Brella’s gaze flicked between Scratch and Lollie, then up into the surrounding trees.
“She’s with us, Lollie,” she said eventually, voice tight. “They both are. Go against them and you go against us.”
Scratch didn’t have time to think about what Brella’s steadfast allegiance meant. She was too busy glaring at the bandit, waiting for an attack. It could have been her imagination, but for a moment it seemed that genuine pain flickered over Lollie’s slight features. In an instant, the pain was gone, replaced by narrowed eyes and a sly little grin. It all happened so quickly, she could almost believe she hadn’t seen anything at all.
“If she’s with you, Brella, she’s safe with us.” Lollie bowed her head. “And, of course, it would be rude to ask why you and Vel—”
Vel waved. “Hello.”
“—would be escorting two fugitives of the crown, would it not?”
“Yes.” Brella’s gaze was unswerving. “It would.”
“So we should accept, without explanation, why a seamster—”
“Seamstress,” James coughed. Vel beamed at him.
“—and brewer are traveling with two people who are worth a thousand crowns each—”
James choked. “How much?”
“—without even so much as an excuse. Even a transparently fake one, for my benefit.”
“Indeed.” Brella smiled. Scratch couldn’t understand how Lollie didn’t shiver under the malice of it. “We’d also like a meal if you would be so kind.”
For her part, Lollie didn’t hesitate. “Anything for an old friend. You don’t mind saying hello to the family, do you? Come out, everyone!”
Brella groaned. “No, don’t call everyone—”
But it was too late. Figures, a dozen or so at first glance, melted out of the landscape, emerging from behind boulders and the trunks of trees. A few, one of whom carried an unsettlingly large, loaded crossbow, jumped down from high branches. Most were young. Scratch placed the oldest—Lollie—at around her own twenty-five years, while the youngest hovered near eight or nine. Many wore green handkerchiefs tied around their throats, the two tails popping merrily from open collars.
As the Shaes greeted the throng, it immediately became clear that Brella’s impatience had just been for show. She smiled as she opened her arms to the merry band of child criminals, smoothing down cowlicks and stroking cheeks, receiving what was no less than adoration from the raggedy crew.
Feeling a bit disregarded, Scratch sought out James, who stood beside Vel under the shade of a large maple tree. A rangy long-haired teenager chatted with them, wiggling with excitement.
James leaned toward the girl. “You’re good at making what, my dear?”
“Pokies!” She pulled a long brown object out of her satchel and handed it to James. “Well that’s what we call ’em at least. They’re just thick branches I whittle into a point. The trick is, don’t make ’em too smooth. You wanna leave some splinters in there. Three coppers a pop, and I’ll throw in a fresh chipmunk hide.”
“Lovely, but I’m all set on weapons and dead animals. Scratch, darling?” James held out a hand. Scratch eyed it until he dropped it back to his side. “This is Ylla. One of the Tree Grabbers.”
“Tree Snatchers.” Ylla rolled her eyes. “Boy, for a rich man you sure aren’t that quick.”
“That’s enough, Ylla.” Lollie appeared, laying a slender arm over the teen’s shoulders. “Be nice to our guests.”
Scratch compressed her jaw. “We don’t plan to stay. We’re on a bit of a timeline.”
“Don’t be silly.” Lollie smiled widely, but her icy eyes brooked no argument. “You’ll spend the night with us. We’ve got a camp nearby. Don’t we, Brella?”
“Huh?” Brella wandered over, a young girl clinging to her waist. “Yeah, it’s not bad.”
Something about this situation rankled, and it wasn’t just that Brella hadn’t prepared her for a harmless band of armed infants.
“We don’t want to inconvenience you.”
“Scratch—”
Lollie smirked. “Your name is Scratch?”
Annoyance bloomed red behind her eyes. “Yes.” Not that anyone named Lollesandra had room to judge.
“Fine name,” Lollie replied without a hint of irony. “It’s not every day our Brella brings a Passenger. She is your Passenger, is she not?”
“Yes, she is. And more to the point, Lolls, I wasn’t aware I was anyone’s Brella.”
