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The verdure cloak secured protectively about her shoulders swished at her knees, its wards acting as both camouflage and shield, obscuring her from the view of any who happened to glance up and ready to deflect impacts if things went wrong.

Adrenaline pumped through her. Beneath the cloth secured across the bridge of her nose, her breaths came heavy. The mask that obscured all but her eyes helped her focus.

She was climbing, higher, higher, to the pre-selected spot. Finally, she removed the bow slung across her back. She turned, careful to keep sure footing. There, through the foliage, the perfect sightline to the town road.

She watched the forest below her, sighting another Protector dressed as she was—trousers, shirt, cloak, cloth, mask, and a wide hood pulled up. He was almost in place. The fastest of them all, waiting for her arrows to shock the driver into stopping. The second Protector would dash into view, then back into the woods, drawing the enemy away.

To her right, on the forest floor, a third Protector was preparing. His stealth would allow him to slink to the coach, disable it, and retrieve the gold coins. A fourth and fifth Protector were crouching in treetops behind her somewhere, ready to jump in and make the Rogue seem faster than even the second Protector.

The call would come soon.

She was drawing an arrow from her quiver, nocking it, aiming. She smiled, her anticipation like a cool breeze tickling her face and neck.

Finally, the robin call echoed through the forest. Breathing in. Holding. Releasing. As she let the arrow fly, she whispered, “Your turn” to the Protector below, though he couldn’t hear her.

Grace blinked free of the waking dream, trying to hold on to the thrill of the moment even as the images faded from her mind.

Only, it wasn’t really her adventure to relive.

It was her mother, archer extraordinaire, who’d lived that excitement, who’d climbed the tree while her father had slunk through the forest floor. He’d sneaked into the tax coach while its driver chased after Mr. Milner. And Jonathan’s mother and Grace’s uncle Liam had lurked in the trees, waiting to dash assoon as Mr. Milner tired and hid beneath his enchanted cloak in bushes.

It wasn’t so hard for a man to seem superhuman when five or six Protectors donned their ward-protected verdure cloaks at the same time, making it seem as though the Rogue disappeared and reappeared in completely different places.

How was Grace supposed to accomplish that on her own?

She sighed. She would have loved to take her turn posing as the Rogue when the legend needed to climb something and… Climbing could be useful on its own, right? She wouldn’t have needed any other expertise.

A familiar lonely panic seeped into Grace, and she shook away the thoughts. Why torment herself with impossible dreams? She finally understood what was at risk and what it could cost to bring the Rogue back. The price of achieving such dreams might be human lives.

She forced her mind and eyes to focus on the here and now. The dusty browns and greens of Sherwood Forest passed in slow procession.

Supply runs. That was how she’d help the people survive.

Meanwhile, she’d focus on the original task assigned to the Protectors. There had to be some way to keep all Fidaran land and creatures safe from the mystic Zerudorn gold quarantined within the forest fortress where enchanted ice kept the invasive magic dormant.

The wagon rounded the south corner of yet another abandoned farm, this one at the far edge of Fidara’s border. Grace sat up straighter, her pulse growing louder in her ears.

She scanned the road. The short stretch ahead was empty. She looked over her shoulder. Empty as well. It was as safe as it was going to be.

“I need the reins,” Grace told her brother.

“Gra-aace,” Russell whined.

“Russell. It’s time.”

Without another word, her brother slapped the reins into her hands.

Grace brought Turnip and Butternut to a stop, turned around, and climbed into the bed of the wagon.

“He’s getting out?” Russell asked. He shouldn’t have talked at all, but since he’d chosen to whisper, Grace kept about her business. Russell scrambled over the seat to help. Father flung the bags aside, rose, and donned the ragged cloak. It blended with the corn and wheat fields he’d slip through.

Grace and Russell were already lugging bags of grain, vegetables, and meat to the end of the wagon bed when their father hopped down and strode to the edge of the field of six-foot-tall weeds. Father first brushed away the toppled weeds and dirt they’d used to conceal the hatch they’d dug there, then began carting the sacks of food into the dirt hole.

Grace descended from the wagon, hefted a single sack of food, and trudged to the hatch.

When they finished loading the food into the hole, bags lined its entire circumference. This collection represented a tenth of their food for the month and some leftover nonperishable items from the month before.

Father patted both Grace and Russell on the back, then hopped into the hole.