As I staggered back, pushing the knife out before me, he came to a stop, gloved hands held out.
“Easy,” he said, and his voice had sent shivers down my spine. It was thorny, if a voice can be such a thing, and curiously empty of any accent. “I mean you no harm.”
“Stay back,” I ordered, jabbing the knife forward to make my point. “Or I’ll gut you.”
His lips pulled upwards, but it wasn’t a friendly smile. There are people who have smiles that force you to smile back at them; Lief was like that. Then there are others, whose smiles make you forget your name. There are smiles of comfort, and solidarity, and sympathy. There are people like Prince Merek, whose smile was a captive at the corner of his lips the whole time he rode through Tremayne, but never allowed to be free; his was a smile you’d have to work hard for. Silas’s smile that first time was pure challenge; the curve of his lips was a dare.
“No need for that,” he said. “I thought you were someone else. I can see that I was mistaken. I’ll be on my way now.” He backed away, and I watched him go, my heart hammering in my chest, the tip of the knife shaking visibly.
As soon as he was out of sight, I picked up my basket and followed. I knew it was stupid; I knew I should have turned around and gone home, but I couldn’t stop myself. I needed to know where he’d come from, where he was going. During the moon we’d been living in Almwyk I’d grown familiar with the faces and habits of my neighbours, and it was too much of a coincidence – a stranger lurking in the woods the day after I’d found my mother, scratched and in shock, that made me need to follow him. I wanted to know where the stranger with the wicked smile slept.
And I wanted a fight. I wanted someone to hurt because I was hurt, because Mama was hurt. Because Lief might have been hurt and it wasn’t fair.
So with my knife still clutched in my hand I followed him silently all the way back to the village, skirting down to the treeline to track his progress. At one of the recently abandoned cottages near the forest’s edge, I watched him pull the flimsy window made of the cow-horn strips that all the cottages had clean out of its frame and then climb inside the building, his long arms reaching back out to replace it. Straight away I realized he was in hiding, a refugee of some sort, but certainly no one Unwin or anyone else knew about, and my suspicions grew. I approached the window cautiously, pressing my ear against it.
Then he was behind me, a hand over my mouth, and I dropped my basket, feeling the contents scattering over my feet, on to the ground. He’d known I was following him all along, had snuck out of the front door as soon as he was inside to wait for me.
“Nosy, aren’t you?” he said, pushing my face against the rough wood of the cottage, though with surprising gentleness, allowing his own, gloved hand to bear the brunt of it. His gloves smelt of mint and nettles. “What’s to be done about that, then?”
I tried to free myself but his grip was too secure.
“I’m going to take my hand from your mouth. If you scream, I’ll silence you permanently,” he said. “Do you understand?”
I nodded slowly, and he pulled his hand away, whirling me around to face him and pushing my chin up. As he did I raised my knife, pointing it at his throat. Beneath the lip of his hood he smiled again.
“You’re good,” he said, and I felt perversely proud of his approval. Then I felt it, something sharp pressing into a space between my ribs. His own knife, aimed at my heart. “But this time I’m better. So lower your weapon. Let’s be civilized.”
I did as he asked, and to my relief he did the same, pulling his blade away as I moved mine.
We stayed still. I could feel him peering at my face from inside his hood, studying me, but I could see nothing of his, save his mouth, which was drawn into a thin, determined line.
“Who are you?” he asked finally, taking a step back and sheathing his knife, as I did the same. “Why were you following me?”