It was best to hurry home. Discarding the scrap of leather, I rushed out of the tall grass and continued on my route. The forestparted in several natural clearings, so I was careful to stick to the trees, always keeping an ear out for the forest’s natural warnings. Home wasn’t far now; the little cottage in the woods was hardly invisible, but if the hunting party came across it, at least there I wouldn’t be alone. I could hide behind Father, let him explain that we were out here by permit from Lord Haron of Finn’s Hollow. He might be a slow talker, relying on a wax tablet to communicate effectively, but at least he could speak aloud.
A bright flash brought me to a halt. I tucked myself behind the nearest beech and watched as a pheasant strutted out from the hawthorn understory. It was unusually colored: its iridescent feathers shifted from indigo to metallic green, transforming with every step it took so that it more resembled a creature from a dream than anything based in reality. The creature hardly noticed me as it scavenged along the forest floor.
I’d never seen anything like it. Pheasants were a flocking bird, yet this mutated specimen was entirely on its own. It lifted its head and, perhaps calling out to some absent partner or tribe, made a distinct twanging noise that echoed through the woods.
“Idiot thing, you’ll call poachers right to you,” I murmured. I wasn’t familiar with the distinct hunting seasons, but fall seemed a good time to seek out the fowl, now that they’d be finished rearing any young.
Another strange bird made its appearance: a tuft of pale gold peeked out from atop a row of bushes, unclear at this distance. As it moved, I gasped and backed away to conceal myself, for this was no bird creeping through the elderberries; it was a man, and a rare one at that.
My heart hammered at the sight. A stranger, a real, living person who wasn’t Mother or Father, close enough to see in detail. Illustrations and flowery descriptions paled in comparison to true flesh and bone.
For several breathless moments, I could only stare at the impossible sight of him. He moved differently than my parents: even in this predatory state, he had a graceful confidence that spoke of a world far beyond hidden cottages and silence. The fairness of his skin was luminous compared to my family’s sun-weathered complexions, andhis manner of dress!I had read of such finery, butseeing it in person went beyond what words could carry. The fabric of his coat shined, nothing like our dull wools and leathers. This was exactly the sort of dashing nobility I’d read of in fairy tales: golden-haired, broad-shouldered, every gesture refined by years of training that my isolated life could never provide.
I found myself cataloguing every intricacy with the hunger of the perpetually curious: the way his fingers curled around his weapon, the taper of his waist, even the particular shade of his boots. Was this how all strangers looked? Were they all so vibrant, so utterly foreign?
He kept a distance from the pheasant, skilled in the art of silence, and took aim with an ornately-decorated crossbow.
Something shifted at his feet. Camouflaged by leaves, a bloodspine adder slowly began to unfurl, its tail twitching in silent warning. The noble didn’t notice the animal, too fixated on his trophy as he took another step forward.
While my father always kept a jar of treacle for the treatment of snake bites, it would provide little comfort to the victim of a bloodspine adder. They were a rare species with a distinct black and red pattern that zigzagged along their rugged scales; their bite seldom left a man alive, and when it did, more often the man wished he’d been killed. Blindness and paralysis were only two of the many symptoms one could be left behind with. For that reason, there were a number of campaigns to wipe the species off the map.
The failed results of such hunts now lay waiting in the foliage.
“Come on, look down…” I whispered, clenching my fists.“Look down!”
The adder reared back. If I remained quiet, any harm to befall the man would be my responsibility.
Time slowed to a halt. The stranger lifted his foot, finger trembling against the bow’s brass trigger.
I couldn’t speak. No man could be trusted with the consequences.
The hunter licked his lips. The serpent split its jaw in openmouthed anticipation and I knew, despite a lifetime’s warnings, that I had no choice but to act.
I inhaled, cupped my hands around my mouth, and screamed.
“Snake!”
My voice echoed through the clearing, and time resumed its normal pace. The man misfired in alarm. The pheasant, equally startled, took off with a series of warbled cries and disappeared swiftly into the trees.
At first, the nobleman appeared terribly surprised by me; then, he was angered, his eyes tracing the pheasant until it was well out of range. Only when he saw the raised head of the adder did he take an immediate step back, so quick that he collapsed onto his rear.
Satisfied, the adder lowered itself and slithered away. The nobleman gawked with bewilderment, then turned his attention to me just as I, too, bolted from his sight.
Chapter 2
Home. The wordpounded through my head as the cottage appeared between the trees, promising safety if I could just reach it in time.
It was a modest structure with a weathered timber frame and moss-touched thatch, centered snugly within a manicured clearing. Faint woodsmoke drifted from the stone chimney my father built, hearth fire lighting the single window a flickering shade of orange. Home wasn’t far from where I’d rescued the hunter, but I made a good distance from him. Not only was I a swift runner, but I had the advantage of familiarity with the forest, knowing where to avoid roots and tangling vines. At the very least, I’d bought enough time to explain what had happened to my father.
He was stowing firewood in the lean-to, feeling my presence as I neared; despite his condition, the man was seldom taken by surprise. Loosened bark and fibers clung to his sweat, but he was otherwise pristine for a woodsman. We Chastains all preferred to keep clean—civility hadn’t been cast aside when my parents abandoned society.
“Alana?” Father asked across the field. No one would know by the sound of his voice that he couldn’t hear, for his deafness had come shortly before I was born. Sometimes he struggled to carry a tune, but it was possible he’d never possessed the ability to sing in the first place. “Whatever’s the matter, little bird?”
I hurried across the small bridge over the property’s creek, pointing to the house. He got the message, planting his axe in the chopping block. With a wary look around the property, he headedto the door. We convened inside, gathered around the built-in stone hearth while I retrieved the tablet. I pressed the stylus into the warmed wax surface.
“Someone saw me.”
Time was of the essence, so I was careful not to be wordy. I handed over the tablet, then untied the burlap sacks from my person. Father read it swiftly and etched a reply on the second frame while I placed the valerian roots onto the table.“Did they hear you?”
