They made their camp by yet another flowering rowan tree. For dinner, Anya risked two of her arrows on a pair of quail, which Perrine plucked and prepared. She had brought a little clay jar of salt with her and sprinkled some all over the birds’ prickled pink skin.
Anya piled some birch bark onto a carefully arranged pile of sticks, then lit the bark with her tinder box. That done, Perrine directed her to an exposed, rocky patch on a nearby hill to pick some wild thyme, which she then stuffed into the birds’ cavities. The sun had set by the time their preparations were done, but Anya had never tasted finer food on the trail, except, perhaps, for melon soup.
The falcon joined them, perching on Perrine’s shoulder, taking bits of offered quail.
When they’d finished eating, Perrine picked her teeth with a quail’s rib bone, and said bluntly, “You’ve been quiet.”
“Have I?”
“You’re wearinggloves,” she added, as if Anya was instead wearing trout.
“They’re fashionable,” Anya said defensively, flexing her fingers.
“Anya. Listen. It’ll come out sooner or later, and I don’t want it between us.” She handed her flask of brandy to Anya, who, obligingly, took a steadying drink. “You’ve heard of the phoenix?”
“Mmm,” said Anya, her mouth on the rim.
“I’m hunting it.”
Anya swallowed, savoring the burn. “You are,” she said carefully, capping the flask.
“The king of Preule heard your king is after it, so he wants it himself. Though for what, I couldn’t say. Just to have, I suppose. Kings are like that.”
“How odd,” Anya returned.
“What’s odder is I don’t know how I ended up here. But it’s good luck for me, because you know this neck of the woods better than I do. Whatever you’re doing, this is worth more. I say we work together and split the prize.”
“Will your king be very happy about that?”
“What do I care? He’ll get what he’s after, and the prize will be mine to do with as I please.” She looked away dreamily. “Seventy thousand gold sovereigns.”
Anya whistled. Preule’s king was far more generous with his stolen wealth.
“I’ll never have to hunt again a day in my life,” Perrine said, toasting the sentiment with her brandy.
Anya frowned. “Don’t you like hunting?”
“Not really. Not the way you do. For you, it’s like breathing.”
“It isn’t,” Anya protested. “You don’t have to work to learn to breathe. No one ever trained to be a world-class breather.”
“Fine,” Perrine relented. “But there’s a lure to it for you that I never had, more than the meat on your plate or the coin you get for pelts. You’d do it even if you weren’t getting anything out of it but the satisfaction. I’d rather do anything else.”
It wasn’t entirely surprising, but Anya had not known this about her friend. Though Perrine had always had a wistfulness about her, she had never mentioned wanting a different life. Anya supposed the possibility had never been on the table before.
“‘Anything else’ is rather broad. Don’t tell me you’ve nothing planned.”
“Well,” Perrine began, puffing her chest, “you know that florist’s shop I always thought would make a fine restaurant – the one on King’s Street?”
Anya nodded.
“The building’s gone up for sale. One of my regular clients said he’d write me a reference and be my first customer.” Anya’s heart dropped to her stomach. Perrine’s dreamy smile returned. “No more unsalted goat stew cooked over the fire pit. No more sleeping in dirt with sticks poking into my back.”
“That sounds lovely, Perrine,” she said sadly.
Perrine frowned, obviously hurt. “It doesn’t sound like it sounds lovely.”
“Sorry,” Anya said, and meant it, though not for the reason her friend thought. “I’m only tired.”
