“I think we lost them,” Briar said after a while. Her steps were spritely, and she showed no sign of fatigue, perhaps still riding the adrenaline rush of escape, of being alive after such a close call.
“They lost us, you mean,” Archer said. “You’re fast.”
“You were carrying all the heavy stuff.”
“I wouldn’t have offered if I’d known a few paint jars would be heavier than a sack of bricks.”
“Liar.”
Briar grinned up at him, and Archer blinked at the happy, almost relaxed expression. She was usually so cautious, a bird poised for flight. She seemed to realize she had let her guard down at the same moment he did, for her face snapped closed like a treasure chest.
Archer nudged her arm. “Thank you for rescuing me.”
“We’re even now.”
“I guess we are.”
Briar fell silent, and Archer found himself thinking of how he’d felt when that cretin had grabbed Briar by the hair. His scorching rage at her being hurt had surprised him. He’d thought he’d overcome that particular weakness. He had been an angry youth, more vim and ire than sense, but the precarious life of an outlaw had forced him to rein in his temper. That had changed when Briar was in trouble.
“Archer, those men said you … never mind.”
He glanced down at her. The last vestige of joy had slipped from her face and with it the sense of comradeship they’d enjoyed during their flight from Mud Market. The silence between them thickened like porridge.
He sighed. “Go ahead and ask.” They might as well get it over with before they reached the others.
Briar kept her gaze lowered. “Those men mentioned your father.”
“They did.”
“He’s a rich man.”
“He is.”
“And you’ve cut ties with him.”
“I have.”
“Why?”
Archer brushed a hand through his hair. He’d lost Lew’s hat somewhere. “The short version of the story is I don’t like the way he conducts his business.”
“He’s not Lord Barden, is he?”
Archer paused. “What makes you say that?”
“I was just wondering if this quest to save Lady Mae was more personal than you’ve been letting on. She’s not secretly your sister, is she?”
Archer chose his words carefully. “She’s not my sister.”
“But you have history.”
“We do.”
Briar nodded, as if it were something she had suspected all along. “So Lord Barden isn’t your father?”
“No, he is not.”
Briar looked up at him, shadows falling from her long lashes. “You’re not some secret prince, are you? I figured you came from money because you’re clearly well educated, but—”
“I am neither prince nor duke nor long-lost king. I swear it on Sheriff’s life.” Archer adjusted the cloak-wrapped bundle weighing down his shoulder. “My father makes his money through trade. Not all fine, upstanding citizens are good men, though.”
“That’s something I understand,” Briar said. She didn’t ask for any more details, and he wondered how long it would take her to figure out the rest.
They continued on in silence. Archer thought it was relatively companionable. The escapade had shown him he could trust Briar not to abandon their mission, but the thought of Mae tempered his enthusiasm for that development. He couldn’t waste any more time or take any more risks. His own life aside, Archer didn’t know if Briar and the team could—or would—finish the job without him. At the end of the day, most of them were in it for the money, and they could get that other ways with the right initiative.
The horses were saddled and waiting when they reached the hollow oak tree, and the campfire smoldered, recently doused. Sheriff howled and bounded over to greet them with his sloppiest kisses.
Jemma marched after the dog, looking as if she couldn’t decide whether to slap Archer or hug him. She often looked that way, come to think of it. “It’s about time you got here! I was about to send in the cavalry.”
“Have no fear, Jemma. I’ve been in tighter scrapes than this.” Archer tried to give a bow and a flourish, but his back still ached from spending the afternoon in the stocks. He handed the bundle of paints over to Briar and settled for a stiff nod.
Jemma glanced at Briar, her expression frosty, as if she suspected their tardiness was her fault. “Lew went back to look for you. Did you at least get everything?”
“Nearly,” Archer said. “No luck with Kurt. Turns out I overestimated our friendship.” He rubbed his wrists. There would be time to tell the rest of the story later.
“I didn’t think he’d join us.” Jemma tucked a few strands of silver-and-blond hair behind her ear. “We will make do without him.”
“At least you got the paints,” Nat said. He sat on his heels beside Briar, holding a lantern for her as she opened the stolen mage’s cloak and took inventory of her purchases. “I’ve never seen such bright colors.”
“We’ll have even more colors after I finish mixing the pigments,” Briar said. “It shouldn’t take too long to … oh no.”
She grabbed the burlap sack, which had a large rip from Archer and Pratford’s tug-of-war, and turned the whole thing inside out. Sheriff trotted over to sniff at it, his tail drooping.
Archer moved closer. “Problem?”
“The purple,” Briar said. “It must have fallen out during the fight.”
Nat brightened. “There was a fight?”
“More of a skirmish, really,” Archer said. “Are you sure it’s gone?”
“Yes. The umber is missing as well, but I can forage for materials to make that along the way. That purple, though …”
“We’ll have to go back for it.” Archer was starting to wish he had taken a nap at the inn when he’d had a chance. He kept moving one step forward and two steps back.
“The market is closed,” Briar said. “Unless it’s exactly where we dropped it …”
“Can’t you just mix blue and red paints?” Nat asked.
“Unfortunately, no. The spell-unravelling curse requires the exact substance.”
“No matter.” Archer offered Briar a hand to help her to her feet. “Shall we?”
She blinked in surprise at the gesture, but
