I sprang to my feet. I’d forgotten all about my hasty fish trap. But there, about ten feet downstream, one fish not quite as long as my hand butted obstinately against the rocks. I whooped with joy before I could stop myself, feeling as victorious as I would have taking down a wolf with my bare hands. I quickly snatched the fish out before it could escape, and built a fire that Briga wouldn’t have criticized too much. I gutted the fish as best I could with sharp sticks and the blade I’d made from the buoy latch and then set it to cooking on a skewer. The minutes dragged by as I stared at it, and I had to stay my hand from pulling it off too early.
When I finally deemed it edible, I nearly burned myself in my haste to get it off. I ate with little grace and no silverware, and it was delicious.
I found the road again and resumed my journey east—or east-ish, seeing as the road didn’t stay perfectly straight. Food and sleep had done wonders, and I moved at a brisk pace. About midday, I finally encountered other travelers on the road. The sound of hooves alerted me to them before they came into view, and I quickly ducked behind some roadside bushes, hoping for a safe and friendly family. Three men on horseback trotted by instead, their clothes rough and practical, and after a moment’s deliberation, I stayed concealed. I couldn’t say from a glance if they were trustworthy or not, and yesterday’s events had left me wary. What I did note was that they carried no supplies. Even considering the ground a horse could cover, they must have come from a settled place.
That gave me hope. I felt a lot better about finding help in a small town than from strangers on an isolated road. I set off again, and about two hours later, I came to a small crossroads marked with a hand-carved wooden sign that named my current road as the Bay Highway. The small intersecting road had no name, but beside an arrow pointing south, letters read: 30 MILES TO GOVERNOR’S HIGHWAY, 100 MILES TO CAPE TRIUMPH.
I knew the Governor’s Highway. We’d taken it from the East River. It was the most direct route across Denham to Cape Triumph. But 130 miles! That’d take almost six days on foot. I was farther west than I’d realized, but I had little choice if I wanted to get back to the Glittering Court and Merry.
An arrow pointing east, where I was headed on the Bay Highway, was labeled: COTESVILLE ROAD, TO NEWVILLE—10 MILES.
Cotesville? Where had I heard that name? In a flash, the memory came rushing back: Mister Elkhart, parting ways from our caravan, shortly after we’d crossed the border into Denham. Going to drop Robinson’s stuff off in Rushwick on my way to Cotesville.
Rushwick was where Jago’s land was! Was I near it? I peered around as though the forest with its rustling leaves and singing birds might offer some direction. Mister Elkhart had gone north from the Governor’s Highway, and his comment had suggested Rushwick came before Cotesville from that direction. If I was putting everything together correctly now on my mental map, I was on the opposite side. I’d reach Cotesville first, with Rushwick somewhere after.
Except Cotesville itself was not marked on the sign—only Cotesville Road. But generally, roads named after towns led to those towns. If I could find Cotesville, could I find Jago’s home? Could I find Jago?
All the feelings I’d been trying to bury these long weeks, all the longing for him . . . it came bursting forth in a great rush. I nearly ran off then and there. But what would I accomplish? What would finding Jago mean?
Safety. There was no question I had to eventually return to Cape Triumph for Merry, but I didn’t know what would be waiting for me. Did anyone even know something amiss had happened? Had Warren told them anything? Or had he continued on to Hadisen, leaving others in blissful ignorance about me? I knew I’d find safety at Wisteria Hollow, but I had no idea how long it would last if someone was intent on killing me.
There were very few people I could trust right now, I realized. But Jago was one of them. And he had the resources and wits to help me make sense of this disaster I’d fallen into. The urgency to go to him burned within my chest, and while, yes, my overall well-being was on the line, I also selfishly, desperately wanted to see him again.
But would he want to see me?
Yes, I decided. Or, well, he would see me, even if he didn’t want to. And he would help me, despite what I’d done to him. Because that’s how he was. That realization should have relieved me as I began to walk, but mostly, it made me sad.
