Nutmeg had to untangle Rivergrace’s hair when a branch caught her up, yanking her back abruptly. She stood as still as she could bear while Nutmeg pulled, tugged, and jerked her hair free, as painfully as the branch had snagged it. She made no sound, but her eyes watered. Nutmeg made a small sound of sympathy before pulling the branch away, and they continued creeping up to the ridge. They made little noise despite the leaves and dried twigs underfoot, as a heavy dew had fallen and muffled their progress. It twinkled like tiny stars along the hillside, and as the night grew colder and colder, Rivergrace thought the stars might turn to frost before they got home to a warm bed again. She pulled up the hood of her coat, warming her ears, but her nose stayed chilled.
They emerged at the edge of the ridge. Grace saw keenly despite the night and pointed at something to their right that seemed very unhill-like. “What’s that?” she whispered to Nutmeg.
“A pile of wood,” Nutmeg answered in disappointment. “Maybe a bonfire, a big fire, to light.” She sighed and chafed her hands together. “All those scratches for nuffin’.”
“What’s it for?”
“Signals, if we get in trouble and such. The other farmers might see it.” Nutmeg put her palm over her nose a moment, muffling her whisper even more. “Supposed to have a volunteer cavalry round here. Hosmer always wants to join, but other than Bolgers, we don’t get much trouble.” She shrugged. “Least I know what they’re doing.”
“Not a surprise.”
Nutmeg grasped both her hands, her warmth enveloping Grace. “Nuffin’ exciting. Just lots of work. Stone and then wood, for burning a long time.” She tugged on Grace gently. “Better get home.”
Rivergrace moved to the ridge itself, hard rock cresting through the softness of the hill, and stood for a moment, flooded by the silvery moonlight. She could see the wide ribbon of the river down below, and the dark clumps of the trees before the ordered rows of the many orchards and fields, all cloaked by night yet visible if shaded. “We live down there.”
“Yup.” Nutmeg gathered her hood about her tousled hair. Her breath puffed out. “It’s getting too cold. We need to go.”
Grace nodded slowly, reluctant to tear her gaze away from the river, which seemed to call her even from so far below her. She let her breath out in a long sigh. She could not leave with the river in her eyes, so she turned about. The valley and wilderness on the other side of the hills ringing the Farbranch lands lay stretched out, with none of the orderliness of the orchards and fields. She thought she saw movement, and went to her knees, pulling Nutmeg over into a tumble at her feet.
“Grace!” Nutmeg rolled about, but Rivergrace kept her hand bunched in the other’s coat.
“Riders,” she said, low and urgent. “Down there, can you see them?” She pointed down below, and Nutmeg answered with a hiss, settling on her stomach and watching.
“Bolgers,” she said. “And something else.”
“They’re headed toward the river road.”
Nutmeg began to wriggle backward. “We’ve got to get home.”
“Light the bonfire?”
Nutmeg shook her head. “I’ve got nuffin’ on me to do that. And it’s not built yet, not ready. We’ve gotta get Acorn.” She slid past Rivergrace, down the hill, and Grace followed after. Halfway down, Nutmeg jumped to her feet. They could hear the pounding of hooves at the base of the ridge, loud pounding, and Nutmeg told her, “Forget being quiet, we gotta b
e fast!”
They ran and rolled through the brush and branches, loud enough that snoozing Acorn threw his head up with a snort and rolled his eyes about, wheeling around when they burst into the clearing. He tossed his head and stomped with a low whicker of menace until she clucked at him. Nutmeg grabbed the reins, throwing herself onto his withers first before reaching down to haul up Rivergrace. Acorn danced about skittishly, leaving Grace hopping about for a few minutes before she scrambled up. Holding onto each other and the woolly pony as tightly as they could, they urged him into a rugged trot toward the Farbranch home.
They thundered home, each step a jolt that made Grace feel as if her head would fall off, holding on for dear life. Heat rolled off the pony as he put his head down in answer to the tattoo Nutmeg drummed on his ribs, urging him for quicker. Branches snapped in their eyes. Grace’s hood was torn back and flopped about her shoulders, the cold night wind suddenly in her face and ears and eyes.
They never knew what gave them away. Just that, suddenly, Acorn swerved across the broken trail, and a huge horse reared in front of them, blocking them. It was not a Bolger riding it. Grace looked up in fear and saw a . . . a thing . . . swathed in crimson wraps, with a thousand points of light for its face, and beetle-black wings at its back, and legs that were not flesh and blood but spiked cricket legs spurring the horse to cut them off. She had no idea what it was, but it gave off an evil aura that sucked the breath out of her. It pointed at her, sticklike wings thrashing with its eerie movement.
An angry buzzing surrounded them, then bramble crackled and popped, and the Bolgers rode out. Two more of the things led them. One swung about and leaned toward her. “Ssssstrange blood,” it hissed. Points of light glinted inside the veiled cloth that wrapped its head. The night spilled across its garb, making it look like red-black blood.
Grace grabbed the right rein from Nutmeg’s hold and pulled it, hard, wheeling the pony about and she kicked him as harshly, urgently, as she would ever think of striking an animal. Acorn squealed and bolted into a dead run, just under the outstretched arm of the nearest Bolger.
