A tiny huff of laughter escaped Aoife, more relief than mirth. “It took mine.”
The head gardener’s mouth twitched.
“Be careful next time,” he said.
“I will,” she promised.
He gave a curt nod and turned toward the path, motioning the under-gardener to follow. Aoife’s friend lingered half a heartbeat longer, searching her face with quiet concern.
“You sure you’re all right, miss?” he murmured.
Aoife met his earnest eyes. He did not know what he had saved her from. She nodded. “Thanks to you.”
He dipped his head, then hurried after his boss.
Aoife waited until their voices had faded in the distance before exhaling fully. Her hands were shaking. But the barrel was hidden, and the grain was safe. For now.
She brushed the dirt from her palms.
Small victories. Small steps.
Aoife returned to the barrel. The paste she’d used to seal it had held, but at least a third of its contents had spilled across the ground. Wet grain clumped in the mud.
“What a waste,” she murmured.
She crouched and tried to gather what she could, but the storm-soaked ground had ruined it all. Guilt twisted in her chest. It could have made several meals, and she’d wasted it.
How was she even meant to get the barrel off the estate? She couldn’t leave the grounds, and anyone who came in would be trespassing. If they were caught with the food, it would mean death. The scale of her mistake hit her all at once.
“Curse the crows,” she muttered, setting her shoulder to the wood. She tried to push the barrel up the slope, but it barely moved. Even if she managed it, the damage would give her away: the split stave, the strange green paste holding it together. Someone would notice, and someone would be punished.
No, it would have to stay here for now.
She brushed leaves and branches over the barrel until it was hidden, marking the spot in her mind before turning toward the house.
The manor’s grey stone was stark against the pale blue sky as she reached the edge of the woods. Remembering the state she was in, she stopped to tidy her hair and skirts, wiping dirt from her hands. The branches behind her rustled.
Her breath caught. Had she been seen?
She turned slowly.
The black shape at the treeline made her heart leap. The Athraith stood there, half-hidden in the shadows, its eyes bright and watchful.
“You again,” she whispered, smiling despite herself.
It didn’t move closer, only regarded her from the edge of the trees. “I wish I knew what you were trying to tell me,” she said.
“Aoife!” a shout cut the air. She spun to see Halverton galloping up to her, rifle over one shoulder.
Aoife turned to the Athraith. Its nostrils flared, drawing in the air with a harsh snort. “Go!”
The creature didn’t move. “Go!” she shouted again, reaching out and pushing against its legs, trying to force it into the depths of the forest.
Halverton was already on them; he raised the rifle. Aoife positioned herself directly in the line of fire.
“Aoife, move!” Halverton shouted.
Behind her the Athraith tossed its head and let out a growl more akin to that of a wolf. Halverton’s horse started, rearing up and tossing his rider to the ground. Halverton landed in a heap.
