Page 28 of Twisting Twilight (Homesteader Hearth Witch #9)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The ferry crossing was being watched.

Four high fae in the same uniforms worn by the inner grove guard milled around the dock and in the yard outside the little stone house like they owned the place. Four red deer grazed the river bank, the light reflecting off their sleek coats winking like copper pennies.

The ferry itself seemed to be a family-owned business, and the lesser fae child was busy strutting around in imitation of the soldiers when he wasn’t skipping rocks across the water or catching critters in the reeds.

The wife—some female with pale green skin and wings that wouldn’t stop twitching—wore a permanent scowl as she worked the outdoor oven.

From the way she pounded her fists into the dough she was eventually turning into flatbread…

let’s just say I didn’t want to get on her bad side.

The husband was of a similar green hue but without wings and had a crown of tiny yellow horns sprouting from his forehead.

Even from this distance, I could see his overlarge hands had stubby yellow claws and webbing in between the fingers.

The coward was on the flat-bed boat, supposedly repairing things but mostly just keeping himself scarce.

“They shouldn’t be here,” Kian muttered for the third time.

“Say that again and maybe the soldiers’ll finally disappear in a puff of smoke,” Flora snapped.

Her sarcasm was lost on the junior scholar. “You think so?”

I wisely smooshed a hand over the garden gnome’s mouth before she could reply.

All seven of us lay on our stomachs at the top of a hill, watching the ferry house from behind a screen of swaying grass.

The wind blew from the west across the river valley, taking our scents with it and leaving us more or less invisible if we would just stay low and quiet.

And if no one noticed the dozen magenta hummingbirds zipping above the tall grass hiding Daphne.

They’d been following her all afternoon, even after I’d sent a gentle air current or two to dispel them.

They simply regrouped, unusually attracted to her.

“Our absence at the court has been noted,” I whispered to the group. “The high lord knows our destination, so?—”

“But logic would say we’d take the easier route on the Path of Gulls by the sea,” Kian protested. “Why would?—”

Cody cuffed him on the back of the head. “Shaddap!”

“He’s casting a wider net as a precaution.” My voice was barely louder than the breeze sweeping up from the river valley. “No doubt these soldiers got a message and were redistributed from a nearby fort.” I cocked an eyebrow at him.

After a pause, Cody elbowed him. “That’s your cue to answer.”

“Oh! Yes, there is a watchtower east of here, by the sea. Those red stags could’ve carried them here in just a few hours.”

“Which means the river valley east of here is probably being watched. We’ll have to cut inland.” Inland meant west—closer to Sawyer, further from the Court of Shoals.

We had to hurry. This river marked the border of the Court of Beasts, and anything on this side of its banks was subject to the high lord’s rule.

I scanned the river valley, looking for a tree-studded bank where we could cross.

With my water magic, I could carve us a path or at least lower the height so we could ford it.

But none of it would matter if we were seen and caught.

Something told me Callan’s soldiers would risk an inter-court incident to apprehend us if it meant preventing a continental disaster.

Which it won’t be , I told myself firmly.

“Is there another ferry crossing in the west? Or somewhere we won’t be seen?” I asked.

Kian looked away. “Um, n-no… N-not until the Green Bridge.”

Shari’s head snapped towards him. She’d been fascinated with the intricacies of a blue star-shaped flower, but now her razor-sharp focus was on the junior scholar. “You stutter a lot, but it’s usually because you’re nervous. That stutter was a lie. That flush on your cheeks is not from the wind.”

All the Redbudians glared at him then, and though the junior scholar fidgeted, he revealed nothing.

“Young man,” Emmett said sternly. “A gentleman is defined by three things: how he treats his spouse, the quality of the friends he keeps, and the truth of his words. A confident, motivated, and kind man might only have two pennies to rub together, but his life will be rich with love and community and respect. He is never truly poor, for all his needs will have been met and earned through the quality of his character. An arrogant, fearful, and selfish man chooses to remain a victim of his own laziness, lies, and cruelty. He will never be satisfied, never know contentment, and live with loneliness and anger in his heart until the day he dies. I understand you fae live a very, very long time.”

Eyes wide, Kian’s bottom lip trembled. Then: “You don’t understand.”

Emmett’s voice was gentler this time. “You’re not giving us the opportunity to, son.”

“Or you’re assuming we don’t have the mental capacity to understand,” Flora butted in, “which is way ruder.”

How had that gnome gotten free of my hand?

Daphne assisted me by rolling the gnome under her arm as if she was force-snuggling a cat. With her face smothered in Daphne’s blue dress, Flora’s interruptions and protests were muffled.

“We need your help, Kian,” I said. “Please. We can’t do this without you.”

A conniving high fae would’ve blackmailed me now or used his aura to demand I look for the Blight-thwarting artifact in the Court of Shoals in exchange for a way across the river.