Two hours later, a small and unmarked road crossed mine. It had to be the Cotesville Road, based on the timing. But where was Cotesville? North or south? Where was Newville, the town referenced on the sign? Unease filled the pit of my stomach as I glanced back and forth and weighed my options. At last, I turned south. The road’s northern section looked less traveled. If there were three towns that way, I’d expect more traffic. And due north led to the bay. I hadn’t traveled that far from it; it seemed unlikely there’d be three towns in so small a distance. The odds leaned south, and if it turned out I’d misjudged, I’d most certainly hit the Governor’s Highway eventually and could continue on to Cape Triumph.
There were a lot of ifs and leaps in my deduction, but that was pretty much all I was going on lately. I traveled the rest of the day without finding any sign of human habitation, which made me worry I wasn’t even on the Cotesville Road. As it grew a little wider and more worn, though, I took comfort in knowing I was at least on some main thoroughfare. But would it lead me to Jago?
I camped another night and set out at first light. Not long after that, I scored a victory when I came upon the town of Newville. “Town” was something of a stretch, though. It mostly consisted of a few bare buildings set back from the road. Beyond them, where the forest grew deeper, I heard the sound of wood being chopped. Newville was some sort of lumber camp, it seemed. I saw no residents and wouldn’t have given those buildings a second glance if not for another road sign identifying the settlement. And on it, underneath NEWVILLE, were words that made my heart sing: COTESVILLE—10 MILES.
I was on the right course! Half a day’s travel, and I’d hopefully find some answers. I might even find Jago, depending on how far Rushwick was. Even though that had been my plan in turning south yesterday, the idea of actually seeing him was startling. Part of me had doubted it could ever happen again, and I spent those next ten miles in a nonstop whirl of emotions. Exhilaration. Regret. Nervousness. Fear.
I would understand if he didn’t love me anymore. I almost expected it, after what I’d done to him. But what if he didn’t . . . like me anymore? What if he didn’t respect me? Imagining those warm, friendly green-and-gold eyes turning cold made a pit open up in my stomach.
That dreary thought sapped some of my vigor, and my steps began to flag, until I caught the faint sound of wagons and voices ahead. As I regained my speed, the noises grew louder and louder, and before I knew it, I was strolling into Cotesville. There was no missing it. It was a real town, a little bigger than Constancy, bustling with people going about their daily tasks and businesses selling their services.
I found a general store and sold my broach, which was about the only thing of value I had on me. Most of the money went toward food, but I also got a few other handy things: flint, a tiny knife, twine, and a water skin. It all just fit in an old sack the storekeeper gave me for free after eyeing my bedraggled state. I was almost tempted by a fresh set of clothes but instead settled for a plain cotton apron to cover the dirty and matted velvet. Food mattered more.
The storekeeper told me Rushwick was another twenty miles south, and I wanted to be prepared. I didn’t know what I’d find there, if I’d even find Jago at all. I might very well be right back out in the woods or on the Governor’s Highway. And though I had gotten pretty adept at building fish traps on the creek running alongside the Cotesville road, I couldn’t count on that option either.
I left Cotesville in late afternoon, making camp around sunset. When I set out again in the morning, the land began to change. After the endless forest of western
Denham, I was surprised to see the trees thin out, giving way to rolling hills and meadows of some of the greenest grass I’d ever encountered. Once, I spied a large, affluent country house a ways off the road. Several horses pranced happily on the emerald-green pasture, and I felt tears well in my eyes, thinking how Jago must love this place.
When I reached Rushwick proper, I found it was more developed than Newville but a long ways from being anything like Constancy or Cotesville. Rushwick was a fledgling town emerging as a result of the increased development of those swathes of green. They were apparently especially well-suited for grapes, hemp, and—horses.
“Most residents live outside of town on farms and plantations,” a harried storekeeper named Branson Myers told me. He specialized in seed and was also a member of the town’s governing council. Someone on the street had referred me to him when I’d come asking about Jago. “I don’t know half of the townspeople,” he said. “Excuse me a moment.”
