my mouth watering at the sight of it, despite everything.
Leaving the sack by the back door, I dashed upstairs. The idea of wearing anything that belonged to Unwin made me feel sick, but I knew I had little choice: a lone woman on the road would draw some attention; a lone woman covered in a bloody dress, wrapped in a thin cloak, would draw a lot. So I threw open his wardrobe, rooting through his clothes, throwing things to the floor, recoiling from the smell of him. There was nothing that would fit me, so I moved on to old chests, digging through years of his life, the trousers and shirts getting smaller, the quality better, before finally striking it lucky with breeches that, though a good thirty years out of date and still too long, would do for now. I rolled up the legs and added a fine leather belt stolen from a hook by the door to keep them in place. A woollen shirt smelling of mothballs over a thin vest swamped my upper body, but at least I’d be warm. Finally I took a fur-lined cloak and pulled my hair into a braid over my head, using my old tunic to wipe the flour residue from my face.
I left everything else where it fell, my clothes included, and raced back downstairs.
In the small library I stole a handful of coins left scattered on the desk, before pulling all of his papers, all of his books, from the shelves and hauling them into the kitchen, where I dumped them on the table, sending the flour spiralling into the air like a spectre. When the pile of his belongings reached my chest, I fetched the most expensive-looking bottles of whiskey I could find in the pantry, using them to soak the pyre I’d made. Finally, I chose the nastiest, sharpest-looking knife from the block by the stove and tucked it into my belt. The whole thing had taken less than twenty minutes.
Then I took the firelighter from beside the stove and touched it to the bonfire. I allowed myself a moment to watch the rush of blue flame as the alcohol burned, then I pocketed the firelighter, grabbed my sack, and fled straight into the forest.
I watched from the edge of the woods as the house went up, slowly at first, so slowly I thought it would burn out before it caught. I almost went back to give it a helping hand. But then a gust of wind carried burning embers to the thatch; I heard the whoosh as the flames took hold. I watched as dozens of soldiers ran to try to put the fire out, watched them dash to the well to get water and curse the missing bucket, all of them standing helpless as the blaze consumed Unwin’s home. I almost, almost, forgave Silas then.
I had relied on Unwin going straight to the soldiers to report me, instead of returning home, when I decided on my plan, and I’d guessed well. He arrived when the house was beyond saving. I gave myself a few more precious seconds to enjoy the rage and confusion on his still-bloody face; then I took my chance and darted down along the edge of the forest, creeping my way to the soldiers’ encampment, staying out of sight of the soldiers running towards the village. I suppose they thought the smoke was the start of an attack.
When I was sure it was empty, I moved swiftly, checking the largest tents for my mother, in case they were still holding her there, my stomach twisting every time I pulled back a flap to find the tent empty. From the largest one I stole a leather satchel, a water skin, a map of the realm, and a second, opal-handled knife.
I used that knife to liberate one of the few horses in the makeshift stables, a sleek-looking bay with watchful eyes. She didn’t balk when I approached her, or saddled her, or even climbed on to her back.
I took my stolen horse, my stolen clothes, my stolen food and my stolen knife and rode as fast as I could out of Almwyk.
For the first two hours on the road I see nothing, and no one. Pheasants call from deep in the grass and there’s the occasional rustling of something bigger, but the horse doesn’t seem to worry, so I don’t either. Instead I keep my head down and my hood up, watching the road ahead