Chapter 17
Aoife’s breath stuttered.
She dragged the nearest branches over the barrel, covering it quickly but awkwardly. She rushed to put distance between herself and it. As soon as it was out of sight, she sat on the ground and hurriedly brushed mud across her skirt.
Footsteps broke through the trees.
Aoife sat awkwardly, legs a tangle beneath her skirts, arm resting in the mud.
A moment later, the head gardener stepped through the brush, looking for the source of the sound.
“Miss?”
Her under-gardener friend pushed aside a branch and stepped into the clearing. She’d never asked his name. The head gardener’s expression was sharp, taking in everything at once.
Her friend offered his hand immediately. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Aoife said quickly, taking it and rising to her feet. Her skirts clung wetly to her calves. Her hair had slipped loose over one shoulder. “Clumsy. Slipped in the mud.”
“What were you doing out here?” the head gardener’s eyes drifted over her muddied hems, the broken undergrowth, the moss disturbed where she’d fallen.
“Exploring,” she said. “Or trying to.”
The head gardener frowned deeply. He was studying everything too closely: her ruffled hair, her dirt-streaked hands, the way the branches behind her had broken.
Her heart thumped hard.
Before she could add anything, the under-gardener stepped forward a half-step, subtly positioning himself between Aoife and his superior.
“She likes the herbs,” he said hurriedly. “She was asking about the ground ivy the other day.” He gestured vaguely at the undergrowth. “Came looking for more, I’m certain.”
Aoife seized the lifeline at once. “I forgot how slippery it gets after heavy rain. Lost my footing.”
The head gardener’s gaze flicked to her friend, who was trying hard not to look like he was lying for her.
“The ground is treacherous after a storm,” the head gardener admitted, shifting his weight and sticking his hands into his pockets. “Would’ve taken a goat’s legs out from under it.”
A tiny huff of laughter escaped Aoife, more relief than mirth. “It took mine.”
The head gardener’s mouth twitched.
“Be careful next time,” he said.
“I will,” she promised.
He gave a curt nod and turned toward the path, motioning the under-gardener to follow. Aoife’s friend lingered half a heartbeat longer, searching her face with quiet concern.
“You sure you’re all right, miss?” he murmured.
Aoife met his earnest eyes. He did not know what he had saved her from. She nodded. “Thanks to you.”
He dipped his head, then hurried after his boss.
Aoife waited until their voices had faded in the distance before exhaling fully. Her hands were shaking. But the barrel was hidden, and the grain was safe. For now.
She brushed the dirt from her palms.
Small victories. Small steps.
Aoife returned to the barrel. The paste she’d used to seal it had held, but at least a third of its contents had spilled across the ground. Wet grain clumped in the mud.
“What a waste,” she murmured.
She crouched and tried to gather what she could, but the storm-soaked ground had ruined it all. Guilt twisted in her chest. It could have made several meals, and she’d wasted it.
How was she even meant to get the barrel off the estate? She couldn’t leave the grounds, and anyone who came in would be trespassing. If they were caught with the food, it would mean death. The scale of her mistake hit her all at once.
“Curse the crows,” she muttered, setting her shoulder to the wood.
She tried to push the barrel up the slope, but it barely moved.
Even if she managed it, the damage would give her away: the split stave, the strange green paste holding it together.
Someone would notice, and someone would be punished.
No, it would have to stay here for now.
She brushed leaves and branches over the barrel until it was hidden, marking the spot in her mind before turning toward the house.
The manor’s grey stone was stark against the pale blue sky as she reached the edge of the woods. Remembering the state she was in, she stopped to tidy her hair and skirts, wiping dirt from her hands. The branches behind her rustled.
Her breath caught. Had she been seen?
She turned slowly.
The black shape at the treeline made her heart leap. The Athraith stood there, half-hidden in the shadows, its eyes bright and watchful.
“You again,” she whispered, smiling despite herself.
It didn’t move closer, only regarded her from the edge of the trees. “I wish I knew what you were trying to tell me,” she said.
“Aoife!” a shout cut the air. She spun to see Halverton galloping up to her, rifle over one shoulder.
Aoife turned to the Athraith. Its nostrils flared, drawing in the air with a harsh snort. “Go!”
