it weeping as she called me names. During that first moon, when I slowly realized inch by inch that Lief was in real trouble, and that it was just me and my beast mother now, Silas was the one thing that kept me sane. He had an uncanny knack of appearing when I was teetering on the edge of something dark that I couldn’t come back from.
And I trusted him. I really had. I had no idea how much until he betrayed me.
Far to the west the sun sits low in the sky and I realize that night is coming, quickly and quietly. I slow the horse to a walk, pulling my satchel around and fetching out the map. Five miles riding towards the sinking sun to Tyrwhitt, but even if I could afford to pay for an inn with my stolen coin, it would be the first place soldiers would look for me, so that’s out. Tremayne is fifty or so miles north-west after Tyrwhitt, and we have to make it there by lunchtime tomorrow if I want to get to Scarron before dark.
I decide to press on, get as far past Tyrwhitt as I can before the sun disappears completely. Then we’ll have to stop for the night, whether I find shelter or not. It’ll be fine, I tell myself. It’s one night, and I have a thick cloak. It can’t be much worse than the pathetic cottage in Almwyk.
“Come on, girl.” I press my heels into the horse’s flank and urge her onwards. As the sky turns from grey to violet, we pass the outskirts of Tyrwhitt and I get my first glimpse of the refugee camp in the distant fields. Kirin wasn’t exaggerating when he said you could smell it on the wind. It reeks of rot, and rubbish, and human waste.
I squint to see the makeshift shacks leaning against one another, fabric hanging between them to increase the shelter. There are mismatched tents made from various scraps, propped up with sticks. Small fires glow everywhere, but there’s little sign of movement and no smell of cooking on the rank air. It looks forlorn and forgotten. I can see no place to get fresh water, or anywhere for the refugees to clean and toilet themselves. It looks like a breeding ground for disease.
Worst of all is the wire fence around the encampment, flecked with rough-cut trios of wooden star and wound with holly, the berries bright in the dying light. They look like drops of blood against the cruel coils of razor-sharp wire, and the sight of it all is enough to make me urge the horse on. Is Old Samm in there? Pegwin? Gods help those poor souls.
We make it another four or five miles past Tyrwhitt before I finally call a halt to the day. I decide to camp away from the main road, and I dismount and lead the horse along a narrow dirt track. In the last of the light I see the horse’s ears turn back and it feels as though mine are trying to do the same, listening for danger. We’re surrounded on both sides by a small thicket, dense enough to conceal someone, and I decide that it’s likely as good as it’s going to get.
The track veers sharply to the left and then a small, filthy-looking cottage, not dissimilar to the ones in Almwyk, looms out of the darkness ahead of us. I freeze, holding my breath and watching it, listening, scouring the ground for footprints.
I tie the horse to a tree and pull out my knife, creeping forward. There’s no candle or firelight visible through the glassless windows. The shutters stand open to the elements, despite the temperature, and I straighten as I approach.
I circle around, listening, looking in through the corners of the windows, my heart thumping, ready to run. When I reach the front door I see it’s ajar. Carefully, half-expecting something to fly at me, I push it open, wincing at the creak. I wait for my eyes to adjust and then I step inside.
The small windows and twilight make it difficult to see anything at first. I move in further and begin to explore. It’s somewhat like our cottage: tiny fireplace, dirt floor. But this place has a single large, empty room and, unusually, a narrow wooden staircase leading up to a second floor. One hand still clutching my knife, the other wrapped around the bannister, I climb it slowly, expecting to hear