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Less than a minute later, I was in my room. After the wide adventure I’d had in the open world, it felt stale, stuffy, and small. Confining.
If nothing else, the Merry Men had shown me what freedom looked like . . . and it wasn’t this.
I tiptoed across the room, grabbing an eating knife I had hidden behind my bed, stuffing it in my right boot. Under the bed, I pulled out the shortbow I had stowed away. I held it like a holy relic, nearly shedding tears as I stared down at the simple tool in my hands. I found my quiver of arrows next, shrugged them over my shoulders, and left the room after ransacking it.
I traipsed through the hall on the balls of my feet, trying to muster all the stealth I could. I couldn’t hear my father’s voice, which was odd, because its booming cadence was always carrying through the house, especially in the middle of the day.
Down the hall, at mother’s room, I gently pried the door open and crept inside. “Mama?”
Her bed was empty.
My heart sank.
I left the room, confused, and made my way down the stairs to the first level.
Strangely enough, I hadn’t seen Emma, whose presence could usually be felt from the other wing of the house. My father worked our maid to the bone.
In the high-ceilinged living room, I gazed around aimlessly. I could feel the abandonment in the walls.
I threw caution to the wind, calling out, “Emma? Father?”
A moment passed as my voice echoed, bouncing off the tapestries and chandeliers.
“They aren’t here, lass.”
Boots clomped behind me, exiting from my father’s study.
I spun around on a gasp.
Uncle Gregory stood in the doorway, hands clasped behind his back. His gray beard was cut short. The stocky man looked better than when I’d last seen him. His face was etched with a deep frown.
“U-Uncle?” I stuttered.
“What are you doing here, dear niece?”
I threw my arms out wide. “What does it look like? Looking for Father and Mama! What are you doing here, Uncle Gregory?”
Alarm bells went off in my head. My skin crawled with apprehension as he took a step toward me. “They aren’t here,” he said, ignoring my question.
But Little John said he met my father here!
“You already said that.” My face twisted into a suspicious scowl. “Answer my question, if you please.”
With a sigh, his stern, straight-backed demeanor flattened. He seemed to sag and grow ten years older in the span of two seconds. “Join me, Robin.” He motioned for me to follow him into the study.
Against my better judgment, and the gut-feeling of danger he radiated, I did as he said. How could I not? My uncle had never wronged me before. This is highly peculiar, though.
In the cramped room, he rounded my father’s oak writing table and stood over it, palms down. A small, crumpled rag used for writing was stretched across the surface. He stared down at it. “I don’t know where your parents are, Robin. That’s why I’m here.”
For the first time in my life, I didn’t believe him. I raised a brow. “Is that so? And what about Emma?”
“She’s gone into town.”
More lies, I thought.
The pain of being lied to nearly dragged me down to the depths of despair—nearly gave me away. But I kept a stern face, keeping my brow high on my forehead. “How did you get here, Uncle? How did you escape the Merry Men?” My voice came out strained.
He looked up from the table, stared into my face. His eyebrows arched helplessly, and he looked like his old self again—the caring, kind man I knew. “I didn’t escape, love. They let me go.”
