Page 49

Time was moving on.

She turned slowly, looking for something sharp among the things left near the fire.

She found nothing.

She moved toward the carts, and then remembered she needed to return the rope around her waist, and unknotted it as she went.

The ground was cold and wet under her bare feet, and she wished for her boots. She drew the shawl more tightly around her and felt a surge of pure, hot hatred for Sirna.

The cart with the red door loomed out of the darkness and she wound the rope up and set it on the step.

There was a scrabble of sound which froze her in place, and then her eyes finally made out a black chicken in a wicker basket beside the steps. It fluffed out its feathers and gave a quiet cluck, then settled back to sleep.

Ava slowly let her limbs relax again, and began searching for something sharp.

Not a lot of things had been left out. These people didn’t have much, and what they did have they kept safe inside their carts.

When she found a table where someone had set out a shallow basin, soap and a razor beside their door, she closed her eyes in relief and found herself clasping a fist to her chest in thanks to the Whispering Grasses, like the Venyatux she’d pretended to be for months.

With a silent apology to whoever owned it, she took the bone-handled razor and went toward the horses.

Five of the seven had black tails, or very dark tails. It was difficult to see the exact color when the only light came from the fire a little way off.

She lifted up a handful of tail hair from the top and cut a large piece from the middle of the tail, trying to hide what she’d done.

The horses didn’t like it.

They stamped and a few nickered, but she was quick and she had a lot of horse tail hair by the time she was done.

She was sweating and shaking with effort, but she felt as if she were clutching her salvation.

She went back to the little table with the basin and soap, set her horse hair down carefully and ran the soap along the blade.

The river was close, so close she could hear the plop of frogs as they jumped in, and she made her way to the bank.

She knelt and carefully dipped the blade into the water, then rubbed the soap and bubbles off with the hem of her shift.

Then she set the razor down beside her and scooped up water with her hands to drink.

The touch of water to her throat hurt she was so thirsty.

She drank as much as she could and then staggered back to the table, hoping the shaver wouldn’t notice a blunting of his blade.

He’d kept it very sharp.

When she finally sat down in front of the fire with her horse hair, she felt sick, as if the water in her stomach had swollen to twice the volume, but she didn’t have a choice but to weave.

Not if she wanted to spend the next few days getting back to a semblance of herself and escaping.

She pinched a section of the big hank she had gathered off, used a single strand to secure the end, and began to plait the rope.

She worked for a few minutes, fingers a little clumsy, and then slowed as she realised something was wrong.

She wasn’t working any magic into her braid.

She stared down at the braid in her hands in horror.

She couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t woven magic into what she was doing. And when she didn’t want to include magic, she had to actively stop herself, hold herself back with effort.