throwing ourselves down fifteen feet to bounce in the sweet-smelling hay. As he got older Lief would do somersaults, flinging himself backwards into the piles of grass, but I wasn’t quite brave, or stupid, enough.
By my guess the edge of the roof is perhaps thirteen feet from the ground. And there’s no hay beneath me.
I shift until I’m parallel to the ledge. There is a thick beam that’s part of the frame, and I brace myself against it, holding on tight. I need to roll as soon as I hit the ground and then I need to run. Roll, then run. When I lower myself over and my feet touch nothing I panic, even though I knew it would happen, and I grasp a new patch of thatch.
It comes away in my hand and I fall. Before I’ve even had time to understand what’s happened I’m on the ground and I can’t breathe, searing pain across my ribs, my lungs unable to expand…
Then it recedes and sweet, sweet air rushes into my lungs. It hurts, but I gasp anyway, sucking the air in. Winded. I winded myself. That’s all. I thought I’d broken my back.
I roll on to my side, pushing the satchel out from under me and twisting my head to stare up at the lightening sky. Then I take an inventory of my body. I’m jarred and jolted, but nothing is broken, or even sprained. It’s shock that keeps me pinned to the ground, even as part of my mind insists I get up and run. That part gets louder, and I sit, stiffly, amazed by the miracle of being all right. I look at the cottage, trying to summon the courage to go to it. Surely, if someone were still there they would have come out when they heard me fall.
I pull the knife from the satchel and approach.
The door is gone, knocked from its hinges. I edge in, staying near the doorway while my eyes get used to the gloom. Then I forget to be stealthy as I cry out and rush to my makeshift bed.
My cloak, all of my food, even my firelighter is gone. The mattress lies bare in front of the fireplace. All I have is the satchel and the maps, spare knife and a mostly empty water skin. Damn them. As I stand up I smell something so unexpected that I stop dead.
Mint, and old incense. Faint, lingering on the air like dust motes.
Silas was here.
I race into the copse and untie the horse, rushing to tighten the saddle and the stirrups. She snuffles my pocket for food and I push her away in irritation. “It’s all gone,” I say. “So it’s no good looking.” She whinnies softly and I feel bad – it’s not her fault. And it could have been worse; imagine if I’d lost her too, imagine if Silas or the others had found her. I stroke her nose and murmur a swift apology.
Silas was here. Was he with those people? But no, I heard two voices, two sets of footsteps. If he came, he came after, while I was on the roof.
If it was him. Can I be sure I smelt incense? It was a pretty big fall; I could be mistaken. I leave the horse and walk along the track towards the road, listening all the while and scanning the ground, squinting in the dim light. Four sets of footprints coming down, three heading away. One set of hoof prints. He still doesn’t have a horse, then. Unless he left it on the road. No, he wouldn’t be that foolish. I turn back to my own mount.
When I climb into the saddle I feel as though I’m made of iron; everything is too heavy. I’m about to nudge the horse away when I pause. Whoever the first two were, they knew I had two bags. They knew I was female. Which means they must have seen me earlier, followed me. Refugees, I decide. Lormerian refugees either avoiding or escaped from the camp. I bet they were holed up near Tyrwhitt and saw me pass, following me on foot. I suppose I should be grateful they weren’t soldiers. Still… It means I’m conspicuous. And obviously vulnerable.
I unpin the braid from my head and allow it to fall down my back. Then I pull out my knife and begin to saw at it, at the base of my neck. It doesn’t take more than a moment until I’m holding