‘If not?’
‘Then perhaps none can find her.’ I shake my head. ‘There may well be no sign of her out here.’
‘What about that trap you were in? That you told Fenna about?’
I look sideways at her. ‘Someone’s got big ears.’
She reddens but doesn’t break eye contact. ‘My mother always says the only way to learn anything useful is to listen.’
‘Wise woman, your mother. Just remember that eavesdroppers hear no good of themselves either.’
She snorts.
I go on: ‘Since you were listening, you’ll recall that trap might not be newly laid. Could be old, old, old. Something from a decade ago, a century, more. People leave behind layers of their existence, which are easier to see in cities, but in forests? More easily concealed here because of regrowth, because there are fewer folk around, and things can lie undiscovered for a very long time indeed. If Ari fell into such a trap – just as if she drowned in a lake or fell off a cliff or into an abyss, or broke an ankle, a leg, too far for anyone to hear her cries? We’ll likely never know.’
‘And if you scry? Will youknow?’ She sounds eager and I wonder how much she’s been taught, about her own power, that of others.
‘Perhaps.’ We come to an intersection with our path. ‘For now, there are lessons to learn. See the trunk of that tree at your left? Yes? See the leaves? Look at them carefully so you recognise them. Feel the right side of the trunk, about head height – mine, not yours – what’s there, beneath your fingertips?’
‘A carving – an arrow!’ She laughs, pleased with herself.
‘Lesson number one: whenever you come to a crossroad like this? In my part of the woods? There’ll be an arrow as a guide. If you can’t find one then you’ve strayed – retrace your steps. Eventually you’ll be able to make your way without them, but for the moment they’ll help keep you on the path.’ I nod. ‘Come along. More to do.’
4
‘You need to make sure they’re not too green, but not too brown either,’ I explain, but the girl’s not listening, not really. There’s a pond in the middle of the grove, tremendously still, and she’s staring into it. I’m about to snarl, instead I take a moment to watch her when she’s unaware.
Curls lifted by a spring breeze that’s still got the echo of last winter behind it, eyes bright, hands at her face, touching the skin briefly – then she shakes as if waking. And I’m suddenly certain it’s not vanity, this gazing at her own reflection. It’s wonderment that she’s still alive. Her hide’s intact. She’s not been hanged or burned, drowned or pierced so many times her outside cannot keep her innards where they need to be. Perhaps she’s thinking of how the all-too-insistent suitor turned so quickly crisp.
I clear my throat, am glad I didn’t simply snap at her. We’ve gotten on well today thus far. There’s nothing worse than living with someone whose breath you want to stop, and if I can’t bear her, nor she me, she’ll have to find another fostering, another teacher, and frankly most of my kind look askance atone who’s been passed on, especially when so much depends on it. I remind myself to be patient.
‘Rhea?’ Yet I can’t resist a little sting, no matter how gentle my tone. ‘Kindly do me the courtesy of paying some attention.’
She startles guiltily. ‘I’m sorry, Mehrab. I was just…’
Rhea chooses not to explain, perhaps thinking there’s nothing she can say that won’t sound bad; instead she clasps her hands in front of the fine fabric of her skirts, setting her chin at the slightest of angles, and doing her best to make me believe she’ll follow my lesson. I stare for a few moments longer, knowing the weight of my gaze is burdensome, bright green and penetrating, then shift sidewards so she can more clearly see what I’m doing.
‘Youneedto make sure they’re not too green, but not too brown either,’ I repeat, and she nods. ‘Too green means weak and whippy; too brown means inflexible, already on the way to half-dead.’ She nods again. ‘The choosing takes time, or it should, if you wish to avoid an unpleasant season. Indeed, a series of them if you keep choosing poorly.’
Pointing to the sapling which is on the edge of my favoured grove – they’re well watered and get just enough light through the canopy – I continue: ‘This one? Right here? Too thin. To the untrained eye, it looks elegant, slender, but trust me, it’s naught but frail.’
Rhea leans closer, fixes her gaze to where my fingers direct. I do my best not to notice how many age spots litter the backs of my hands; hers are so white, plump. I hate her just a little, though I try not to, truly I do. I swallow it down, bile-bitter. ‘See this bend, this angle? Note how the crook is a littletoo deep; too easy for fractures to begin there. Once they start, there’s nothing you can do about it. Things will grow out of true, and it’ll always be feeble.’
I step away from the reject, move further in, slipping between the bigger trees with their rough bark, spreading branches well above my head. Too old, these, too well established, too muchthemselves, unlikely to be bent to another’s will or be reshaped, at least not without consequences. But I’ve taken most of my previous harvest from this copse (not theother, not any longer), and the feel of them is right. They’ve served me well more times than they’ve failed. Just need to find the correct one for this season.
Behind me I hear Rhea stumble and swear. Her dress will be catching on outstretched branches, the smooth soles of her city shoes not finding grip on uneven ground; rocks and pebbles and roots are hazards for her. I’m sure she can dance a carola like a princess, catch the eyes of lords and earls and god-hounds with such leanings (at least until they realise what she is), but she cannot walk a steady line in the woods. This amuses me far too much and I don’t like my own meanness, it feels like acid and I’ve never been partial to things that burn, inside or out.
Pausing, I wait for her to catch up. A fresh breeze wings through the boughs, rustles leaves, makes the trees loom almost as if, well, alive, but more human-alive, I suppose. I feel like our presence has been noted (yet not in a malign fashion). ‘You need to watch where you’re going, Rhea. At least at first. It’s not like city streets, friendly to your feet.’
‘Lodellan cobblestones aren’t in the least bit friendly,’ she snaps.
‘Never been there myself,’ I answer lightly. It’s true, I was born elsewhere, far across the sea, in another great city, had a life there until it became too dangerous for a variety of reasons. I remind myself that criticism isn’t helpful, that I’ve lost the habit of being around others, of softening myself for them. ‘Watch first, feel with your soles; eventually you’ll learn how to balance. It’ll come as naturally as breathing.’
‘Thank you, Mehrab.’ Her tone’s a little forced; the effort of being gracious is telling. For both of us, I suppose. I wonder once more how long she’ll last here.
We step into a patch of light and savour it; the warmth is wonderful after the cool shade. Both of us raise our faces like flowers. The moment passes when a cloud covers the sun. I shiver and Rhea follows suit. This is another clearing – several clearings in the one large grove, turned into compartments by the walls of trees. The opposite side is where we’re headed; I point. ‘That looks promising.’
When we’re standing in front of the next sapling I nod and smile. It’s the right height, too; I have my requirements.
