For a while, Lili picked her way through the fields and thought herself terribly clever.
That feeling did not last.
The ground was wet, uneven, and spiteful. Grass slapped cold against her ankles. Hidden roots hooked her toes. Thorns worried at the hem of her dress as if the whole island had decided to take Leo's side. Small things crawled over her bare feet, and when something sharp bit her heel, she squeaked before she could stop herself.
Lili clapped a hand over her mouth.
Nothing answered, there was no alarm. Only the soft breathing of the fields and the distant murmur of the sea.
She glared down into the darkness.
"Coward," she whispered, though she was not certain whether she meant the biting thing, her foot, or herself.
A few miserable minutes later, she found herself hurrying back toward the road.
Her feet were strong and great for climbing, which was not the problem. But usually when she went outside she had been wearing boots. Reindeer-hide boots, and not walking around in foreign places on her bare feet, in the dark, where it seemed that every patch of grass hid some new little cruelty.
The road, at least, lay pale beneath the moon. It was empty too. Whatever movement passed along the town walls was too distant, too high, or too careless to notice one small shadow keeping low at the roadside.
The moment her soles touched the packed stones, Lili nearly sighed aloud.
The surface was strange beneath her feet, hard and carefully made, with gravel and old flat stones pressed deep into the earth. It was not soft. It was not kind exactly, but it was even and kind to her feet.
In the North, there were no roads like this. There were only paths made by hooves, weather, and time. So to her, this thing beneath her feet was truly astonishing.
She kept to the edge of the road, moving quickly but low, with dark fields stretching to her left and the wooden wall of the sleeping town rising to her right. Behind the wall, roofs painted blue crowded close together beneath the moon. A few chimneys still breathed thin threads of smoke into the night. Yet mostly silence rained over the night.
The road carried her onward. And for a little while, Lili let herself believe the worst was behind her.
Inside her belly, the little warmth slept quietly, no longer pulsing with the same bright insistence as before. The baby had helped too much already, perhaps. Lili rested one hand there as she walked.
"Sleep," she whispered. "Mamma can still walk."
She almost believed it.
Then the town wall ended, and the land opened suddenly to her right, sinking into low marsh silvered by moonlight. Reeds stood thick and black along the water. Pale mist clung close to the ground. Pools lay scattered everywhere, some no wider than a shield, others broad enough to swallow the reflection of the sky. The air smelled of mud, river weed, and things rotting politely beneath the surface.
To her left, the fields thinned into trees.
The forest waited there, dense and black, swallowing what little moonlight reached beneath its branches. Its edge was not clean. Bushes, brambles, and low twisted growth crowded together as if the wood had grown teeth to keep strangers out.
Lili slowed. Ahead, the bridge came into view.
It crossed the dark river in a long narrow back of stone and timber, lit by torches at either end. The flames tossed orange light over the rails and threw thin shadows across the planks. Men stood there. Guards, clearly. Three of them at least, broad shapes in helmets and blue tabards, their spearheads catching firelight whenever they shifted.
Two leaned together in lazy talk. The third had a dog.
Lili crouched beside the road so quickly her knees nearly struck the ground.
The animal bounded away from the guard with a stick in its mouth, then wheeled and came rushing back, tail lashing happily as if night watches were made for games. It was a sheepdog, or close enough to one. She had seen the breed in Albion often enough from the tower window and in the castle yard: sharp-eared, clever-eyed, fast on its feet, loyal to any man stupid enough to throw a stick at three in the morning.
Her heart sank at the sight of it. Men could be fooled, but dog's had those sharp noses of theirs.
Still, if she wanted off this island, she had to cross the river. Beyond it lay the larger land of Albion, and somewhere beyond that, forests, and hopefully wilderness that these people had not yet conquered.
Lili slowly turned her head.
To the left, the forest waited, dark and thick with shrubbery. While to the right lay the marsh. It was open beneath the moon, treacherous but visible. If she moved through it, she could reach the riverbank quicker, and swim across where the guards would not see her.
The thought made her stomach tighten.
Lili was not helpless in water. No northern child was allowed to be entirely helpless near water. She had splashed through summer lakes, crossed cold streams, waded after animals, and once been pushed laughing into a fjord by her eldest brother, who had regretted it when she came out swinging.
But she was no seal.
In the North, swimming belonged to the short summers and to children too proud to admit their teeth were chattering. No sane person swam for pleasure most of the year. Water killed the foolish as quickly as spears did, and with far less noise.
Still, with no real choice given, she left the road for the marsh. At once, cold mud pressed between her toes, her face tightened, yet she pushed on.
Reeds brushed her knees. Hidden water filled the hollows beneath the grass, so that one step felt firm and the next sank to her ankle. She gripped her cloak high, gathering the dark wool and green skirt in both hands, and moved slowly, testing each place before trusting it.
Her bare feet hated everything.
Twigs jabbed her soles. Hawthorn snagged her cloak. Nettle kissed her shins with sharp little stings. Flint chips hid like teeth beneath the mud and scraped her pale skin. The neat rhythm of the road vanished behind her, replaced by wet earth, sucking steps, and unseen malice.
"Au—au—au," she hissed under her breath, every other step.
The marsh did not appreciate her disturbance.
A bird burst up from the reeds with offended wings and a sharp cry that nearly stopped Lili's heart. She dropped flat behind a willow stump, wet grass kissing her cheek, while the bird stitched a crooked path across the moon as if fleeing a murder.
Watching the bird go, she then crawled forward, and soon came before a hedgehog that bumbled out of the tall reeds, saw her, and froze.
She froze too.
For one absurd moment they stared at each other: the escaped northern captive and the bristling little marsh philosopher, both equally displeased by the meeting.