Scratch had barely enough time to wonder what in the infinite hells a Passenger was, and whether Lollie had been referring to her before the bandit volleyed back a tart reply.
“Of course, my mistake. Ah, I do miss our banter. Follow me, all.”
Lollie led their party deeper into the woods, making sharp turns and quick jumps over split logs and mossy boulders. Scratch kept dogged pursuit, short legs be damned, until the trees parted and she found herself in a wide, sun-drenched clearing. Ten squat canvas tents sat around an extinguished fire pit, over which a char-marked spit squeaked as it shifted in the afternoon breeze. Laundry hung on lines stretched between trees, small hats drying beside mended britches and the occasional tunic. Someone had created a makeshift altar out of smooth river rocks, but it was entirely unclear which god was meant to be honored by the little display, which included featureless cloth dolls and a bulky whittled statue of what might have been a bear.
Lollie swept out an arm. “Home sweet home.”
“Looks a little permanent for a bandit’s den.” Scratch crossed her arms over her chest to muffle the sudden mysterious pang therein. “Aren’t you concerned about getting arrested?”
“As if King’s Guard would ever come out here, present company excepted. Besides, the forest takes care of us.” Lollie stood close—too close—and lowered her voice. “The trick is, when you ask the forest for something, you really have to feel it. Gotta put everything you have into it. Hasn’t Brella told you? She understands this place better than anyone.”
Scratch bristled. “She’s mentioned a few things.”
“She used to love it out here you know.” Lollie took a hunk of wood out of her pocket, followed by a small knife. She began to whittle, dragging the knife across the wood in slow, rhythmic strokes.
Scratch didn’t know how Lollie had managed to get her alone but somehow it had happened. Chalk it up to being out of her element, or maybe the wily magic of the woods. Brella was nowhere to be seen.
“It’s nice that she’s back here.” Lollie’s dark voice spread slowly over her like spilt ink. Her knife moved against the wood, loosing ribbon after ribbon. Thwack, scrape. Thwack, scrape. Thwack, scrape. “She didn’t tell you about us, did she?”
“Funny enough, you hadn’t come up.”
“Funny. Indeed.” She didn’t laugh. “I do wonder what other things haven’t come up. Brella has such stories to tell.”
And with that, the queen of the bandits strolled away, melting into the chaos of her domain.
Chapter Nine
Lollie was, without a doubt, a threat of incalculable danger. That said, the woman was a rather good host.
On her orders, two strong boys presented a goat, skinned and stuffed with herbs and vegetables from the bandits’ surprisingly well-stocked garden. The band must have robbed a spice merchant at some point, because they managed to liberally season the beast on the instruction of a discerning adolescent, who appeared to be in charge of the culinary proceedings. Scratch, James, and the Shaes were plied with mugs of ale while the Tree Snatchers, Lollie included, took turns turning the spit. Scratch offered to help; her palms itched for something to do—but was shouted down by little voices, proclaiming her a “guest” who therefore “shan’t lift a finger.” She did as she was bid, planting herself on a split log and setting to the task of convincing herself that she enjoyed being served by feral children.
Brella was breezy here, guard down and smile wide. Her cheeks were lightly flushed from the ale, and she had at least
three children clinging to her person at all times. To see Brella like this gave Scratch an inexplicable warm feeling, somewhere down in the parts of her she generally chose to ignore. A favorite poet of James’s had written of “dark cellars of the soul, covered in cobwebs,” or some such rot. Flowery nonsense, but Scratch couldn’t help but relate in this particular moment. She felt as though she were unraveling spider’s silk in corners of her being that had long gone to seed, ignored in favor of “Being A Good Soldier.”
Scratch didn’t date. Not because she didn’t want to, but because she couldn’t. One slip up, one deviation from the path she had been on since her first day at the Academy, and all was lost. Now, at twenty-five years of age and without a future to fret over, there was no excuse not to pursue Brella, were either party interested. Well, no excuse other than the fact that the brewer was more than probably a liar. Really, James had been reading too many silly love stories. Not everyone was looking for a centaur to get their hands around.
