Ainsworth almost shuddered; the two of them were somehow at once ridiculous, charming, and extremely formidable.
And generous. Fig offered him his horse, and Fern offered to ride alongside him all the way to Wenslykirk. “It’s much quicker on horseback. Fig is doing some building work so he can’t leave, but I’m freed up and it’s been an age since I’ve stretched my legs!”
He was astonished at the generosity—not only with their resources, but also with their time. “I couldn’t possibly—”
“You could,” Fern insisted. “And you will.”
And that was that.
They set off that very afternoon. The horse—Fig’s Apricot—Ainsworth briefly remembered from those early days at the inn. He recalled the disbelief he felt when Fig and Fern left that morning, and how frustrated he’d been—how rude he’d been to them all. To Honey.
“Watch her, she’s got an attitude,” Fern warned.
Apricot huffed loudly before inhaling some oats from a bucket Ainsworth held. “Oh, I’m sure we’ll get along fine, then.”
Fern said she could get them to Wenslykirk in five days, if Ainsworth could keep up with her, and although Ainsworth was notgreat with horses or at riding, he managed to keep pace. Fern seemed unreasonably pleased, and Ainsworth felt as though he had proved himself in her eyes.
The weather held wonderfully, and Ainsworth thoroughly enjoyed the journey he had been too sullen to enjoy previously. The sting of the wind on his cheeks, the freshness in his lungs, the sheer unending openness around him. The high spirits of the other people they occasionally passed by were a wondrous reminder of the good in the world—travelers passing stories and news and, once, throwing Fig and Ainsworth both some extra fruit they had. “Everyone is so friendly around here. I was worried when I heard you made such a journey yourself, but there aren’t many thieves wandering this far out from Willowtrick,” said Fern one afternoon.
“Indeed. But I have my bow this time, if need be.”
“I was wondering when you’d bring that up!” Fern laughed. “All right, show me what you can do, and I’ll show you how to do it better.”
And she did. By their final night, he felt achy from the constant riding and practicing, but he could now shoot a target from a moving horse, which was something he had never done before, not even as a boy.
They had set up their final camp near a gentle brook, their fire crackling with the fat dripping from the wild game bird Ainsworth had shot down earlier, which Fern had offered to pluck and prepare. “My favorite!” Fern said, twitching her ears and laughing at his expression.
“I’d consider that a stereotype,” Ainsworth said.
“In this case, it’s true!”
After they’d finished eating, Fern lay back on her pack and said: “You know, when I met you at the inn, you were such…a prim, proper gentleman. And you still are, a bit. But I mean—I watched you shoot a rabbit through the eye, skin it, and strip it right to the bone the other night.”
“Well, a gentleman has to eat, surely?” Ainsworth said, rubbing his stomach and grinning.
She snorted. “You know what I mean. You are that prim and proper person, but you’re also…this. I’m happy you’ve found a balance.”
“A balance?”
“Yes. A life where you get to be both.”
He pondered on that all night. Would he get to be both forever? Who he was at this moment, staring at the stars and ignoring uneven lumps of earth beneath his back—that was who he had been before Hinslyth. He had thought that wasn’t who he was for the longest time. He loved books, fine food, and culture. And the comfort his new position and life had brought him—as well as financial security. He had thought, finally, he could live life, and not just survive.
But there was living in surviving, too—though it was only something you could see once you were well and truly past it. A city-dweller might have had a romanticized view of the rural life he enjoyed as a child: an abundance of fresh air, a childhood running through forests and still, silent nights. But there were also the harsh winters, the tense nights when no food was to be found on a plate. Still, silent nights that were interrupted by the calls of a prowling dark beast that had strayed too far from its territory. Regardless, he had lived a life before he went to Hinslyth—a life he pushed away upon his arrival, not realizing he also pushed away all that was good about it. He had built up resilience and resourcefulness back then, but it had taken a long time to see them within himself. He had mustered them during these past few weeks, too.
When they were in sight of Wenslykirk, he bid a fond farewell to Fern, and a slightly less fond farewell to the temperamental Apricot. “It’ll do her good, these weeks on the road, after all that idleness,” Fern had laughed before they hugged goodbye. He was grateful for Fern’s guidance, and her timekeeping.
They had both turned to walk their separate ways when Fern suddenly cried: “Wait!”
Ainsworth looked back at her. She took her quiver from her back.“From what you’ve said about going back…Ainsworth, you’re going to journey across the mountain, aren’t you?”
Ainsworth stood straighter. “Yes, I am.”
Fern shook her head. “Look, no offense, but—”
He held up his hand. “I won’t hear of it, Fern. This is something I have to do for my research.”
“Butwhy? Why do you have to do that?”
