The door flies open, blasting cool wind from outside, and I drop the garment cover in surprise. Osheen rushes into the house, his usually ruddy complexion stark white.
“Raid!” he signs.
CHAPTER 3
Durvla
Panic spearsinto the depths of my belly and for a moment I’m rooted where I stand. A second passes, then two, and finally I jump into action. “Let Finn out,” I shout to Osheen as I run across my house. Finn is protective of us and I’m certain they won’t hesitate to kill him if he attacks. I snatch up a knitted hat with reinforced earflaps, and as I shove the hat on over Taig’s head, he swats at me. Rightfully so. “I’m sorry, Taig. Time to go play in your secret place.”
Osheen has already let Finn out and races past me, yanking open the crawl space hidden in the floorboards. He helps me get Taig in there, making sure the padding is secure and that there is some entertainment available. I don’t have time to think of much else as I close the trapdoor and cover it with a linen sheet and a sheepskin rug. “Go,” I tell Osheen as he starts to help me replace the drying rack on top of it all.
He nods and runs out of the house. He can’t be here when the Forayers—glorified mercenaries—arrive. He has to care for his own family.
He’s barely gone a couple of minutes before my door flies open again.
Forayers dressed in black uniforms storm into my home, and I flinch and back myself against a wall. Vibration radiates through the floor as they empty cabinets, overturn smaller pieces of furniture, and destroy almost everything their hands touch. I gawk at the eerie dance of the torches as indistinct words pass between the Forayers, and I pray to all the gods that Taig isn’t panicking below the floorboards.
My heart threatens to break through my ribcage and my ears start ringing as I force myself to watch the destruction unfolding before me. I shakily tug down my sleeve over the leather bracelet on my wrist, needing to keep my hands busy as I try to focus on steadying the wild cadence of my heart. What would I even do if they found the concealed door? Shout at them? Jump on their backs? I’m powerless.
One of the men appears in front of me, a scroll in hand. He unrolls it and asks, “Durvla Garrick?”
I focus on his lips and nod.
“You live here alone, correct?”
Another nod.
“Mother deceased? Father deceased? Younger brother deceased?”
My heart in my throat, I nod once more.
“Is there anything you’d like to confess? Any contraband? Magical practices?”
“No, sir.”
“You are aware that a confession will earn you a lifetime of service to the Veilguards rather than a death sentence.” It’s not a question.
“Yes.”
We all know being sentenced to the Veilguards—ordinary citizens forced to guard the Veil to a realm filled with dangerous magical beings and monsters—might as well be a death sentence.
“What do you contribute to your village?”
I point a shaky finger toward my desk. “I’m the botanist. I work with the gardeners, make deliveries to Ballybaeg, and occasionally help shepherd the sheep when necessary. Orla Oakley, Grawnye Aron, and Eemer Riley can vouch for me.” It should be enough to deem me a worthy contribution to Cluain Baile.
The man rolls up the scroll and scans me from head to toe, assessing for impediments. Assessing my worth. I push my shoulders back slightly even as I’m quaking on the inside. Satisfied, the mercenary marches off, though he pauses before he gets very far. He picks up a beautifully knitted throw and stares at it for a moment. He pulls a dagger from his belt and tears right through the center of the throw. My heart is ripped to shreds right along with it.
I stare, stupefied, as the ruined blanket that my mother made falls to the floor.
Another Forayer approaches, a different knitted item in her hand that makes my heart skip a beat. The blaze of her torch casts a sinister shadow on her face, making it nearly impossible to discern her words. She repeats the question, shaking the garment in her hand for emphasis. I think she’s asking what it is, but all I can focus on is the roar of my pulse and that shrill ringing that slowly devours logic.
“It’s a dress.” My knitting needles still protrude from the fabric. It’s already taken me so long. I can’t even calculate how long it’s been by now. I bite my lip and will the nausea away.
The fullness in my ears is so painful, the whistling sound growing louder.
“Where did you get the dress from?”
“I made it. It’s not finished.” I can feelmy voice waver.Breathe.