Brella laughed in her periphery, snorting ale over the rim of her mug. She glanced at Scratch as she wiped her nose and leaking eyes. She grinned. Scratch briefly forgot what to do with her arms.
Dinner was served after nightfall when the untouched darkness of the forest welcomed a thick, twinkling canopy of starlight. Scratch stared up, unable to name a single constellation. Unlike last night, she knew to expect a sky full of strangers. Still, her internal compass spun.
“Stargazing?”
Brella sat down beside her and held out a plate of meat and veg. Scratch stared down at it and up again.
“For me?”
“No, for the God of the Heavenly Fast. Yes, for you, you tit.”
Scratch waited to tuck in until Brella returned with her own plate, piled high with steaming slabs of meat.
“Hungry?”
Brella grinned sheepishly. “They like to feed me. For some reason, the Snatchers think I need tending.”
“You?”
She shrugged. “Lollie always worried about me. I really think it was more about her needing to feel like she took care of someone than me needing the caring.”
“Seems like she’s got enough people to care for already.” Scratch indicated a pair of boys wrestling a few yards away. One kicked the other in the stomach, sending him directly into the side of a tent. It went down hard, tentpoles skittering away into the night.
“Quite.” Brella sipped her ale. “It’s her calling. All of these children grew up poor. Bad families or dead families. It was this or fend for themselves.”
Or the Academy, Scratch thought, but it wasn’t worth saying, especially now in this tenuous peace.
“She doesn’t take advantage of them,” Brella continued, biting into a steaming turnip. She held the hot morsel between her teeth for a few moments, then remorselessly spat it back onto the plate. “The robbery is mostly to cover the operating costs. That, and something to do. A common goal binds a group together.”
She thought of the octagon. Soldiers pointed out, then up, then farther up still.
“True enough.”
They ate in silence, surrounded by the songs of awakening nightbirds and chattering bandits. Someone brought out a mandolin and began to play, strumming wordless melodies into the warm night. She could hear James’s laughter drifting up from the other side of the fire, sweet and familiar, as he and Vel entertained a group of beaming youths with what sounded like a rather bawdy tale. She thought about scolding him but, well, these weren’t her kids. If Lollie had a problem with it, she could get up from the log she shared with one of the older Snatchers, the two of them murmuring together and shooting quick, unsubtle looks Scratch’s way.
Her skin prickled. “Hey Brella, what’s the story with you and—”
“Do you stargaze?” Brella stared heavenward, eyes far away. Her finger twitched, subtly pointing at one of Lollie’s older bandits. Scratch raised her eyes and the girl turned quickly away, making an unconvincing attempt to appear interested in the untouched plate on her lap.
“Um, yes,” Scratch murmured. “But these stars are . . . different.”
“Different stars, different gods.” Brella reached a hand upward, then dropped it to her side. “Do you see that cluster with the three stars? The one with the red star to the left?”
She did. The God of Storms should have occupied that spot. “Yes.”
“That’s the God of Bladder Stones.”
“There’s no God of Bladder Stones.”
“Oh yeah? Then who do you pray to when you have bladder stones?”
“Uh, the God of Healing?”
Brella waved her away. “He’s too busy with consumptive children to concern himself with bladder stones. And there, the green star with two below?”
“Uh huh.”
“The God of Falling Asleep Whilst Reading.”
Scratch laughed. She couldn’t help it. And then, “I think I’ve spotted another.”
Brella arched an eyebrow. “Have you?”
“Look there.” She pointed up, and Brella drew close to follow her finger. Brella was warm against her side, solid and real. She swallowed. “There.” Her voice was barely a whisper in the inky night. “The God of Sneezing with Your Mouth Open.”
Brella cackled, pushing her away, and Scratch bounced back as if drawn. They went on like that for a while, invoking the God of Three-Legged Dogs with Sad Eyes and the God of Spilling Beer on a Rude Man at a Pub and the God of Posh Eastern Accents, the last of which caused James to poke up his head and demand an explanation for why they were laughing at him, and could they kindly stop. Of course, they only laughed harder.