I waited until Mister Myers finished up with a customer before asking more about Jago. “Isn’t there some . . . I don’t know, directory?”
He guffawed. “That would be great, wouldn’t it? The area built up too quickly. Last year, the governor opened up land here, and bam!” Mister Myers clapped his hands for emphasis. “There was a mad rush. Which is great, ultimately—I mean, most of them buy their seed from me—but we didn’t have the manpower to keep up with the details, if you know what I mean. When there were a dozen landowners, me and the other four councilmen took turns playing clerk. Never even bothered with a town manager or assessor. Now, there’s more than fifty. Hang on.”
“But I have an address,” I said, once he’d tended to his next task. “Orchard End.”
“Still doesn’t help. Not me, at least. I’m sure it’s in one of the ownership deeds. We’ve got those—but they’re not very well organized.”
“I think he only just bought it. Or he might be about to—he was leasing it.”
“Oh, one of those? They aren’t organized at all. Hey, Bill? Hold on a minute, I’ll be right back.”
Mister Myers led me two doors down to a building labeled TOWN OFFICE. He unlocked the door and waved grandly at a small room with a dilapidated desk and dusty stacks of paper.
“If you want to try and find it, you’re welcome to it,” he said. “You can’t really make things worse.”
Gaping, I stared in disbelief at the chaotic scene. I walked around and perused some of the stacks, which had no system that I could identify. Official stamped and sealed documents from Cape Triumph were mixed with handwritten notes. There were land deeds, tax rec-ords, birth certificates, business licenses, budgets, and requisitions for basic town needs. Alphabetical and numerical ordering didn’t exist. The closest thing I saw to organization was a stack marked FOR CLERK TO DO. The top page in that stack was a job advertisement for a clerk.
“Are you serious?” I finally asked.
Mister Myers leaned against the door. “Yeah. It is kind of a mess, isn’t it? On second thought, how about this: Stick around town a week or so, and I’ll see if I can get the banker’s boy to come work on it for you.” He paused to take in my appearance, which had improved since yesterday. It might have been silly given the circumstances, but conscious of seeing Jago again, I’d taken the time to clean myself up as best I could, even going so far as to plait my hair. “Someone like you shouldn’t have to fix our problems.”
I might have agreed with him, but his word choice made me do a double take. “Someone like me?”
“Sure.” He waved a hand in my general direction. “You’ve got a little travel wear and tear, but you’re obviously a young lady of some refinement who doesn’t deal with disasters like this.”
I looked around again, assessing the quiet, messy office. Then I mentally contrasted it with being tossed about in an ocean tempest, accosted by Balanquans, punished by followers of a fringe religion, descending into a giant chasm, running into a burning barn, and being shoved off a boat to drown. Mister Myers gave me a puzzled look, and I realized I was smiling—not so much because this was funny but because it was ridiculous. After all I’d endured, this next stage in my survival came down to organizing papers.
“Mister Myers,” I said, trying not to laugh like a lunatic. “Lately, all ‘someone like me’ deals with is disasters. And this? This is not a disaster. Give me a meal and a bed that’s not a pile of leaves, and I’ll fix this up in no time.”
Without waiting for his response, I dove right into the first stack I saw. He stood around for a few minutes, watching me like I might be a crazy person, and then he quietly slipped out. When he shut down his store and returned that evening, I had about three-quarters of the office organized. But I still hadn’t located Jago.
Mister Myers’ face filled with awe, either because of my accomplishment or because I was still around. “Why don’t you call it a night,” he said. “My house is down the street. Ellen—my wife—will fix you up a bed and some supper. No leaves.”
The offer beat building another fish trap. I accepted, and then came right back the next morning. It was noon when I finally located any mention of Jago, and I almost missed it. He was a footnote—as Jacob Robinson—at the bottom of a deed for land owned by someone else. The note said that a deal was in place for Jago to take ownership upon paying a prearranged sale price, at which point the estate’s name would change from Grassy Hill to Orchard End. In the meantime, Jago had rental rights, and details of the payment schedule’s current status were on file in Rushwick’s bank.
