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“She has a letter forHenrik.”

Lawrence mutters a curse under his breath, shaking his head. “Come inside—we’ll send a courier.”

“No, it’s all right. I’m pretending it’s a holiday. I’ll spend a night in Roversten with my aunt Talia and then get an early start in the morning. I should reach the group before they make it to the river crossing and be back before the end of the week. Just imagine—several days without your sister hovering over my shoulder imagining new and inventive ways to torture me.”

“Who’s going with you?” Lawrence asks. “Haven’t you requested a guard?”

I roll my eyes. “Is there a safer stretch of road in all of Caldenbauer? Have some faith in your patrol guards—I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll go,” he says stubbornly. “Wait for me.”

Shaking my head, I begin walking my horse toward the gatehouse once more. “You know very well you can’t escape your duties to play knight to me. I’ll be back soon.”

Lawrence grasps my arm, pulling me back as he puts on a pout. “I’ll worry about you. If you won’t let me accompany you, stay with me and send a courier.”

Laughing, I shake him free. “Go inside. You look like a drowned rat.”

“A handsome rat?” he asks, flashing me an appealing grin.

I roll my eyes and mount my mare, giving him a wave over my shoulder. “I’ll be back.”

“Do your brothers know?”

“Goodbye, Lawrence!” I yell over my shoulder.

“Be careful,” he calls when he realizes he can’t talk me out of it. “Watch out for troll pits! And don’t wander off the road!”

As soon as I leave the castle, my smile fades. As glad as I am to be away, it’s going to be a damp, miserable ride.

I feel for the letter in the inside pocket of my cloak, making sure it’s still there. As it keeps trying to do, my mind wanders to the strange thing I interrupted in Camellia’s chambers.

It’s none of your business, Clover.

Dropping my hand, I continue down the road.

* * *

The rainthankfully lets up by the following afternoon, leaving the air smelling clean but still too hot and humid for autumn. At least it will be pleasant in the mountains—if I can figure out the best way to reach them. Ahead of me, there’s a fork in the road, and both options seem to lead north. Which one do I take to find Henrik?

Wishing I’d thought to bring a map with me, I turn back and head to the farm stand I passed that was just outside a roadside orchard.

The last summer peaches are ripe, and many a housewife is here, bartering for a good deal with the Boermin man who runs the stand with his young granddaughter.

I wave at the girl when she spots me standing to the side, and she shyly waves back. She wears a tidy dress in pale pink, with a crisp apron over the top. She wears no boots, as the Boermin prefer to go barefoot—or rather, bare-hooved. A white bow adorns the coarse, tufty hair atop her head.

With their short, stocky build, stout snouts, tusks, and floppy ears, some people say they bear an uncanny resemblance to pigs, but that’s a cruel connection.

The Boermin are a kind people, friendly and quiet, who have an affinity for working the earth. They also have wicked tempers, and if you even breathe the word “hog” in their presence, they’ll likely chase you off their land with a sharp sickle.

The girl extends a wooden plank that holds sliced peaches, silently offering me a sample.

“They’re the best this time of year,” I tell her as I bite into the juicy fruit. “Have you had a good crop?”

She nods.

“Did the rain slow down business?” I ask, looking around, careful to phrase my questions so she can answer with a shake or a nod of her head. Though the Boermin can understand the common tongue, they lack the necessary vocal cords to speak it. Instead, they communicate with a variety of grunts that very few in Caldenbauer can understand.

She extends a hand and waves it side to side as if to say, “Only somewhat.”