“But I didn’t mean …” I traced its lines with my finger. “I didn’t intend this.”
“Interesting, isn’t it?” he said. “It seems that your embroidery is a way of … focusing your magic, perhaps. How’s your finger, by the way?”
I splayed my hand, and we both observed the pale, shining line that encircled my ring finger. There was no evidence it had been nearly severed the night before.
“Fascinating,” he said, and traced the line lightly with his own finger. I swallowed.
“Sorry,” he said, drawing back. “I just still can’t quite believe it.”
“It’s not the only odd thing that happened,” I said slowly. “Baldbeak …”
“You healed his injury.”
“It wasn’t just an injury, Patrick.” I met his eyes. “He was dead.”
I expected him to tell me that I must have been mistaken, that he must merely have been stunned, but instead he stared back at me, his eyes very green.
“Remarkable,” he said softly. “Truly. And he is fully recovered? Nothing about him changed?”
“You’ve seen for yourself.”
“Remarkable,” he said again, and led the way to the courtyard shaking his head.
When we reached it, I saw Fane had already been saddled and bridled. The ostler held her, waiting for us.
“I have sent the carriage back to my home,” he said. “We will take only Fane, so as not to be noticed.”
Patrick loaded her saddlebags with the few things we had, then swung himself into the saddle. Baldbeak perched on his shoulder, seeming quite comfortable there. But was I imagining it, or did Patrick look rather wary when he reached up to pet the bird?
“Come on,” Patrick said when he was settled, holding out his hand to me.
I hesitated. “I’ve never …”
“Ridden a horse? Luckily, Fane is far from young and extremely sedate.”
I crossed my arms. “And why does a noble lord ride an old white mare? I saw the horses pulling your carriage. You could have any mount you wanted.”
“Call it sentimentality.” He gave a crooked grin, and I rolled my eyes.
“I am no longer accepting your glib explanations. Tell me, or I’m not getting on her.”
He relented, laughing. “The truth is unflattering. Would you believe that I, too, am far from a confident rider? I was never at ease in the saddle. This old mare suits me more than any of the fine horseflesh in my stables. And she is unremarkable. I strive to be unremarkable. Come.”
He held out his hand again. I took a deep breath and braced myself in the stirrup, taking his hand and heaving myself up. I tried to sit sidesaddle because of my skirts, but it felt terribly unstable, so I arranged them as best I could and swung one leg over to sit astride. I might as well have been teetering on a tightrope.
“Hold on tightly around my waist, and you will not fall,” said Patrick.
I huffed a breath, but obeyed. He urged Fane into a walk, and we were soon out of the gates and on the dirt road beyond.
“Apologies for the manner of travel,” he said over his shoulder, “but we have to be inconspicuous. We will be there by tomorrow morning. Are you comfortable?”
“Not at all.”
“Wait until tomorrow. That’s when the ache will really set in. And the saddle sores.”
“Lovely, thank you.”
When we had ventured a little distance from the inn, Patrick stopped to change his clothes behind a clump of bushes, emerging looking much as he had on the day I first met him, colored coat and all. He stood with arms outstretched so that I could see it in its full glory.
