It isn’t this that’s prevented her from rising—it’s Asher. His chest is a wall at her back, warm and solid. His arm belts heavily across her middle. She’s pinned in place, her legs mixed up in a jumble of four others. Her pulse kicks into an all-out gallop.
In the midst of her panic, she becomes slowly—mortifyingly—aware of their audience. Poppy stands at the end of the bed, smiling brightly down at her, a wedge of something resembling a rock cradled in her oven mitt.
“Great news,” she announces. “The oven works. Bad news, I burned the scones.”
The sound of her voice sends Asher rocketing upright. He takes all the heat with him, a pink flush crawling up his throat as he, too, takes horrified stock of the sleeping arrangements. Newly freed, Shea pries herself off Lys as carefully as she can. It’s too little, too late. He’s wide awake, his stare flat and immutable.
“What’s the occasion?”
“It’s November twelfth,” says Poppy, as if it should have been obvious. When Lys only stares, her smile grows. “Didn’t you know? Today is Shea’s birthday.”
•••
What follows is a mostly silent breakfast of burned-black scones, during which Shea does her level best to make eye contact with no one while Poppy conducts an overly enthusiastic solo of the happy birthday song. After, they gather around the dinette and lay out an old road atlas. Lys hangs back in the shadow of the bedroom, his expression indecipherable.
“Here’s where we are,” says Asher, circling a spot with a pen. “And here’s where we need to be. It’s two days’ drive to the Flatwood. Three, if the weather stays this bad.”
From his spot in the open door, Lys makes a disapproving sound. “We’re approaching Keeling territory. It won’t be safe to stick to the woods for much longer.”
“Which puts us on civilian roads.” Asher tucks the pen behind his ear. “I don’t love that.”
“Why not?” asks Shea. “Back at Mercy Ridge, you were the one who wanted to stick to the coastal highways.”
“That was before he knew there was a bounty on his head,” guesses Lys. It’s the first time he’s spoken to her all morning. She peers over at him and finds him looking back, his stare enigmatic.
“That’s not it.” Asher sounds distracted, his focus lasered on the map. “If we hit a checkpoint, they might search the vehicle. Lysander’s kind are contractually bound to the forest. If he’s out, he’s a containment risk. Watchmen will have orders to execute him on sight.”
“Aw, Sunshine.” Lys’s grin is wolfish. “Youdocare.”
But Shea has caught onto something else entirely. “Contractually? I thought it was sunlight that kept you bound to the Gravewood. I didn’t know there was some sort of written code.”
“Of course you didn’t,” says Lys. “Just another example of the public school system failing our young minds. When we’re done here, you should write a strongly worded letter to Hornbeam.”
Asher skews a look in his direction. “You’re in rare form today.”
“It was a hell of a way to wake up.”
Suddenly, they’re all thinking about it again. An uncomfortable silence swells.
“It was Paris,” says Poppy, swallowing a rock-hard chunk of scone. “Wasn’t it? He’s the one who negotiated the contract. Is that why you want him dead?”
It seems like a stretch to Shea, but Lys doesn’t deny it. “Among other things, yes.”
At the table, Asher looks as grim as ever. He stares down at the map, rubbing a hand along his jaw. A light scruff has grown in during their time on the road. It’s another marker of how much time they’ve lost. How far they’ve gone from home. When he left for basic, he couldn’t even grow a beard.
“What about you?” asks Shea.
He doesn’t look at her. “What about me?”
“What happens if we’re pulled over at a checkpoint and you’re recognized?”
It’s a beat before he answers. “I’d be brought in before a tribunal. There’s a pretty lengthy process. A lot of paperwork. I’d be okay.”
“He’s lying,” says Lys. “I’ve heard what they do to deserters at the garrisons. I’d be getting the better end of the deal.”
“Then we stick to the wooded roads,” says Shea.
Asher makes a face. “Parker, I don’t know if—”