While Brella pointed—“Up over there, the God of Un-pickable Wedgies”—Scratch allowed herself an indulgent look. She watched Brella’s full mouth as she spoke, gazed at the bronze locks that fell down her back. This was what Brella really looked like, without fear, without anger. Even in the deep blue shade of night, she radiated the warmth of sunrise, her hair as brown and warm as a loaf of fresh bread. The woman was all breakfast—bright, welcome breakfast, like the yolk of an egg or the underside of a griddled cake. She was an apparition of morning time, and Scratch had always liked morning best.
Oh, yuck. James had been right: Scratch really was a romantic.
Still, that hardly mattered when the truth was that Brella, without doubt, was a treacherous liar. It rankled not knowing what the woman could be hiding. Maybe the attraction was that Brella was a mystery, a puzzle like a battle plan. Upon further examination, the theory made perfect sense. Scratch didn’t want Brella; she wanted to understand her. Brella filled the hole the absence of strategy sessions left behind. There was nothing more than that. Relief melted through her muscles, calming the tension she’d been holding all day. Brella was nothing more than a riddle, and all riddles had solutions.
Before she could refocus her eyes on the night sky, a little poke came at her shoulder. She turned to find a girl, younger than the rest, perhaps five or six. She had long white-blond hair, unkempt in a way that made Scratch’s fingers itch to pull it into some sort of manageable coif. Her skin was blue-vein fair, her eyes portholes open to the stormy sea.
“I welcome my cousin to my home in the spirit of gratitude,” the girl squeaked.
Scratch bowed, her head reverberating with memory like a sudden gong strike. “I enter my cousin’s home in the spirit of peace.”
The little girl squealed and threw herself into Scratch’s arms. It was only by the grace of her fighter’s reflexes that she managed to catch the child without toppling over.
“I’m Temperance.” The girl’s sticky nose bobbed in the air an inch from Scratch’s face. “What’s your name?”
“Scratch.”
Temperance gave her a curious pout. “That’s not a Tangled Lakes name.”
“I don’t like my Tangled Lakes name.”
“Boy, me neither.” Temperance plopped onto Scratch’s lap, which she had apparently decided was now her seat. “When did
you come here? Do you miss the Lakes? Do your mama and papa live in the Lakes? I don’t really remember the Lakes that much, but my mama used to tell me stories. She said it was wet and salty. Do you have a grandma and grandpa? Have you been on a boat? I wish there were lakes here. If there were, I’m sure I would be the best sailor. Do you fish? What’s the biggest fish you ever caught?”
“Temperance.” Brella laid a steadying hand on the girl’s arm. “Why don’t you give a moment for Scratch to answer before you ask another question, hmm?”
“Sorry.” Temperance waited patiently for just under three seconds before she launched off again. “Do you know how to make a lobster trap? My papa was a lobster trapper. Can you read? Do you read books? Do you have Lakefolk friends? Do you know anyone who’s little, like me? Why is your hair tied so tight? Where do you keep . . .”
Scratch answered as much as she could. No, she didn’t miss the Lakes. How could she, when she had come to the Royal City as a baby? No, her mama didn’t live in the Lakes. She lived in a house in a nice part of town with thick windows and a big lock on the door. No, she didn’t have a grandma and grandpa. Or, if she did, her mother never told her about them. Purpose hadn’t told her daughter about any of their family.
“Really?” Temperance stuck her thumb into her mouth. Brella gently pulled it out. Temperance didn’t seem to notice. “Not even about your papa?”
“No.”
“Oh.” Temperance considered this. “I had a mama and a papa, but they both died. You seem sad. Lollie says it’s okay to be sad. I’m sad sometimes, too.” She patted Scratch’s face, a gesture meant to be comforting but was undeniably a series of tiny, painful slaps. Her thumb was still wet from when it had been in her mouth, and it left damp smudges on Scratch’s cheek.
Brella wasn’t looking at either of them.
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