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Still silent, but loosening, he began to tap his leg. “Why?”

She searched for the right words. “I still wish I could have, or could again in the future.” She smiled, picturing her daydreams, and the bit of them she’d been living as she’d travelled through the forest, meeting up with him and hiding in the fortress. “Jonathan and I… we dreamed of an adventure. Of being heroes who swooped in to free everyone with grand defiance, but that’s not what being the Rogue is.

“Yes, we could be helping the people in some ways. You kept Willa out of jail, and that’s noble and good, and I’m grateful. But rebelling brings a lot of heaviness I didn’t understand until two years ago.” She thought of the Zerudorn gold, of her lost uncle, of the warped metal of the handle plate of Willa’s door, and of the Sheriff, menacing and threatening—fatal to any who were alone.

“I couldn’t sustain the rebellion by myself, not alone. And, talented and good as you are, neither can you. Showing up as the Rogue can inspire for a time, but we also need to find a way to help the people believe they are capable of rebellion too. I couldn’t do that as the Rogue. The mayor has made sure you aren’t doing that as the Rogue either.”

He stared at her. “Then, how?”

“First, I need to help the Stantons find a way to save Cyrus.”

“And then?”

Grace shook her head. “I don’t know. I was just going to keep sitting out like my parents. Slow, steady, and unending. Not glamorous, but reliable. But that’s not possible anymore.”

“If we could prove I didn’t break into Willa’s home, then at least the people wouldn’t fear me.”

Grace nodded but said, “It’s still not enough.”

The Rogue smiled. “It’s a start.” He reached out for her hand. She let him take it.

He turned his hand, weaving his fingers with hers. There were callouses on his hand she’d never paid attention to before. It hadn’t occurred to her, being a member of a family that farmed for a living, but most of Fidara’s gentry would have had smooth hands, unburdened by hard labor. His calluses weren’t new. He’d been working at something for a substantial amount of time, but there was an underlying smoothness. He hadn’t always been hard at work.

Change took time. How long had it taken her to train to be a Protector? Could she take up where Jonathan had left off, teach this man beside her how to rebel without causing problems and pain? Or was her advice worth nothing to him? He certainly hadn’t listened to her in any big way yet.

He rubbed his thumb against her fingers and her stomach began to flutter.Garrick.She pulled away, guilt souring the moment.

She sighed. “I have to get home. I still have the harvest tomorrow and people to help.” She got to her feet, and he rose with her. When she headed for the door, he grabbed for her hand.

“Grace…” he said.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Grace said, and left.

Chapter 20

Grace and Russell spent the next morning trying to help the Stanton family. Father and Mother considered joining them, but the harvest was in dire need of work. If her brother hadn’t insisted on accompanying her, Grace would have left Russell to run chilled rags to the loyal and tenacious neighbors who were hard at work in the Robbins wheat field despite the depression and exhaustion of the previous day. Gratitude and admiration for these people filled Grace. They were all in bad straits, but the people were still coming together. She’d half expected a few of them to flee Fidara, but the consensus among her neighbors was outrage on the Stantons’ behalf.

Perhaps they still possessed the will to fight for the town, after all.

Grace nearly jogged her way toward the town square and the Stanton residence. Russell didn’t complain, perhaps because hislegs were long and he didn’t have to rush much to keep up with Grace , but that hadn’t kept complaints at bay in the past.

A few yards from the Stanton manor, Russell spoke.

“Grace? Is Cyrus going to be hanged?” The pain and fear in her brother’s voice brought Grace to a halt. She turned to her brother. The lanky thirteen-year-old shuddered, his eyes moist and his arms tucked around himself.

“Oh, Russell.” Grace placed a hand on his shoulder. He hadn’t appreciated her hugs for years now, or she’d have wrapped him in her arms.

“You said this would happen,” he moaned. “The mayor’s gonna kill Cyrus. I know he is.”

“No, fledgling. No. We’re going to help the Stantons right now. We’ll figure something out. You’ll see.”

“It’s my fault!”

“No, it’s not.” Why would her brother think that?

“I taught him to shoot better, like Mother taught me. And I taunted him into trying to beat me. If I hadn’t, someone else would have won. It’s my fault.”

Grace held Russell at arm’s length, hands on his shoulders, eye contact steady. “This is the mayor’s doing, not yours. And we are going to help your friend.”