Chapter 10 Moab
Moab
Iwoke to the crackle of my own joints and the soft click of Scarlette’s teeth beside my neck, her breath fogging in the space between us.
Outside, the forest was a bruise of indigo and gray, the sun nowhere but the frost bleeding blue along every edge.
The fire, banked low before we slept, had turned the snow around the lodge to a slurry of mud and ash, blackening the ground in a shape that looked, if you squinted, like an open mouth.
I lay there for a long time, counting the breaths that steamed out of us and watching the way the light shifted in the rafters, restless, uncertain.
Scarlette didn’t move except to curl tighter around my arm, as if even in sleep she was aware of how close we teetered to the edge of the world.
I liked her best in these moments—defenseless, sure, but also so certain of her place in the universe that she could let herself sleep beside the wolf and not flinch if he rolled over and dreamed of hunger.
Eventually, the ache in my ribs made me sit up.
I stretched, and the wounds from the night before, scratches across my chest, the crescent bruise on my hip, reminded me of the line we’d crossed.
There was a time when I’d have paid money for a night like that, but in the gray dawn it felt less like victory and more like a dare we’d survived by accident.
I was halfway to the door when I saw it. Smoke. Not ours, but a thin, sneaking line, two hundred yards off and north, just above the frozen scrub. It hung there in the trees, bright as blood against the snow, and if I’d had any sense, I’d have figured it for a signal or a trap.
I pulled on my jeans, then the jacket, and stepped outside. The cold hit like a punch. Scarlette’s furs were still slung over the lintel, crusted with rime. I shook them loose and wrapped them around my shoulders, then turned to watch the woods.
The smoke was moving, or rather, something beneath it was.
I saw the glint of metal, then the muted flash of red, like a dropped flag.
Two shapes: one tall, the other hunched, moving through the brush with the lazy purpose of men who think they own whatever they can see.
Not the searchers from the manor, these men were local, by the look of them, thick in the shoulders and slow in the feet, dressed in the brown and green that made them nearly invisible at dusk or dawn.
Villagers, not soldiers. But men all the same, and that was enough.
I ducked back inside and grabbed Scarlette by the shoulder. She came up fast, eyes open and clear, no confusion.
“Pack what you can,” I whispered, voice close to her ear. “We’ve got company.”
She didn’t ask questions. She limped over to the hearth, scooped up the few roots and the stringy ends of the rabbit, and bundled them in a rag. Her hair was a tangled knot, streaked with sweat and ash, but she didn’t bother to fix it. I admired that about her, efficiency in panic.
“Where?” she said.
I jerked my head toward the back. “Ridge line. Down to the river, then east.”
She nodded. “You can’t move fast with me.”
“We’ll manage,” I said, and hoped it was true.
We slipped out the rear, boots crunching on the frost, and kept low along the contour of the hill.
Scarlette’s ankle was still a mess, but she moved better than most men I’d known after worse.
She winced, but kept up. I let her set the pace, and we zigzagged through the birch and holly, the light thinning as the sun rose behind clouds.
Within twenty minutes, the smoke was behind us, but we kept going, the air growing colder as we lost elevation.
At one point, we paused behind a fallen log to catch breath, and I looked back to see if we were followed.
Nothing. Just the hiss of wind through dead leaves and the occasional flick of a bird from branch to branch.
But the woods were awake now, and every sound seemed to watch us, or at least, report our passing.
We moved until the light went flat again, just past midday, and then Scarlette collapsed against the base of a yew, her breath coming in short, controlled bursts.
“Here,” I said, and knelt beside her. “Let me see it.”
She shook her head. “Just too much, too soon.”
I could see the joint, already swollen again, the skin purpled and hot. I rummaged in my pack for the last of the willow bark and tore it into strips with my teeth.
“We can’t stay out here,” she said, voice low. “If we do, we’ll freeze before the men catch us.”
“We need to get to that hut,” I said.
“It’s two miles, maybe less.”
“Then that’s where we go.”
I helped her up and slung her arm over my shoulder. She weighed nothing, but the tension in her body told me she was burning through every last scrap of will.
We picked our way through the brush, avoiding open spaces and doubling back twice when I heard something in the undergrowth. Not men, but animals, probably deer, maybe something bigger. Once, we stumbled on a set of prints in the snow, hooved and deep, but they trailed off into a thicket.
