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“Let’s keep moving,” I say, rising. “The tracks lead north.”

* * *

The aynauth’strail leads us further into the mountains before it begins to veer west. Like yesterday, the temperature is warm enough in the sun, and it’s only in the shadows that the chill is noticeable.

We’re in a valley now, surrounded on both sides by tall peaks. Treeline is visible up the mountain, but the aynauth stayed lower.

We spook a doe and her pair of adolescent fawns, and they dart into the trees.

“How many deer have we seen now?” Clover asks as the graceful creatures bound away.

Unable to stay quiet for long, she’s talking again. If I’m lucky, she’s decided, like me, that the moment we shared was a mistake spurred by lack of sleep and impaired common sense. I will be far more careful in the future, and we will simply put the awkward situation behind us.

“That was our thirteenth,” Pranmore says. “The first was a delicate doe, alone in the dappled shade of a towering fir, the second a proud young buck, with new antlers that he will soon shed. The third was—”

“It’s certainly not a lack of food that caused the aynauths to migrate lower,” I interrupt.

“What else could it be?” Clover leans over to rub her ankles through the thin leather of her boot.

She’s a decent horsewoman, but she’s not conditioned for this sort of trek. I warned her, but it’s not satisfying to see her struggling. Though she hasn’t complained, I know she’s tired.

I frown down the path the deer went, and then I nod the party forward. “I hear water ahead. The tracks lead that way. Once we find the stream, we’ll stop for a drink and a rest.”

“Oh, look,” Pranmore says when we reach the creek where the aynauth must have stopped. “Another dalvinberry bush. I was just feeling a bit peckish again.”

Either the first berries were, indeed, dalvinberries, or Woodmores truly have an immunity to toxins, because Pranmore never got sick.

“What if the first were dalvinberries and this is an imposter?” Bartholomew asks.

“I would be able to tell,” Pranmore says confidently, popping several of the berries into his mouth. “As I said, I have studied herbs and plant life since I was a child.”

Bartholomew frowns. “You’re not called fawns as children?”

Irritation crosses Pranmore’s face, but he patiently tucks it away. “No, Woodmores areelves—not deer.”

“But…you have antlers.”

“And you have two legs and two arms, similar to an aynauth. Perhaps you are one of the monsters?”

“Enough,” I interrupt. “I haven’t had enough sleep to be subjected to this conversation.”

Clover catches my eye as she sinks onto a boulder by the stream, her face bright with held in laughter, and I smile despite myself.

Pranmore shoots me an apologetic look, and then he turns back to Bartholomew. As a peace offering, he extends his hand. “Here, try some of the berries. They’re tart but quite good.”

Just as Bartholomew is reaching for them, Clover says to him, “Perhaps it would be wise to remember you are human and therefore have no immunity to natural toxins.”

The young man pauses, and then he offers Pranmore a sheepish smile before he withdraws. “Lady Clover has a point.”

Pranmore scoffs and then tosses the berries into his mouth all in one go. “I tell you, they’re fine. I would certainly sense any natural poison if they contained it.”

Looking torn, wanting to please them both, Bartholomew crosses his arms.

“There is nothing wrong with exercising caution,” I tell him. “It will keep you alive longer.”

Deciding now is as good a time as any to speak with Clover and reassure myself we’ve put the night behind us, I step up in front of her. She’s removed her boot and set her ankle atop her knee to examine a sore on the back of her heel. The skin has been rubbed raw and is now angry and red.

“Are your boots too tight?” I ask, kneeling in front of her and examining the wound.