answered the question before she could speak. 'Of course you did. They'd never let you leave.' He lifted a hand, fingers curved, just like on the coffeehouse patio. 'But did you honestly think these Others, these enemies of ours, would fail to notice a dragon hunting them, even in a city this size?'
'I wouldn't know,' she said. 'There is no dragon hunting them.'
'What are
'I cannot Turn.'
His head tipped. She could feel the speculation in his gaze.
'I'm not lying. I can't Turn.'
'That's bloody bad news, love, because I don't think I'm going to be much help to you.' He seemed to push against the glass. 'Not from where I am.'
'I don't need your help. I can do this on my own.'
'You can't be ser—'
'Look around you, Rhys Langford,' she hissed, struggling to keep her voice subdued. 'Look at what I've already done. Against all the council's precautions, I've escaped Darkfrith. Against all their dire predictions, I've made it single-handedly to the Continent, and I've been here for weeks.
'Why?' The anger was back, full force. 'I don't want your vengeance. Don't be a fool. Whatever they did to me, it's not worth your safety.'
She stepped back, drew a steadying breath. 'Did you really think that this was entirely about you?'
He paused as the moon was swallowed by a thick rushing cloud; trees and gardens and sky: everything pitch, a spill of ink all the way across the heavens.
'Ah,' he said again. 'I see. Hayden.'
'Hayden.'
From somewhere far below came a telltale footfall, nothing nocturnal—heavy steps across gravel. The subtle
'Listen.' Rhys turned his head. 'Do you hear it?'
She nodded, afraid to speak, scanning the grounds, straining to make out more. 'That music,' the shadow whispered. 'It's so damned ... beautiful.'
He misted away. She was left with a clear view of the emerging moon, a rime of yellow glow just beginning to devour the edge of the cloud.
Chapter Seven
My Dearest Friend,
I hope this note finds you happy and well.
I have reached the shores of France. My passage was Uneventful. I've a coach and four and a Man to take me as far as Paris, where I shall have to hire someone New for the leg to Dijon. (You will understand that I remain Inside the carriage as much as possible, away from the Horses. Yet I confess I long to be free of such confinement. The coach is ill sprung and the roads of France are choked with carts. Their condition is Quite Atrocious.)
Thus far I have witnessed Woods and Plains rolling on for many miles, with Vineyards and Cathedrals sharing space in seemingly equal measure. I have dined upon Fried Trout with cream, and beered-Beef Stew, and a Fine Onion Tart they call Zewelwai , none of which Compares to your Cookery, of course.
I found you a small trinket today in the Town of Amiens, a very little Stone but one I trust will Please you, and it is from here I shall Post this Message. You are in my Fondest thoughts and dreams. I pray you remember me the Same,
Yours,
H.
The morning was not quite warm enough to melt the sludge of the coach yard entirely, and the turned-up edges of mud sparkled with frost under the sun like sea glitter with Zoe's every step. There were cobblestones visible under the mud, but they appeared and disappeared like red rock islands in that dirt-and-straw sea. It had rained late last night and then dropped to freezing, and the yard still hadn't been scraped clean.
Travelers clumped back and forth along wooden planks laid in paths over the muck, a great busy swarm of men and women and children hastening from plank to plank, and stable boys not bothering with any of it, stamping in their boots straight alongside. Everyone was talking, moving, pointing. An incoming post boy blew his horn as
Zoe lingered near the entrance of the yard, fingering the letter she kept in her reticule, observing the commotion.
Hayden had been correct: Horses were a problem. And as this particular coach yard was the busiest she'd seen so far, it held many, many horses, most of them fresh from their stalls and eager for their paces. A few were already beginning to notice the scent of predator in the air, skins twitching beneath their harnesses as they turned their heads toward her, curled back their lips.
A tabby cat with a white spot on its nose had been grooming itself atop one of the pillars; it appeared oblivious until the breeze shifted, pushing past Zoe, ruffling the edging of her coat.
The cat ceased its bath, orange eyes opening wide. With an impressive arch and a hiss it leapt away, fleeing with a bristling striped tail toward the stables just visible past the ticketing office.
There was no help for it, though. She waited, hoping the wind would shift again, but when it didn't she lifted her chin and walked rapidly into the human crowd.
The planks wobbled with every step, bouncing like a child's seesaw. A woman in a stern black bonnet with a little girl in tow shoved past without a word, her bag smacking Zoe in the hip. A man coming from the other direction touched a hand to his cocked hat as he smirked at her; she lowered her gaze and concentrated on keeping her footing.
The horses downwind began to make noises of distress. The grays in particular grew skittish, starting to kick; they'd been led too close to the path, and the postboy atop the lead had to drop his horn to hold on with both hands.
She held her breath and picked up her pace, overtaking the woman with the bag again, ignoring the woman's startled glance past the brim of her bonnet.
The ticketing office was also brick, two-thirds of it covered in a tangle of ivy that had already withered brown with the coming winter. There was a queue to get in. There was a queue to go around. She drew up as close as she could to the main doors and pulled her coat closer, shuffling along as the animals all around slowly began to work themselves into a frenzy.
The main doors to the office were open to accommodate the line. The windows were closed and paneled in glass, the old-fashioned kind, thick and round and wavy. The plank path angled away from them in such a way that she couldn't see her likeness. But she saw the shadow there anyway. The dead man watching her, distorted with the panes.
'Go away,' Zoe murmured under her breath, a puff of frost rising to her nose.
No one noticed. The queue crept along.
As she drew closer the lines and shapes of him grew more distinct, the smoke a nimbus of twists and curls warped with the shape of the blown glass.
He didn't move. She felt his gaze again, felt the intensity of his look.
When she'd awoken this morning she'd been alone; even the ghosts in the mirror had shrunk down to nearly nothing, flitting back and forth like fireflies against the indigo blue. After dressing she'd dared a peek at the window, but it had been only a window again.
