“Good morrow, ferryman. And to you too, my lady. Pleasant weather for a dip.”
A male voice. Was it Mother’s kidnapper, come back for me?
The ferryman and I both strained to see who was speaking. The owner of the voice stepped forward from the edge of the woods, and I saw with relief that he was not the man who had fled the Tower. He was not a terribly intimidating figure, either: seemingly no taller than I, and slightly built, with short, dark hair and a close-cropped beard framing sharp features that were regular and pleasant enough, but somehow unremarkable. I would have been hard-pressed to pick him out in a crowd—and yet he had a presence that I could feel even on the water, that seemed to bend the boughs of the forest about him. It was an odd combination. Just beyond him, where the trees grew closer together, a stout gray horse cropped at the grass.
“Need a hand?” the man called out to me.
“No, thank you,” I said politely, but spat out more river water with my words, which rather spoiled the effect.
“All under control, is it?” he inquired, quirking an eyebrow.
“She owes me money!” the ferryman shouted.
“I donot,” I shouted back. “I paid you fairly! You can’t change the price midway across!”
“Ah, I see,” said the man on the bank. He addressed his next remarks to the ferryman. “And I suppose the cargo you carry back and forth is entirely above board and for personal use. Let’s see … two, three barrels there. I wonder what could be in them? Shame if someone mistook you for a purveyor of stolen goods.”
“Lies!” the ferryman yelled back, but his voice cracked on the word.
“Help my new friend out of her predicament, and I don’t see why you shouldn’t go on your way undisturbed.”
The ferryman scowled, then flung my pack out over the water towards me before starting to turn his boat around and row back to the dock. I grasped for the pack, but Baldbeak was faster, swooping to catch it in his powerful claws and carrying it safely to the bank. The ferryman rowed back to his shack, his curses swallowed by the brisk wind.
I swam until the water shallowed enough for me to stand, then made my way over the silty riverbed. The fine, swirling sand I kicked up with every step turned the clear amber water opaque and milky, and a gaggle of nearby geese crowded near to watch me, honking to one another as if gossiping about the foolishness of humans. This did nothing to put me in a better mood. I scrambled up the bank, dripping and furious.
The ferryman had reached the opposite bank by now and was staring back at us balefully. The stranger raised his hand to him in mocking salute.
“I didn’t need your help,” I snapped at him, taking my pack from Baldbeak.
He raised a brow. “Of course not. You were making such excellent progress.” His eyes flicked to the pack in my arms, then back to my face. A faint smile tugged at his mouth.
I bristled, clutching the straps tight. “Who are you?”
“You’ll freeze in those wet clothes,” he said. His voice was mild, but it carried no suggestion of choice. He shrugged off his own pack, rummaged, and drew out a folded bundle that turned out to be a long linen shirt, worn soft with use. He held it out to me. “Just until yours are dry.”
I blinked at the offering. “I don’t need—”
“You do,” he cut through my protest. “It’s just a shirt. And it’s long enough to cover”—he gestured vaguely—“everything.”
My cheeks flamed. I snatched it from his hands. “Turn around.”
He gave the faintest bow, then obeyed without argument,his coat lifting and settling as he turned his back. He stood very still, hands clasped loosely behind him, looking out towards the forest as though it were suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world.
I hesitated, clutching the shirt to my chest—then peeled my sodden dress over my head, making sure to remove the handkerchief containing Mother’s hair, which I put in my pack for now. The cold air needled my skin, raising gooseflesh, as I wriggled awkwardly into the shirt, which indeed hung almost to my knees. Immediately I was warmed. I hugged myself to savor the sensation, breathing in faint traces of woodsmoke from the cloth, and something clean and sharp—the man’s scent. It wasn’t unpleasant.Thatrealization made me want to tear it back off again. I tied my wet clothes to the outside of my pack, where they could flap in the breeze and hopefully dry a little.
“I’m dressed,” I said.
The man turned. His eyes swept over me, lingering for what felt a fraction too long before he gave me a crooked smile. I had deliberately kept my gaze averted from him as I dressed, but now I noticed for the first time his coat, which was a colorful patchwork of many fabrics, almost clownish. And then I noticed Baldbeak fly over to sit on his shoulder, seeming quite at ease.
“Baldbeak!” I cried, affronted.
Sorry, he said, not sounding sorry at all.
“Nice bird,” the man commented, scratching Baldbeak’s head. The raven closed his eyes in pleasure. “Baldbeak? I suppose I can see where that came from.”
His short beard and mustache were extremely neatly trimmed close to his jawline and upper lip, with the kind of precision that required much careful examination in a mirror, and his eyes were hazel, the shifting brown-green of river water. It was a clever face. Not a trustworthy face, but clever.
“Who are you?” I asked.
