The ground dropped unexpectedly, steeper than she could manage. The barrel jerked out of her hands, and with a sickening roll, tumbled downhill.
“No, no—!” Aoife stumbled after it, branches whipping her face.
The barrel crashed through the undergrowth, scattering birds in a furious explosion of wings. She slid down the slope, heart hammering. It hit a boulder with a hollow crack.
Aoife reached it seconds later, breathless. A split had opened along one stave, a thin spill of pale grain leaking onto the moss.
“Curse the crows,” she muttered.
She scanned the forest floor, spotted a clump of ground ivy, tore off a handful and chewed it quickly into a sticky pulp, the bitter taste flooding her tongue.
She pressed the paste into the crack. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t even good. But it held.
She was wiping her fingers on the moss when she heard them.
Voices.
Men’s voices.
Close and growing closer still.
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.”
