As they were leaving, they encountered a gentleman their own age with downy white hair, accompanied by an older and larger man with an impressive mustache, both extravagantly dressed.
“Sy!” exclaimed the younger one, his face lighting up. A client?
“Claude,” Sylas returned. Not a client, then. Still, his expression remained as opaque as ever. “And Count Aquila. The pleasure is mine.”
Upon noticing Anya, the younger man’s bright smile faltered, then froze in place. “And what brings you here this fine day?”
“Fetching a new jacket,” Sylas said breezily, lifting his packets. The older gentleman’s eyes roved over all the other packages in Anya’s arms – and Anya’s knife on her belt. Sylas ignored him. “And you? Are you joining Count Aquila at Century Crossing, then?”
“Iam,” Claude returned, grateful for the volleyed lie. Anya wondered why Sylas gave it to him.
“I thought you’d have left by now. Everyone has, haven’t they?”
Ah. That was why.
“A few last minute arrangements; you know how it goes,” Claude said, his smile thinning. He turned to Anya. “And who is your delightful friend?”
“A cousin from the country,” Anya said, smiling her most charming smile. If they were all going to lie, she would tell her own.
“Of course,” Claude said, visibly relieved, as if her lie explained everything.
“We’re actually on our way to lunch,” lied Sylas. “Would you join us?”
“Ah, I’d love to, but I can’t,” lied Claude. “The count runs a tight schedule, don’t you old chap?”
The older man’s expression remained flat. “Quite.”
“We must catch up soon, though,” the younger man said. “I’d love to get to know your pretty country cousin.” She did not like the way his eyes lingered over her. Lechers came in all shapes and states of sobriety.
“We really must,” Sylas agreed distractedly, ushering Anya out the door. “Take care.”
She thought the outside air would have soothed her, but the formerly quiet sidewalk was bustling, and smelled less of flowers and food and more of hot tar and strangers’ sweat.
“A friend of yours,” she stated as they hurried along the sidewalk.
“Another scribe,” he said dismissively. “And Count Aquila, known throughout Äbender society for his talent and delight in wild game hunting.”
“Ah,” said Anya. “Fuck.”
“IfClaudeis on the hunt, then everyone is,” Sylas said quietly. He turned to her. “You’re still the best, though, right?”
“Of course I am.” For the first time all morning, she felt the invisible hand creeping over her head.I am, she told herself, waving the hand away.I have to be.
Suddenly eager to waste no more time, Sylas hired a coach to carry them to the Lichtenwald’s edge. They had one last stop to make.
Anya admitted to herself, but not to him, the coach was far more comfortable than the back of a lumber wagon. They had it all to themselves, so she was free to gape out the window. Several wagons passed them along the way, loaded to the brim with sundered pines. The blossoming industry had not yet breached the Lichtenwald, favoring the less rugged, and less magical, woods to the north. The Lichtenwald also served as a sufficient border with Preule, helping keep the two nations in relative peace.
But she wondered how much longer it would. At this rate, it would soon be the only place left to harvest.
They spent the ride through the farmlands in silence. Anya preferred it after the bustle of the city. Not a true silence: the braying of cows, the crush of wheels against chipped stone, the buzz of bumblebees. The brush of the wind against the trees, against her neck through the open windows.
But as the afternoon passed, the farmlands and copses of birch and oak gave way to rocky hills and towering fir and pine, the sound of songbirds replaced by the sharp cries and knocks of woodpeckers. Then, as the sunlight was shrouded by clouds and the temperature dropped, it all gave way to the stony silence of an impending rain shower.
It was early evening by the time they arrived. There was no road leading to Anya’s cottage; only a narrow dirt lane. As Anya disembarked, Sylas left the driver with a generous tip. She rolled her eyes. He had taken every opportunity that day, to the last, to flaunt his wealth.
She led Sylas up the grassy hill, past the flowering rowan trees flanking the wobbly gate, to the clearing where Johanna had long ago built her home. What had always seemed a refuge to Anya now seemed pitiful. A simple wooden cottage with a useless door and a crumbling roof, a sagging well and a processing shed that smelled faintly of blood no matter how you scoured it, a barren yard of shabby grass and chicken shit. She hadn’t really noticed she’d neglected her garden this year, but now realized it grew more scrub than anything edible.
The sky was sodden. As they reached the door, fat globs of rain started to fall.
