Behind us, lanterns bobbed in the darkness, dim pinpricks of fire weaving through the storm, hunting us. Will grabbed my arm and yanked me down with him, into the mud and roots and darkness.
I hit hard, face brushing wet earth, heart hammering in my throat. The stalks closed over us like a curtain, and we stayed flat.
Still.
Breathless.
Just above the tops of the wheat, I saw them.
Lanterns.
Swiveling back and forth like glowing eyes, cutting through the storm. Shouts echoed across the field. The stomp of boots. The hiss of wind. I was shaking. Not from fear.
Not just that.
From the cold.
Rain kept falling, relentless and freezing, soaking through the thin cotton of my gown. My arms burned. My teeth clacked together so hard it hurt. I curled in on myself, trying to keep my body small, to make less of a target, but I couldn’t stop the tremors.
Will shifted beside me.
He unclasped his cloak and slid it off his shoulders. Then, gently, he pulled it over me.
The fabric was heavy. Rough. Still damp from the rain. But it was warm where it had clung to him.
I wanted to say thank you. But my throat was tight. My breath shallow. So I just stayed there, curled against the earth, holding onto his warmth.
Above us, the lanterns moved on. Flickering farther and farther away.
Until they were gone.
We waited.
Long enough for the rain to settle into steady rhythm. Long enough for the shouting to fade. Then Will touched my shoulder.
“We have to move,” he whispered.
“I can’t—” I gasped. “Will, I can’t—”
But he was already pulling me up, arm tight around my waist. I pushed myself upright, dragging the cloak with me, clutching it tightly around my chest.
We crept. Step by step, soaked and shivering, we made our way deeper into the field. The wheat shifted around us like waves. I couldn’t stop shaking, even with the cloak. The wind roared like it wanted to rip the field apart. My body shook with every step. I wasn’t sure what hurt more, the cold or the terror. I’d never felt so exposed in my life.
No protection.
No cover.
Not even clothes thick enough to block out the storm.
An old barn slumped at the far edge of the field, its frame leaned to one side, half-swallowed by tall grass. The wood was silvered from years of sun and rain, peeling in layers like old bark, and the doors looked like they’d fused shut with time.
Will grabbed the handle and pulled.
Nothing.
He braced himself and yanked again, jaw tight.
Still nothing.
