I reversed, stumbling back through the trees; the same branches and brush that had grabbed for me before now poked and prodded me forward. Back through the dark leaves, over the mulch of the forest floor. Back across the lawn, feet catching in the divots and gullies of the grass. And, when I was close enough, I called as loud as I could for Alice to meet me in the front.
Arno was still tied up and I had not changed from my ridingclothes. I began to work on undoing the knot on the hitching post. Alice appeared, concerned.
“I’m going after Elin,” I called. “And I’ll need some food. Grab what you can manage from the kitchens.”
Alice shook her head at me. “Arno’s ridden too much today already.”
“We’ll take our chances. Please, hurry, Alice!”
She left and returned with some hard rolls. I loaded as many as I could into my skirt, talking to her all the while. “Lucy is out. She flew away from me.”
“In the tree?”
I shook my head, unable to speak, my voice catching in my throat. Alice frowned, understanding. A trained bird can escape to the wild and do fine. But a bird with jesses was bound, one day, to get them caught or tangled in a bush or tree, to spend the last of their days caught, starved, or even upside down.
“Please,” I asked her, “make a lure, and go looking for her. See if you can get her down.” I felt a wave of desperation. “Do whatever it takes.”
Looking up, I saw that Rosie and Mathilde had come to an upstairs window. We locked eyes. It was a long moment, a pane of watery glass between us. They stood, shoulder to shoulder, watching me, their mother. I was about to ride off into the afternoon, alone, with no direction, no plan, just an aimless, desperate desire to right the wrongs of the world and myself.
Alice took Arno’s reins from me and held them.
“Perhaps I’ll find them before nightfall,” I said, ruefully. I repositioned my habit, grasped the pommel, and used the stirrup to lift myself onto the horse.
Alice handed me the reins once more. “Perhaps. And perhaps you might check the village inns or find a room there yourself.”
Clicking, I gave Arno a little kick in his side. He took a step forward, then stopped once more. I tried again, and he did not respond at all.
“He’s too tired,” Alice called.
“Please, Arno,” I begged.
He would not budge. I cried out in frustration, patting the horse’s neck, and muttering encouragements. “I cannot give up now. Not now!” I cried.
But then Arno lifted his head and stepped forward. Not at my urging, but because there was another horse coming up the drive. A black one, with a shiny coat, twice the size of poor Arno. On its back sat Otto.
I dismounted and started walking down the drive.
“Where are you going?” Alice called.
“The same as before,” I called back.
Otto continued toward me, following the path through the apple trees. When we were close enough, I demanded: “Pull me up on your horse.”
He slowed, and offered his hand. “What of your things?”
“We do not have time.”
He had a large saddle. I climbed up to sit on the leather behind him, legs hanging off one side. I was aware that my daughters, from their upstairs window, were probably watching. Aware that Alice stood just up the drive, holding Arno’s reins. Aware that, without a handrail or straps, I would need to put my hands on Otto himself.
He urged his horse in a semicircle, facing now back toward the iron gates. He clicked and we moved forward. I reached for him, his body, and held on. Rescuers and saviors, or, I feared, fools.
CHAPTER THIRTY
We found no easy luck. Nobody in the village had seen anyone who fit our description of Simeon and Elin, and I worried that we were headed in the wrong direction entirely. But, in the late afternoon, at a lonely water mill set back from the road, Otto pulled over to talk to the miller and emerged triumphant.
I waited outside, with the horse, staring at the placid millpond. It was already late in the day. We had stopped at every small town and hovel we passed and received only half assurances: One farmer had seen a man who fit our description but was alone. Another had noticed a well-appointed coach, but not the travelers. I was surprised the strangers talked to us at all, but Otto had a coin purse. And coins could be compelling.
Coins or no, it didn’t feel as though we had fortune on our side. I knew I’d been reckless. For running off with Otto—alone, on his horse, the sun soon setting. For marching into the viper’s nest of Sigrid’s castle, accusing her of all I knew. Reckless, yes, which left me wretched: Whether I found Elin or not, I was on an excursion I did not know how to come back from.
