As for Kilkare itself, we have exchanged the corroded metal rooftops of Marles for thatched coverings, chimneys sprouting coils of smoke. The doors to the chapel lie open. A tuneful hymn drifts from the candlelit interior.
The East Wind ducks down a small side street, glancing left, right, left again. More than one civilian stares as he passes. Then again, a massive, winged figurewouldattract attention.
Halfway down the road, he again peers over his shoulder.
“Is someone following us?” I ask.
“No.”
By the Mother, he is not very convincing. “Then wh-what is it?”
His strides lengthen, forcing me into a trot. Ahead, a family halts at a market stall to purchase fruit. The East Wind advances without slowing, forcing the family to scatter or be trampled. My mouth pinches at his disregard for others. “There is someone here I would like to avoid at all costs.”
Interesting. Eurus does not seem like the sort of person to run from anything. “Who?”
“My brother.” A grimace coats his words in oily discontent. “But we’ll be gone before he learns of my visit.”
“Is this the same brother you v-visited in Ammara?”
“No.” He glances down an alleyway before pushing forward. “Unfortunately, the most obnoxious of my brothers lives here.”
Shortly after, we reach a shop with a powder blue door. A polished wooden sign hangs in the front window:Chamomile & Sage.
A warm, lemony fragrance hangs like a cloud over the threshold. There is every manner of herb, flower, and root, all stored in jars, baskets, and tins. The chaotic nature reminds me of my workshop back in St. Laurent. It comforts me, even as homesickness roots deep in my belly.
A woman wearing wire-rimmed spectacles and a patched dress regards Eurus warily from behind the counter. “May I help you?”
He steps forward, the top of his hood nearly brushing the ceiling. One of the shelving units shudders from the might of his footfalls. “We’re in need of nightshade.”
The woman pushes her glasses up her nose. “Nightshade is under restricted use. Due to its hazardous properties, prospective buyers require the permission of the Bringer of Spring. This is to ensure the plant will not be used for any ill—”
“What did you say?” Eurus demands. Slowly, his wings open, ink-blot scales glittering like a thousand minute eyes.
The shopkeeper pales before him. “I s-said—” She swallows. “You need to speak with the Bringer of Spring. He is the bridge between Under and Carterhaugh and lives on the other side of town—”
“Let’s go,” Eurus snarls at me, spinning toward the door. One of his wings hits a shelf. Glass shatters in the wake of his departure.
I scurry after him. He strides ahead, shoving people left and right as though they are of no more significance than dead leaves caught in an updraft of wind. But the throng is dense, my stature slight. Soon, I am swallowed, his dark hood lost amongst the crowd. By the time I turn the corner, I’ve lost sight of the East Wind.
Someone jostles me, and I hurriedly step aside, out of the immediate flow of traffic. Did he slip into a shop, maybe? Or would he return to the clearing?
Then I pause. Wait. He’sgone.For the first time in days, I am free.
Turning, I race in the opposite direction, cutting down a trail that veers into the forest and runs parallel to a broad, sinuous river. After stopping to drink my fill, I hurry onward, picking my way over the root-strewn ground until I spot a building whose chimney belches smoke. I dart toward the open double doors and duck inside, panting, hand pressed to my heart.
“Can I help you?”
I gasp, spinning around to face a curvy woman studying me with unexpected kindness.
“Sorry,” I whisper. Only now do I realize I’ve slipped into what appears to be a forge. A gray haze veils its large, stony mouth, white smoke drifting from its coals.
The woman lowers a mallet onto the anvil. Her hair is brightest flame. It tumbles over her broad shoulders in large ringlets, her pale, freckled face smudged with soot. A cowhide apron protects the cotton dress beneath.
“Are you in trouble?” She immediately shuts the wooden doors.
“Um.” I wipe the perspiration dotting my brow. The ash-soaked air sticks inside my lungs. “There’s a man looking for me. I do not wish to be found.”
The woman’s earthen eyes harden with distaste. “Then we will make sure he cannot find you. You’ll be safe here,” she says. “Let me find my husband, and then we’ll see what we can do for you. What’s your name?”