By the time we reached the sheepfold, the sky was a scabbed-over purple, the first hints of night crawling in around the trees.
The hut was there, just as Scarlette had promised, though it looked more like a cave than a house: the roof half-collapsed, the door a hanging plank, and the chimney plugged with a bird’s nest and years of rot.
We went inside anyway. The floor was packed dirt, scattered with old straw and bits of sheep wool. In one corner, a pile of sticks and a crude hearth; in the other, the remains of a pallet, chewed up by mice. It was perfect.
We barricaded the door with a log and huddled in the darkest corner, the only light coming from a hole in the roof where the moon made a weak attempt at shining. The cold was immediate, but inside the hut it was a dry cold, less cruel than the wind.
Scarlette shivered, pulling the fur tight around her knees. I wrapped my arms around her, more for the practicality than the sentiment, though I could have fooled myself.
She said nothing for a long time. I listened to the sound of her breathing, the quiet tick of her teeth as she tried not to chatter. I wanted to say something comforting, but the world had never taught me that language.
Instead, I whispered, “They’re not getting you. Not while I’m here.”
She didn’t answer, but leaned against my chest and closed her eyes.
I stared at the crack in the roof, watched the stars emerge, and wondered what kind of fool I was to promise anything in a world that took pride in breaking its word.
The shadows bunched in the corners, growing teeth with every passing minute. I tried not to think of the men who’d been on our trail, how many or how close, or what they’d do if they found us boxed up in this place with nothing but a splintered bench for a weapon.
Scarlette was first to move. She peeled off the fur, wrung the sweat from her hair, and started digging through the pile of kindling that passed for firewood in this era. Her hands shook, but the rest of her was steady.
“We should light it,” she said, nodding at the cold hearth. “If we die of cold, the rest doesn’t matter.”
“Won’t they see the smoke?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Only if they’re looking up. They never do.”
I found a battered tinderbox near the door, flint and steel worn to the nub but still working.
I knelt beside her, watched as she arranged the twigs with almost religious care, and struck the first spark.
It took three tries, but finally a thin thread of smoke rose up, and then a flame, and then a small, stubborn heat that was ours alone.
The warmth didn’t reach more than a foot, but the light was a comfort. Scarlette held her hands to it, fingers splayed, then glanced at me through the curtain of her hair.
“You want the story now?” she said, half-mocking, half-daring me to care.
I grinned, though my face was stiff with cold. “If you’re offering.”
She sat back, the fire painting her face in gold and shadow. “The first time I ran away, I was seven. Agnes dared me. We hid out here for three days. Mother thought we’d been stolen by the fair folk.” She picked up a stick and rolled it between her fingers. “I almost wished it were true.”
“What happened?” I asked.
She smiled, teeth white in the gloom. “We came back. We always came back.”
I wanted to ask what changed, but the answer was obvious. The world had caught up, and now every hiding place was just a delay, not a reprieve.
We ate what was left of the rabbit, then sat in silence, each of us pretending not to watch the other. Scarlette pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping the fur around her like a cocoon. I took off the jacket and draped it over her shoulders. She accepted it with a nod, no words needed.
The wind outside picked up, rattling the thin walls. The fire hissed and shrank, starving for fuel. I could see my own breath, white and sharp in the air.
“Let me look at your ankle,” I said, after a while.
She hesitated, then stuck out her foot, toes pointed like a ballerina. I rolled up the hem of her dress, hands careful, and peeled back the makeshift bandage.
The joint was swollen, skin stretched tight. I winced, knowing how bad it must feel, but she just stared at the wall, jaw set.
“You did this yourself?” I said.
She nodded. “Old Nan taught me. For sheep, but it works the same.”
I fished in my pack, pulled out the roll of sterile gauze. It was probably worth more than gold in this world, but I wasn’t saving it for anyone but her.
“This will sting,” I said, then doused the wound with the last of my antiseptic. She flinched, but didn’t make a sound.
I cleaned and wrapped it, the gauze bright and obscene against the rest of her. She watched my hands, not the work, and when I finished, she touched the bandage as if it might vanish if she blinked.
“Better,” I said.
She flexed her foot, testing it. “You’re a good nurse.”
I smiled. “Not my first career choice.”
“What was?”