His beautiful, tortured eyes held mine, their glassy sheen betraying the turmoil inside him. What was he so desperate to hide that he was risking our quest and the completion of his thesis?

Kian broke contact to steal a look at Emmett. The grandfatherly antiques dealer gave him an encouraging nod.

“I know of another crossing,” he finally said, his words coming out in one long sigh. Like he was resigning himself to the gallows. “It’s not an official crossing. Kind of illegal, actually, since ferries and bridges are taxed. It’s risky?—”

“Does it have soldiers?” Cody asked.

The junior scholar shook his head with a snort. “Absolutely not.”

“Sold!” Flora had wiggled free of Daphne and presently thumped her fist against the turf like it was a gavel. She was the first to scuttle back down the hill. “Let’s go!”

We spent the rest of the day tracking inland over brutal terrain, each step taking us farther and farther from the Court of Shoals.

Nobody was very talkative that night, everyone too tired to think or thinking too hard upon the days that were whittling away.

I was in the latter camp, and sleep came in fits and spurts.

No nightmares, but no rest. In the morning, the trudging continued until at last it was safe to return to the smoother land that paralleled the River Neave.

A few hours later, we entered a young forest of paper birch trees trapped in the radiance of autumn.

The golden leaves were ablaze in the afternoon sun, and there was nary a one on the ground, which made our approach soft and inconspicuous.

Not that we would’ve been heard anyway, for permeating the forest was the sound of raucous music.

When we emerged from the sea of white trunks, we discovered a two-story wooden establishment on a small grassy lawn.

The original builder had gone for function over aesthetics—picture unembellished hunting lodge with a half-roof skirt separating the two stories—but someone else had come along to add some homey touches.

Lanterns hung from the eaves of the half-roof and provided a thoughtful ring of light around the entire tavern.

The better to be seen from any angle to draw in all the weary travelers, no doubt.

Flower boxes huddled against every window, bursting with buttercups.

A smartly trimmed hedge of purple-and-white heather lined the dirt path up to the front door and all along the perimeter of the building, and pixies zipped amongst the blooms. They appeared undisturbed from the loud music desperate to escape through every crack in the door and seam in the window frames.

It was even being pumped out of the chimney along with the smoke.

My heart leapt at the sight of the pixies, remembering my own flyers. A few days of misunderstanding rectified had led to a stout friendship. I wondered how Dart, Flit, Zip and all the others were faring. As well as could be expected, I hoped.

“This is it,” Kian announced nervously. “Best go inside quickly so, um, nobody sees us?”

“See us?” Cody swept a look around the clearing. The dirt road that was more a path than anything else was clear in both directions and a pine forest separating the establishment from the river was so dense we could only see scraps of glistening water. “Who’s gonna see us?”

The junior scholar wrung his hands, sweat dribbling down his temples. “This is the only tavern for many leagues in either direction, so the chances of notability are not zero.”

“Let’s not torture the boy,” Emmett said, putting a burst of speed into his stride. “Besides, something smells delicious. Is that barbecue?”

As we approached the front door, we did indeed spy a monster of a smoker on the river-facing side of the building, dry wood stacked in a nearby three-sided shed. Scurrying about the shed after bugs and throughout the yard were a bunch of brown hens.

“‘The Happy Hound,’” Flora said presently, translating the Faerish words on the sign hanging above the door. “‘Tavern and Inn.’ Sounds cozy.”

Daphne laughed lightly. “Just look at that grin on that dog’s face!”

The carving depicted a big-eared, black hound, the corner of whose lips did indeed quirk upward. Someone had taken the time to paint its eyes a shiny honey-brown color—a detail only the doting owner of a beloved pet would think to include.

Steeling himself, Kian lifted a hand and knocked on the door.

“Who knocks at a tavern door?” Flora asked. “You just walk in and belly up to the bar!”

“Will anyone have heard that?” Cody leaned forward to grab the door handle. “The gnome’s right, we should just?—”

The massive door was yanked open, and the Redbudians stumbled back. Flora actually shrieked.

An ogre—or maybe a half-ogre, given the fae-like features—filled the doorframe.

Not even the music could squeeze past him.

Pointed ears poked above a thick head of brown hair that seemed meticulously groomed.

Even his beard was brushed and oiled and partitioned into three points with the aid of gold beads.

The underbite of his ogre ancestry revealed two elongated canines—vestigial tusks—peeking past his lower lip.

A leather apron spotted with fat and juice hung from his waist, a cleaver hooked to a belt on his left and a brisket knife as long as my arm on his right.

The stink of roasting beef and fruitwood smoke rolled off him, confirming the assumption one could make from the brisket knife that this fae was indeed the tavern’s pit boss.

Maybe even owner, since he’s the one who answered the door.

His thick eyebrows shot up as a sparkle most un-ogrelike came to his brown eyes. “Cousin!” the half-ogre roared, yanking Kian into his arms.