They left the shelter of the wagon and crept toward the farmhouse, music and laughter filling the night behind them. Archer moved stealthily, his boots barely making a sound in the grass. He climbed the front porch in two long strides and bent to lay the purse on the stoop.
Suddenly the farmhouse door swung open, nearly hitting Archer in the face. Briar’s hand went to the curse stones in her pocket. A small boy stood in the doorway holding a cat slung dejectedly over one arm. The boy looked about five years old. He stared at Archer, who stood frozen like a child with his hand in a sweet jar.
“Who are you?”
“Uh, hello,” Archer said. “I’m, uh, a traveler.”
“You want some food?”
“No, thank you,” Archer said. “I was just—”
“Mama!” the boy shouted into the house. “We got more hungry people out here!”
“We don’t—”
Before Archer could retreat from the porch, a woman appeared at the door behind the little boy. She was young and pretty, with wispy brown hair and bright-green eyes.
“Can I help you folks?”
“We’re just passing through, ma’am.” Archer held up the coin purse, his accent becoming noticeably rougher. “I was hopin’ to buy a spot of food for the road.”
“Nonsense,” the woman said. “We have plenty to spare, at least for tonight. Come on out back.”
“We don’t want to impose,” Briar said quickly. “We need to return to our camp before—”
“Don’t be silly,” the woman said. “Half the valley is here anyway.” She caught sight of the way her little son was holding the cat and gave an exasperated sigh. “Put her down, Abie, and go ask Grampa to fix up two more plates.”
The little boy relinquished his hold on the cat—who immediately bolted for the safety of the fields—and ran around the side of the house toward the barn.
“Where are you all headed?” the young mother asked as she followed more slowly with Archer and Briar.
“New Chester,” Archer said at once.
“Oh, I haven’t been that far north in years,” the woman said. “I grew up west of here, over t’ward Shortfall Lake.”
Archer’s steps faltered. “We really shouldn’t stay,” he said. “Looks like you folks are busy here.”
“Not many villages in these parts,” the woman said. “We eat what we can grow or catch, mostly. If you don’t have enough food, you won’t buy it for a day yet.”
“We don’t want to interrupt your celebration,” Briar said, sensing that the woman’s origins made Archer nervous. Shortfall Lake was right beside Larke Castle. They reached the torchlit barnyard, where the dancing had become more exuberant.
“It’s just a harvest dance.” The woman grinned. “We don’t need much excuse for a dance and a good meal round here. The more the merrier.”
A few people looked up curiously as the woman led the two strangers into their midst, including the dark-haired fiddler, who missed a few notes when he spotted them weaving through the dancers. The little drummer girl gave an exasperated cry, and he set to his fiddle once more.
“My husband,” the woman said, nodding at the fiddler. “He’s careful of strangers, but I reckon you folks aren’t here to steal if you come waving coin.”
“You’ve been robbed before,” Archer said. It wasn’t a question.
“Aye. We don’t have it as bad as places closer to the highways.” She looked them up and down then, as if realizing it was a little strange for travelers to come so far from the main roads.
“I didn’t catch your name,” Briar said before the woman could ask what they were doing out there.
“Juliet,” the woman said.
They entered the barn, where platters of food covered a long pinewood table. Briar’s mouth watered at the sight—chicken legs, fat brown sausages, bowls full of berries, the nubby end of a loaf of brown bread. A few sturdy ponies chomped away at their evening meals, their flanks still wet from a long day in the fields. A farmhand was snoozing on a pile of straw nearby, an empty mug in hand.
At the table, a spry old man was piling food onto a plate as the little boy held it steady.
“You’ve met my Abie,” Juliet said, “and this is my father.”
“Evening, folks.” The old man glanced up from the plate. “Will it be chicken or sausage or both?”
“Both,” Archer said at the same time Briar said, “Chicken, please.”
“I’ll give you a bit of everything,” he said. “Don’t drop that now, Abie.”
Only after he’d filled the second plate did the old man pause to study them. He watched them juggle their plates and wooden spoons, his gray-eyed gaze lingering on Archer’s long belt knife and Briar’s paint-stained hands.
“You’re travelers?”
“Just passing through, sir,” Archer said. “I’m Fletcher, and this is Rose.”
Briar stiffened at the sound of her real middle name. Just a coincidence. Rose was a common enough name.
“They call me Grampa,” said the old man. “I reckon you can, too, so long as you like my cooking.”
“Much obliged.”
While they ate, Archer chatted amiably with the older man and the young mother. Briar was impressed with the way Archer’s accent seemed to mirror theirs, as if he hadn’t grown up all that far from their farm. The lilt was markedly different from the way he’d spoken to those men back in Mud Market and the way he ordinarily talked to the team.
He didn’t speak without purpose, though. He slipped in questions about how often they saw the sheriff of that particular county and when they’d last seen Lord Larke, who was supposed to be out collecting taxes.
Grampa spit in the dirt. “His men have already been this year, though I reckon they’ll be back when they hear how good the wheat harvest is. Wouldn’t be the first time they’ve taken an extra cut.”
Archer wiped his mouth and set aside his plate. “I hear Larke’s taxes are higher than those of the other outer-county barons.”
“He claims it’s for the king,” Juliet said. “We know he pads his own
