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“What’s a Woodmore doing this far from his vineyard? Shouldn’t you be sipping wine somewhere in the south, saving baby birds and talking about what a poor year it was for your grapes?”

“I don’t believe that’s any of your business.”

Ayan shoots me a look, raising his brows with humor. “AndIbelieve that’s my cue to leave.”

I wave my hand, telling him he’s free to be excused.

But before the elf goes, he bows low. “Remember, I am here,Lady Clover, should you ever require my services.”

“Good to know.”

“Wretched elf,” Pranmore says under his breath as Ayan leaves. “Snored all night.”

“He stayed with you?” I ask, surprised.

“He lives with Gruebin. Henrik doesn’t seem to like him.”

No surprise there.

“How are you feeling?” I ask.

“I’m fine,” he says, his expression warming as Ayan leaves. “And you? How is your arm?”

“I haven’t thought of it all morning, so you must have done a very good job. Thank you.”

His neck turns pink at the praise.

“Have you seen Henrik?” I ask. “I imagine he’ll want to leave soon.”

“I left him not long ago.” He points down to a cottage that sits between two large pine trees. “He was with Gruebin.”

“I’ll find him,” I say. “Then I’ll meet you in the community area?”

“Of course,” he says with a smile. “I’m going to fetch Bartholomew.”

“Where did he get to?”

A concerned look creeps across Pranmore’s face. “The gnomes who wrestled him to the ground yesterday decided he needed to ‘learn to be a man.’ They’ve taken him into the woods, heaven help the boy.”

I laugh as I walk toward Gruebin’s cottage, eager to tell Henrik what Ayan shared with me—not that it was monumental. But something tells me whatever he knows is related to the men chasing him, and we may have stumbled onto something a lot larger than the migratory habits of aynauths.

When I knock on the door, there is no answer. Hesitantly, I lean down and open the door a crack. “Hello?”

But there’s no one inside.

Before I close the door, Henrik’s pack catches my eye. He must have left it by accident.

Deciding I’ll fetch it for him, I quickly slip into the room, aware of how loud my boots sound as they click on the stone floor.

Henrik’s cloak hangs halfway out of his pack, looking as if he was in the middle of stuffing it inside and became distracted. Quickly, I shove it back in.

But before I secure the flap, a piece of crumpled parchment catches my eye. My breath catches as I stare at it, recognizing it immediately.

It’s Camellia’s letter.

“It’s none of your business, Clover,” I whisper.

But…the pull is too great. Drawing my bottom lip between my teeth, feeling like the worst sort of snoop, I gingerly open the paper.