Samson’s eyes grow wider. “Camp? Why not go to an inn?”
I draw my horse up short and stand in the saddle, twisting my body with my arms spread wide. “Aye, let’s just pop into an inn for the night,” I say, gesturing to all the trees that are assuredly not warm country inns with fluffy pillows atop clean beds. “What was I thinking, truly?”
“Right, your point is made,” Samson grumbles. “Shall we just…here?”
Even my horse snorts with contempt. “You’d like to set up a camping spot in the middle of the road?”
He sputters as I jerk the reins, pointing the horse down toward a moor speckled with heather. At least it’s been dry lately, a rare blessing, with only snow flurries that evaporate by noon. A large boulder stands partway between the road and the open field, and I direct the horse toward it before swinging out of the saddle and feeling the solid ground beneath my feet. It’s not much, but the rock blocks us from the road and might also help stave off some of that chilly wind.
“This is a good spot,” Samson says with the calm assurance of a man who has no idea what he’s talking about.
“How often have you left London?” I ask.
A flare of orange washes over his aura; I don’t think he particularly likes his city. “I’m glad to be out of it,” he says. Truth. Also dodging the question.
Well, I can forgive him for not being too prepared to rough it in the Lowlands; this lad only knows cities. I clear a spot and spread out my saddle blanket on the ground, and Samson copies me with his own. I left in such a rush that I didn’t have anything really packed, but I send Samson off to gather sticks for a fire, then use magic to convince the ground beneath the blankets to be a little softer and the blankets to be warmer and larger.
It’s winter, so foraging is out. It’ll be a hungry night.
I cast glamours around the campsite; anyone from the road will simply not notice us. Any fae wandering by will, of course, not be affected by the glamour, but they tend to mind their own business anyway.
I light the fire after Samson brings me a pitiful bundle of sticks, adding in a little extra magic to keep it burning warmly and without monitoring. At least the city boy will be oblivious when I don’t have to add more fuel. Plus, he actually proves a little helpful—he has some dried meat and hard cheese that he shares with me.
“We’ve not got stuff like this in London.” Samson has his knees drawn up to his chest under his blanket, and he’s watching as the stars speckle the sky over the shadowed moor.
“Stuff?”
He waves his hand toward the open area.
“I suppose,” I say. I always heard the English were so eloquent.
“You ever been?”
That accent. Ugh. “Been? Where?”
“London.”
I snort. I can’t help it. But he gives me a curious look, and I know he doesn’t understand. I can’t leave. My fae blood keeps me behind this wall. Perhaps my children’s children will make it past the barrier if I ever have any, but I will remain forever here.
“No,” I tell him, a little more gently. “I’ve never left Scotland.”
“I wouldn’t either if this were my home.”
Well, that earns him some favor. He can’t help where he was born, but at least he has the sense to go somewhere better.
“But if you do ever come to London, I can show you some proper inns that come with beds, and you can get a meal for just a pence.”
“Trust me,” I say, “I’d rather sleep in the open in Scotland than sit in your queen’s own palace for a night.”
His aura darkens.
Samson just shrugs. “I wouldn’t know,” he mumbles. Then he peeks up at me. “Don’t come to London for politics. Come for the pies.”
“Pies?” I say flatly.
He nods and launches into a lengthy monologue about where best to get the flakiest, most filling pies in London. Fleet Street, apparently. I can’t help but laugh at his animated declaration of love for some cherry pastry an old woman sells by the river.
“Maybe,” he says finally, “what I need to do is convince the old widow to move north and make her pies here.”
