Oh. Oh. He’s teasing me. My heart flutters wildly. I give the barkeep an apologetic glance as he wipes down the bar.

Tycho clears his throat and reaches for a biscuit. “We have fur to trade, if anyone in town is buying.”

“There’s always a market for fur, especially with winter coming.” Eowen sighs, losing his smile. “We lost our local trapper, too. Poor man was killed by those vicious fiends from over the mountain.”

My heart trips and stumbles in my chest.

Those vicious fiends from over the mountain.

Eowen sighs. “Now we’ve got the Royal Guard coming through town, looking for some kind of magesmith. Supposed to be the heir to the throne, if you can believe that. One man’s as good as another, I say. No one’s cared about Blind Hollow in years.” He pauses. “Are you from the north? You’d know.”

“I’m from Wildthorne Valley,” says Grey. “I do know.”

Eowen’s face falls further. “Now that’s a town filled with sadness. I heard there was a woman whose children were slaughtered one by one. It was done in the dead of night, they said. No one knew who did it. She showed up in the town square, covered in blood.”

Beside me, Grey goes very still.

“It was after her oldest son earned a place in the Royal Guard,” says Eowen. “Can you believe that? To earn that monthly silver and lose all your children?”

Grey clears his throat. “A terrible burden, I’m sure.”

“What happened to your trapper?” says Tycho, his voice hushed.

The barkeep shakes his head. “Fredd. Good man. One of his girls got away. She said it was a slaughter. Those animals shot him right in the back.”

I’d been piecing together the words about the woman losing all her children, but now my blood turns to ice.

I wish I could speak.

I have no idea what I would say.

“Is your sister well?” says Eowen.

Grey glances at me. I have no idea what he finds on my face, but his own eyes have gone cold and dark and inscrutable. His expression reminds me of the first night I met him. It’s almost frightening.

He glances back at the barkeep. “Lingering effects from the fever that stole her voice, I’m afraid.”

I try for a simpering smile again, but I’m not sure I manage it. I likely look addled.

Eowen gives me a narrow look. “Ah.” Something across the tavern catches his eye, and he says, “Here’s Fredd’s daughter. She’ll know where you can get a good price for your hide. Raina! Girl, this man has a fur to sell.”

It takes everything I have to avoid following his gaze. I seize Grey’s arm. My nails dig into his skin, but I can’t help it.

He leans in close. “What’s wrong?”

A girl’s voice at our back shyly says, “I can take you to the blacksmith, sir. His son does a lot of leather and fur work. He was one of Father’s best customers.”

Oh, I can hear the sadness in her voice. My heart stutters in my chest.

I have no idea whether she will recognize me, but I cannot turn around. I cannot.

I am sorry, I want to say. I am sorry.

I remember how Harper said the same words to me, and how I rejected them.

Grey straightens, and I keep my eyes on my mug. My hand still has a tight grip on his forearm. “That would be very kind,” he says. “I am sorry to hear the news of your father.”

He pulls at my hand. “Come now. The girl can help us.”

I can’t risk her recognizing me. “We have to run,” I hiss at him.

He doesn’t question me further. His eyes darken with understanding. “Act ill,” he breathes in a rush. “Collapse.”

I ease off the stool—then allow myself to fall.

“Lia Mara!” cries Tycho.

He used my name. I hiss in alarm as Grey catches me. A collective gasp goes up around us.

“Should we fetch a healer?” a woman calls.

“A fainting spell,” he says. “She has them often.” To my absolute shock, he swings me up into his arms. Part of me wants to protest—but another part of me wants to stay right here. I press my face into his neck to hide my eyes. He smells faintly of woodsmoke.

“The girl knows me,” I breathe against his skin. “I was there. In the woods.”

“Forgive me,” he says to Eowen. “It seems we must return to our camp until my sister can recover. Perhaps I can meet this blacksmith in the morning?”

There’s a moment of silence. I force myself to keep my face turned away from the girl, though I am desperate to see how this is being received.

“Of course,” she says.

I feel Grey offer her a nod. “Come,” he says to Tycho, and then we turn.

Conversation begins to return to normal around us. We’re just travelers with something to sell, just a bit of a passing oddity, nothing too interesting.

My hair is caught on Grey’s arm, and I twist my neck a bit. The braid spills free of my jacket collar.

“Wait.” Raina’s voice calls from behind us. “What did you say your sister’s name was?”

“Mora,” says Grey. “Forgive me, I would like to make it back to our camp before full dark.”

“No, the boy just called her something else.” Raina’s tiny voice gains strength. “I heard you.”

“She knows,” I say against his neck.

“We’re going to need to run,” he says. “When I put your legs down—”

“Eowen!” Raina calls. Her voice is broken and full of pain, but she’s yelling, “She was there! She’s the one!”

My feet hit the street. Grey’s hand finds mine. Tycho is right by my side.

Shouts fill the air behind us, but we sprint across the cobblestones. I’m not fast, but my heart lends strength to my legs, and we fly through the town, cutting between houses, ducking through alleys. A cold wind rushes through the streets, and I know Iisak must be near. Night has claimed the sky, offering shadows and darkness everywhere we turn. A woman screams as we dash through her yard.

My heart pounds. “We’ll lose them in the forest,” Grey says, almost dragging me. “We’ll loop around this house and disappear into the trees.”

Iisak screeches overhead. It sounds like a warning.

We know, I think. We’re running.

We take the corner sharply, and I shove my feet into the ground, ready for a full out sprint.

Instead, I run straight into a gold-and-red-adorned guardsman.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

GREY

Iisak was wrong. Rhen’s guardsmen haven’t moved on at all.

I do not think they expected to find us—and they definitely were not prepared for us to run directly into their midst. One of them spins Lia Mara around to put a knife at her throat, but he still looks genuinely surprised to find us here.

He looks equally surprised when the tip of my sword finds the pulse point of his neck.

“Let her go,” I say.

Half a dozen soldiers draw their weapons, but I do not lower mine. Lia Mara’s eyes are wide and panicked, her fingers digging into the buckled bracer on the soldier’s arm, trying to drag his blade away from her neck. It’s less convincing than my sword, but either way, he doesn’t let her go.