Fern couldn’t decide whether the elf was upset or not. Remembering the previous night, she couldn’t stand the idea of another awkward stare-off over unspoken words, and she was unsettled at having been observed without noticing.
So. Fuck that.
“It does if you’re angry with me. Are you?”
“I am not.”
“Oh. Well . . . then everything is fine?”
“I found a route back to the road.” Astryx remained facing her, and Fern felt the weight of that regard. Was it curiosity on her face? Contemplation?
“That’s good then?” she tried.
“It is.”
Fern slithered down from the rock she’d been sitting on and successfully navigated the tumble of stones without twisting an ankle. As she approached the elf, feeling very much like a child being called indoors, Astryx spoke up again, this time with unexpected hesitation in her voice.
“What kept your attention for so long?”
It took a moment for Fern to find the answer, but at last, she did.
“I think for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t looking backward . . . or forward, either. So maybe I was looking at whatever is between those things.”
Astryx thought about that, then nodded, although her face seemed faintly troubled.
And then they strode together through the shivering grass, back toward the wagon.
18
The backcountry route Astryx charted did indeed bring them back to rejoin the old road.
Eventually.
It certainly wasn’t conducive to travel by wagon, though. Zyll and Fern trooped alongside the Oathmaiden on foot while Bucket drew the cart, rattling and crashing, over lumpy terrain and hillocks hidden under the long grass. The going was slow, and more than once Astryx had to lend Bucket her shoulder to force the wagon over a stubborn fold in the land.
When at last they returned to the nominally paved road, even Bucket whickered in relief.
Two days later, as they arrived in the shabby, tumbledown village of Turnbuckle, it was amidst a sheeting downpour. Fern reasoned that at least she could be grateful that the storm had held its peace until roofs were visible in the distance.
She shivered miserably on the buckboard with her hood up and water pattering on her nose and whiskers, with Astryx crowded between her and Zyll, wearing a belatedly donned oilskin cloak. The elf almost never rode in the cart, but was willing to make an exception to avoid the ankle-deep mess of the roadway. Watching Bucket slog ahead, chin tucked, his massive hooves hurling great gobs of mud in all directions, Fern didn’t blame her.
It was tough to make out much of Turnbuckle through the heavy curtains of rain, but lantern-lit windows suggested a handful of buildings hugging the road. They materialized one by one with the cart’s approach, looking as sad and wet and bedraggled as Fern felt.
“We’re stopping here, right?” asked Fern, doing her level best not to sound desperate.
“Gods-blast-ityes,” replied Astryx, combing water out of her hair and off her brow. Apparently, given enough precipitation, even her stoicism could be washed away.
“Oh, thank fuck,” breathed Fern.
The elf grunted in agreement, which felt like some kind of miracle. Fern was perversely pleased.
Zyll had her head thrown back and her mouth open and was making gargling noises.
At last, they spied an inn, which spilled more light into the street than any of the other buildings and featured a battered wooden sign that read The Slippery Trout. Fern reflected that the badly executed fish carved into it was at last underwater, where it belonged.
Astryx drew Bucket to a halt, then stood and picked Zyll up one-armed before leaping down into the muck. She grumbled something beautiful in elvish again, which Fern was now certain she reserved for anything impolite.
Planting the goblin under the awning, she turned and held her hands out to Fern. “Come on, then.” She made a get-on-with-it gesture.
