Instead, he just grins. ‘Then what are we waiting for?’
The Baron of Wellwall lives on a sprawling estate at the very edge of the province. The manor itself is reminiscent of a child’s dollhouse, with butter-yellow brickwork and diamond-paned windows. A twelve-foot wall encircles the manicured grounds, accessible only by way of towering wrought-iron gates which clang shut behind the wagon.
‘So what’s the plan, exactly?’ I ask sceptically.
‘We go round the back,’ says Fox. ‘Scale the wall.’
‘Brilliant,’ I mutter. Yet still, I sense it beneath the coiled spring of apprehension – that strange, giddy rush that accompanies recklessness, the thrill of doing something I know I shouldn’t. Like escaping Fire Mountain or walking straight into the Ridge tunnels. Perhaps, deep down, there’s a part of me thatlikesrisks. Even ones with green eyes and a death wish.
Fox murmurs something, and Scout darts away in a flash of copper, slipping easily through the bars of the gate, while Cedar trots obediently towards the trees.
‘How do you propose we get over the wall?’ I ask Fox as we skirt the perimeter.
He snaps his fingers, and a host of vines spring forth, creeping up the stone.
‘I thought we were supposed to be acting like Fidra,’ I point out.
‘A necessary exception,’ he tells me as he laces his fingers together.
I place my foot carefully in his cupped hands and grip his shoulder as I hoist myself up. He follows suit, scaling the wall with ease. Together, we peer over the top.
The rear of the manor is just as grand as the front. Opposite are a row of empty horse stalls. The wolf’s cage is stationed next to them, a scrap of tarpaulin draped over it. I suspect the hunters are off claiming their reward. About thirty yards away, I spot a lone attendant pruning a rosebush, his back to us. There is no one else in sight, except for Scout, standing guard at the bottom of the wall.
Fox lands lightly beside her, then glances back up at me. ‘Jump,’ he orders.
I swallow, steeling myself, and wonder what it would feel like to break both my legs. Fortunately, I don’t find out, for Fox catches me before I hit the ground. I stare up at him, a little breathless, a little indignant.
‘This way,’ he says, setting me back on my feet.
‘I can’t believe we’re doing this,’ I hiss as Fox tugs the tarpaulin off the cage.
The wolf shrinks back warily, a low growl rumbling in its throat. I watch its yellow eyes linger on Fox and, just as before, something unspoken seems to pass between them, as though they were engaged in a wordless conversation.
‘Storm Weaver,’ Fox says, without looking at me. ‘Freeze the lock.’
‘But what if –’
‘He won’t hurt us, I promise. Just do it.’
I take a deep breath and concentrate. A moment laterthe large brass padlock is encased in a thick layer of ice. Fox smashes it with the hilt of his dagger, and it falls to the ground. I back away as he slowly opens the door to the cage.
The wolf springs free, landing silently at Fox’s side. It stares up at him one last time, then, in a streak of grey, it’s gone.
‘Let’s go.’
We follow Scout round the back of the stalls, where we discover a crumbling cleft at the base of the wall, just wide enough to crawl through.
Fox jerks his head. ‘After you, Your Majesty.’
I’ve only made it halfway when an enraged cry splits the air.
‘Hurry,’ Fox urges.
But it’s too late. I scream in fright as hands clamp down on my ankles and drag me back under the wall. Fox barely has time to pull Soulkiller from his belt before he’s surrounded by the three hunters. A fourth man hauls me up by my hair. I struggle frantically, but he pins me tight to his chest. Fox snarls, lunging at him, but the hunters brandish their spears. Scout curls around his legs protectively, but my captor aims a kick at her.
‘Go,’ Fox whispers.
She shoots him a mournful look before bolting through the hole.