The creature didn’t move. “Go!” she shouted again, reaching out and pushing against its legs, trying to force it into the depths of the forest.
Halverton was already on them; he raised the rifle. Aoife positioned herself directly in the line of fire.
“Aoife, move!” Halverton shouted.
Behind her the Athraith tossed its head and let out a growl more akin to that of a wolf. Halverton’s horse started, rearing up and tossing his rider to the ground. Halverton landed in a heap.
The Athraith moved to pass her; Aoife reached for it, unsure what she hoped to accomplish. Her feet slipped in the mud, and she landed on her hands and knees. At the same moment the air split with a crack sharper than thunder, a crack that tore through the sky.
The Athraith reared, screaming.
Aoife curled inwards, hands over her ears. She looked up. Halverton was in a heap on the ground, hands shaking as he tried to reload.
The Athraith’s left shoulder was wrong. The dark hair there was slick and shining. For a heartbeat she stared unseeing, uncomprehending.
Blood.
Blood spreading, rich and wet against its coat.
“No,” she whispered.
The creature wheeled and bolted into the trees. A streak of blood marked where the Athraith had fled.
Aoife stared after it. This was her fault; this was all her fault. Halverton was regaining his feet behind her.
“Are you hurt?” he demanded. She turned, and he grabbed her by the arms, looking her over. His face aglow with triumph.
“No,” she said, still stunned.
“You were lucky. I have never seen a bear on the estate before.”
Aoife stared at him. “A… bear?”
He nodded, frowning at the treeline as though replaying it. “Have you never seen one before? I thought they were quite common in this area.”
Her chest tightened. Of course.
In a world where he refused to believe anything of Inis Morra’s old stories, his mind had grabbed the closest “logical” shape and forced it over what he’d seen. Something he could believe in. Something with a category, a place in the Empire’s tidy lists of fauna.
Not an Athraith.
Not one of the old things.
Never that.
The sting of tears pricked her eyes. She wouldn’t let them fall.
Even faced with the truth in full daylight, he would reshape it to fit his worldview. Nothing she said, nothing anyone said, would change that.
Not even what he had seen with his own eyes.
“Thank you,” she said, each syllable sharp with effort. “I’m all right. Just shaken.”
He smiled faintly. “You were fortunate. Who knows what might have happened if I had not returned?”
“You’re right, of course.”
“Here,” he said, removing his jacket and placing it over her shoulders. “You are shivering.”
It wasn’t the cold making her limbs shake, but she clung to the jacket all the same.
A man on a horse was approaching them across the lawn. He pulled the horse to a stop next to them.
“Are you all right, my lord?”
“Yes, Miller, quite all right.”
“When Beauty came back to the stables without you, we feared the worst.”
“If by the worst you mean a bear on my estate, you would be correct.” He put an arm around Aoife’s waist, pulling her closer to him.
“I want everyone looking for the beast. I injured it, so it cannot run far. But I will not risk it returning.”
“My Lord, I…” but Aoife didn’t know what to say. What could she say to convince him not to send his men after the creature? She had nothing.
“It is all right. You need not be afraid. We will find the creature,” he said, misunderstanding her. “The soldiers and the gardeners will help.” He turned back to Miller. “I want the creature found by sundown.”
“Yes, my lord,” Miller doffed his cap.
“And I require your horse. I need to take Miss Aoife home.”
Home. The word scraped through her like grit.
He meant the manor, of course. Would it ever be home to her?
“I can walk,” she protested.
“Nonsense, you’ve had a shock,” Halverton said as Miller slid down from the saddle. Halverton swung up easily and reached down for her hand.
She let him pull her up behind him.
The horse moved steadily across the lawn.
Aoife looked to the woods. There was no sign at this distance that the Athraith had ever been there.
Aoife couldn’t stop seeing the bloom of blood on its shoulder.
Perhaps it would escape. It was one of the Sheedar’s creatures after all.
It might have healing powers, or a way to travel other than those understood by humans.
She could only hope it had long since left the estate. Hope that it would be all right.
Aoife couldn’t help lingering on the thought that it might die because of her. It was there because of her. The thought of it out there, suffering on its own, was more than she could bear.