I grunted and rubbed the back of my neck. She had more courage than I thought, but was still a nuisance. “This way, Little Thistle.”
I didn’t expect her to follow.
Just as I hadn’t expected her to be so bold as to offer to go with me to see the wards. Yet, the sound of her cloak swishing around her ankles and her footsteps crunching twigs and fallen leaves echoed behind me. Yes, I’d chosen to walk instead of fly. Why? Perhaps it was a test to see if she would actually follow as she’d volunteered. She’d flinched when I’d told her I flew to the wards, and yet she didn’t back down. I had to admit, I liked this little spark in her, that flicker of hope—something that had died in me long ago.
Yet, here I was leading this young woman into La Forêt de Veillepierre.
With a rustle of her cloak and snapped twigs, she caught up to me. “Why did you call me that?”
“Call you what?”
The sound of her breath was audible, as she’d hurried to keep up with my much larger stride. “Little Thistle.”
I let out a mirthless laugh. “Because I’ve seen you pick some in the gardens. And you’re a pain in my side.”
The dense forest pressed in from all sides, its heavy branches creeping onto the overgrown path. Something scattered over the leaves ahead, a small creature seeking food or refuge. An owl called from deep within the trees. I’d patrolled this land for years and recognized the familiar sounds and the scents of the earthy soil and fragrant pine. I followed the well-worn path, which I usually traversed overhead.
“If it’s meant to be an insult, it’s not,” she said.
“Oh?” I replied, only semi-curious.
“No. Thistle is not only nutritious, but beneficial to the soil, birds, and pollinators. They can also be used for medicinal purposes.
“They also prick your skin if you touch them,” I retorted.
She didn’t say anything for a good thirty seconds. “If I’m such a pain in your side, why make me stay?”
“You know why,” I replied. “I won’t rehash that. We’re almost to the first marker.”
A column of pale stone rose near the eastern tree line, its surface carved with symbols that had eroded with time. I stopped before it and folded my arms across my chest.
“The wards run along the perimeter,” I said without turning to her. “Seven markers, which is where my ancestors and I have concentrated our protective magic.”
From my peripheral vision, I caught how she reached out and touched the carvings with her small hand. She tilted her head back and closed her eyes. I turned to see her lips part. She brushed her delicate fingers over the stone. I took a sharp inhale and straightened.
“I sense energy.” She reopened her eyes and pulled her hand away. “But it’s weak. I can’t read it. The stone is so cold.”
“It should be warmer. When the wards were strong, its energetic heat would reach me from ten paces away.” I stepped closer to her, scenting her fragrance. I caught notes of lavender and Liliacs, like the gardens in full bloom—and something earthy—wild and feminine. And frustratingly enticing.
She rose and the moonlight caught on the pale curve of her cheek and neck. “How long do we have?”
We. She said it like we were a team. What an odd little human. I’d trapped her here and yet she was willing to help repair the wards—and by doing so, help me.
“Before they fail entirely?” I exhaled, a rough sound. “Two months? Maybe less.”
She turned in a semicircle, her brows furrowed as she appeared deep in thought. She stood still, quietly assessing the crumbling ward marker the way a healer might examine a wound.
Yet, a very strange woman, to be alone out here in the forest with me, with barely any light overhead. The sounds of the woods echoed around us.
“Are you scared, Little Thistle?”
She fixed her eyes on me. “Of course,” she admitted with an earnest expression. “But I’ve learned to shove it away.”
Intrigued, I asked, “How?”
“Necessity,” she declared with a huff. “When you’re struggling to survive, there is no room for fear.”
I nodded, understanding all too well. “Is it that bad where you live?”
