Don’t just lie there! You’ll be caught for sure.
She sucked in a breath and forced herself to sit up. Paint and shards of glass covered her shirt. As she brushed them away, pain shot through her wrist. Her left arm had taken the brunt of the impact. She tried to rotate her wrist, and agony lanced through her. She clenched her teeth to keep from vomiting, black spots dancing before her eyes.
If her arm was broken, she wouldn’t be able to work for months. She couldn’t afford such an injury. She would lose her home, everything she’d built from the remnants of her old life. She should have abandoned the job at the first sign of trouble.
A creaking sound reminded her of the precise curse marred with a broad slash of vermilion. The house gave a deep, ominous groan. She sifted through her curse painting knowledge, trying to work out what that slash was likely to do—and how soon. Every stroke had meaning, and that one …
The creaking came again, loud and insistent. Briar realized what was about to happen and leapt to her feet. She didn’t have much time. She snatched up as many broken jars as she could, shoveling the oily glass into her satchel with her good hand, then bolted away from the house. Running jostled her injured arm, and tears filled her eyes.
The stranger in the indigo coat retreated into the shadows as she darted past. He looked young, with a high forehead, sharp mouth, and dark, quirked eyebrows. The longbow remained undrawn, and he didn’t try to stop her.
Briar reached the shelter of the woods just as a roaring, squealing sound startled the magpies from their nests. She looked back.
The house teetered, two stories of whitewashed timber and fine clay shingles swaying like laundry in a stiff breeze. Iron nails began to ping out of the boards one by one, disappearing in the long grass around the house.
Don’t.
More nails loosened, fell, scattered.
Please, no.
But it was too late. The final nail popped free, and the house gave a moan like a dying animal. The walls buckled, glass windows bursting, clay shingles cracking and sliding. Then the entire structure collapsed with a thunderous crash.
Dust billowed into the sky, and splinters scattered across the grass. Briar crouched behind a craggy oak tree, horror consuming her. This can’t be happening. Magpies wheeled overhead, cawing and scolding from a safe distance.
The dust cleared slowly, unveiling the damage from her botched curse. Somewhere beyond the stable, the stranger gave a low whistle. Nothing was left of the house but a pile of rubble beside a triumphant maple tree.
A whimper escaped Briar’s lips. She had worked so hard to set up a new life there, a fresh start peddling quiet, nonlethal curses. Yes, her work was illegal, but she tried not to hurt anyone. She’d even dared hope she might make amends for the things she’d done before. This would destroy her efforts, drawing attention she couldn’t afford, maybe enough to attract the notice of the people she’d left behind.
No. She refused to contemplate that possibility. She would run again. She would start over as many times as it took to keep them from catching up with her.
Trying not to rub her paint-covered clothes on anything, she pulled her satchel to her chest and fled into the woods.
Archer emerged from the shadows of the stable and admired the splintered ruin.
He had never seen a curse painter work so meticulously—especially from fifteen feet in the air—nor produce such dramatic results. Not a single whitewashed board or pane of glass remained intact. Willem Winton’s fine house looked much better bashed into tiny pieces. Archer wondered what the old charlatan had done to make that slip of a girl want to curse the place into oblivion.
“Who cares why she did it?” He slung his bow onto his back at a jaunty angle. “It was brilliant work.”
Archer had heard a curse painter lived in those parts, but he hadn’t expected to meet her there. He’d just wanted to engage in a little casual burglary while he was in the neighborhood. Instead, he’d stumbled upon a better prize than gold candlesticks and Mistress Winton’s jewels. That girl could be the answer to all his problems.
He turned toward the woods and whistled a high, piercing note. A large dog loped through the trees, shadows dappling its short gray fur. Archer knelt beside the dog and scratched the folds on its neck.
“What do you think, Sheriff? Can you follow her for me?”
The dog whined and rubbed his wrinkly head against Archer’s knee, smearing slobber on his breeches, then he trotted over to the maple tree to sniff out the girl’s scent among the broken paint jars.
Archer picked up a large glass shard covered in green paint and pocketed it. The curse painter had worked with impressive stealth, at least until the end. He only noticed her perched in the tree when her luminous eyes caught the light, and she stared at him like a large, frizzy-haired owl. She had such power.
The dog looked up, ears pointed like arrowheads, awaiting his master’s word.
“Ready, Sheriff? Let’s go get her.”
Sheriff howled and set off into the trees. Archer jogged after him, slipping into the woods before anyone could investigate the commotion at the finest ruin in Sparrow Village.
Chapter 2
Briar’s heart drummed a frantic beat as she raced through Mere Woods, avoiding the village proper. The forest seemed bent on delaying her. She snagged her skirt in blackberry patches and tumbled over roots snaking across the path. By the time she reached the Brittlewyn River, sweat dampened her collar, and brambles filled her frizzy hair.
She nearly ran straight into the county sheriff and a pair of Lord Barden’s retainers on the bridge. They had stopped for a smoke and were jawing about some tavern wench or other, blocking the only route across the Brittlewyn. Briar dove behind an abandoned cart before the men looked her way. Hopefully they couldn’t
