Put succinctly, it was all just so much fuel for a bonfire of emotional garbage.
The blaze only leapt higher when the door snapped open and Astryx’s voice came from somewhere above Fern’s right shoulder.
“What is sheeating?”
When Fern spun to face her, Astryx’s face rapidly shifted from confusion to narrow-eyed suspicion. “And what happened?”
Fern couldn’t marshal an explanation, and only managed to blurt, “Close the door behind you!”
Astryx did, without question.
Two possible futures spun out before Fern in that moment, with crystal clarity.
In one, she warned Astryx that Quillin was literally yards away, hunting for Zyll. Also, there was a high likelihood they’d been followed by the orc with the braids from Bycross, and given the way things were going, she was probably after the same quarry. She made it clear that if they didn’t leave, secretly, and soon,somethingwould happen, and they were all likely to deeply regret it.
In the other, the warning was nearly the same . . . but Fern stayed behind, and found out exactly how nice Quillin smelled, and didn’t she need to be working her way back to Thune to tender that apology at some point? What did Astryx need her for, anyway? She was . . .extraneousto the whole enterprise.
Wasn’t she?
Astryx’s look of concern deepened. She crouched to match their eyelines. “Tell me.”
Fern swallowed hard and started talking. She hadn’t the foggiest idea which road she was going to choose.
I’m sure I’ll figure it out by the time I finish,she thought.
“There’s someone here after Zyll’s bounty. In this inn.Rightnow. Maybe more than one.”
Nope, that wasnotenough time.
She breathed in.
Her heart seemed to be buckling under an intense pressure.
No rocks at the bottom.
She breathed out.
“We have to go.”
21
They departed Turnbuckle nearly as they’d entered it—in the middle of the night, under a shedload of rain.
There were a few key differences, however.
This time, Fern was the one driving the cart, alone—after almost foundering in Fuckery Wallow—hunched in her cloak with the hood up, and wet to the whiskers. Every other instant, she anticipated Quillin’s voice calling out and asking her where in all eight hells she was going in such a hurry.
Worryingly, she wasn’t positive she wouldn’t answer if he did.
“Beats shaving pencils,” chirped Breadlee from her cloak pocket. “Back on the thrilling road to adventure, am I right? Cold, wet, thrilling adventure!”
Fern peered into the moonless darkness as they slogged out of the village and up a muddy rise into a birch grove. She’d never driven a cart in her life, but Bucket didn’t seem to need a lot of leadership, thank gods. Checking over her shoulder to reassure herself that nobody was following, she unshrouded the lantern on the buckboard beside her and blinked in the sudden light.
When they’d passed over the peak of the hill and the glowing windows behind them were no longer visible, she pulled awkwardly on the reins, and Bucket dutifully came to a sloppy halt, the wheels of the cart slithering through the muck.
“Come on, comeon,” muttered Fern, seizing the lantern and holding it high. The birch trunks cast twitching bars of shadow into the night. The rain pattered on her hood and splashed on Bucket’s flanks, the only sound she could hear.
She thought of the cozy room in the inn. Of sitting beside Quillin in the stable, of the warmth of his fingers on hers. Of running away from something safe and good and possible.