I was so excited, I wanted to hurl the paper aside and run out the door, but there was no way I was messing up all my hard work. Before returning it neatly to its place, I reread all of the financial terms. It was a lot of land and had a steep price. I clenched the paper and bowed my head as a wave of anguish washed over me. Jago had nearly sacrificed all of this.
Branson knew of Grassy Hill and hadn’t realized a sale was pending. He gave me directions, and I set out with trepidation. When I reached the location, I could see instantly how it had gotten both names. The farm’s house sat on a hill that was, in fact, grassy. The rest of the property swept out, smooth and flat, and most of it was covered in apple trees. Some were green and full, likely to sprout blossoms any day. Others were dead, twisted, and gray. The buildings on the property were just as mixed. The home on the hill was in disrepair, and part of its roof was sinking in. A storage shed and barns were in equally bad shape.
On one end of the property, though, a large stable was flanked by two small shanties. All three stood straight and sturdy, gleaming with new yellow timber. No apple trees were near them, and a couple of stumps suggested recent clearing. Beyond the stable, a fence of that same new wood enclosed a broad pasture. My old friends Pebble and Dove were within, along with four other horses.
There was so much peace and beauty here; I was almost afraid to intrude on it. But Jago was somewhere in this dreamland, and I had to find him. Even if he wouldn’t help me, I needed to see his face again and hear his voice. If I could just have those things, I felt certain I’d be able to handle whatever madness came next in my journey.
I crossed the property and walked up to the fence to get a better look. One of the horses was a silvery gray, remarkably similar to Dove and Pebble. A solid black mare grazed by a colt almost identical in color, except for a white star on its forehead. And on the farthest side of the pasture, the fourth horse lifted her head and looked at me. She had a tawny coat, almost brandy colored, speckled with ivory. Her hair, however, was the extraordinary part. She had a mane that was pale gold in color, with a length and volume I’d expect more in a lion. I’d never seen a horse with a mane that long or with that kind of thickness. Her tail had the same kind of drama, and more of that golden hair grew on her feet, ringing her hooves like little clouds.
I leaned against the rail and smiled. “So you’re Felicia, eh?” I murmured. ??
?You are a pretty thing, I’ll give you that.”
Movement in my periphery made me jump up. A tall, hulking figure approached me, his bearded face puzzled. I gasped when I realized who he was. “Arnaud! I can’t believe it.” When he just stared, I took my kerchief off, in case that was confusing anything. “It’s me, Tamsin Wright. From Grashond. Don’t you remember? Arnaud?”
No flicker of recognition showed in the big man’s face. A voice off to my other side said, “That’s not Arnaud. It’s his brother—Alexi. I told you you can’t tell them apart.”
Slowly, disbelievingly, I turned around and found Jago smiling at me.
CHAPTER 35
HE WAS THERE.
He was there, and he was real, and he was wonderful. After all the ups and downs—mostly downs—I’d experienced, one good thing had finally come my way. I was afraid to take my eyes off him, lest one blink make him disappear. I had to rest my hands on the fence to stop myself from trembling.
Jago wore that smile of his—that easy, open smile that somehow seemed to know all your secrets. It undid me. That, and those eyes. Those wondrous, bewitching eyes. Feeling flustered as the silence stretched—and also conscious of Alexi’s puzzled gaze—I attempted an air of control and said: “Well, are you just going to stand there and stare, Jago, or are you going to invite me in like a civilized person?”
His grin grew so wide, it was a wonder his cheeks didn’t hurt. “Oh, Tamsin,” he said. “I’ve missed you.” He spoke to Alexi in halting Belsian, and the big man nodded and trotted off. Jago watched him a moment and then waved me forward. “Okay, Tamsin. Come see my palace.”