Then the hedgehog decided this was no night for courage and waddled away back into the reeds.
"Wise," Lili whispered after it.
She rose again and moved on.
Two steps later, a family of rabbits exploded from a clump of grass beside her, white tails flashing in the moonlight.
Lili bit back a cry and stumbled sideways.
"Sorry," she whispered furiously. "Sorry. Go back to sleep."
Lili pushed deeper into the marsh, watching each step as carefully as she could.
The reeds thinned ahead of her, opening onto a patch of low grass and dark, wet earth. It looked solid enough beneath the moonlight, so she stepped forward.
The ground gave way.
Cold water rushed over her feet, then her ankles, then her calves. Lili gasped and tried to pull back, but the mud sucked at her legs and dragged her down another inch.
"No, no, no—"
The water climbed her thighs. Then her hips.
Her dress drank it in at once, growing heavy around her legs. She reached for a clump of reeds, missed, and sank again. The water lapped against her belly, then rose higher, cold enough to steal the breath from her chest.
"Oh no," she whispered.
The marsh pulled at her slowly, greedily, as if the earth itself had decided to swallow her.
Panic snapped through her. Lili grabbed a fistful of river reeds with both hands and pulled. For one awful moment, the mud held her fast. Then the reeds bent but did not break, and because she was small and light, her body slid free with a wet, sucking sound.
She scrambled forward on her elbows and knees, dragging herself out of the sunken patch and onto the grass. When she finally rolled onto her side, she was soaked nearly to the chest, shivering hard, her dress clinging cold and heavy to her skin.
For a moment, she only lay there, breathing.
Then something moved on her leg.
Lili looked down.
A small black thing clung to her shin.
It was fat, wet, and wriggling.
Her eyes widened.
"Oh my God."
She jerked upright, grabbed at it, and pulled. The thing stretched before it came free, and Lili made a small, helpless sound of disgust as she flung it away.
Then she saw another.
And another.
Her legs were crawling with them.
"Oh—no, no, no, no—"
She pulled up her soaked dress, forgetting modesty entirely, and attacked them with both hands. They clung to her calves, her ankles, the tops of her feet, even between her toes.
Lili squeaked, whimpered, and cursed all at once.
"Get off—get off—get off me, you horrible little things!"
One by one, she pinched them loose and threw them into the grass. Tiny red marks dotted her pale skin where they had fed. Every time she found another, she made another miserable little noise, half fury, half disgust.
When the last one was gone, Lili stumbled to her feet.
That was enough.
She was done with the marsh. Done with mud. Done with reeds. Done with crawling things and biting things and every cursed wet patch of Albion earth.
Gathering her dress in both hands, she ran.
She no longer cared about moving gracefully or quietly. She splashed through shallow water, tore through grass, and stumbled over roots, heading for the river as fast as her bare feet could carry her.
At last, the marsh opened as Lili burst onto the riverbank and stopped.
The river lay before her, dark and wide beneath the moon. Wider than she had hoped. Thirty meters at least, perhaps more. Moonlight ran broken across the current, turning every ripple silver for a heartbeat before the black water swallowed it again.
It was moving fast, too fast.
Lili shivered at the sight of it. To her right, the river widened as it ran toward the open sea, the water darkening where the tide waited beyond the mouth. No, that way was death. If the current took her there, she would be dragged out into the cold black water and never find shore again.
So she looked left. Farther upstream, the bridge stood beneath torchlight. But now she saw only two guards upon it, dark shapes against the flames.
Lili's breath caught. Where was the third?
She searched the shadows behind her, but saw nothing. No shape moved among the reeds. No torchlight glimmered in the marsh. Wherever the missing guard had gone, it no longer mattered. The bridge was watched, the sea waited to her right, and the marsh behind her had already proven itself a miserable enemy.
That left only the river.
Lili looked straight ahead, across the dark water to the far bank, where the trees stood black and close beneath the moon. There was no going back now.
She swallowed, gathered what courage she had left, and stepped in. Cold closed around her ankles at once. Then her shins. Then her knees.
Lili sucked in a sharp breath. She was already soaked from the marsh, muddy and wet nearly to the chest, but this was different. The marsh had been foul, sucking, and still. The river was alive. It pulled at her legs the moment she entered, dragging hard toward the sea as if there were hands beneath the surface.
She planted her feet against the stones under the water, the current pushed hard, and her body swayed.
Lili clenched her jaw and took one more step.
The water climbed higher, brushing the hem of her soaked dress against her thighs. It tugged at the cloth, dragged at her cloak, and whispered around her knees with cold, patient strength.
She had to swim fast, but for one long moment, she could not make herself move.
Then a rustle came from behind her. Lili glanced back to look.
Another sound followed, closer this time. Brush shifted. A twig snapped. Torchlight flickered through the reeds, copper and gold, swelling and shrinking between the willow stems.
Before Lili could turn fully, a dog burst out onto the bank. Black and white, with tan marks over its bright eyes, the sheepdog bounded through the grass with its tongue lolling and its tail wagging as if the whole night had been arranged for its amusement, as it then barked, "Warf!"
Lili squeaked and staggered backward.
Her heel slipped on a stone. Water splashed around her legs as she fought to keep her balance, one hand flying out toward nothing. The dog barked again, not angry, not hunting, but happy.
That did not matter for Lili. To her, a dog was the same as a wolf, for she had never been this close to a dog before. In the North, there were wolves: gray shapes at the edge of firelight, yellow eyes between trees, tracks in snow where the herds had grown nervous. Wolves were dangerous when hungry, and they would not hesitate to take the weak and vanish into the dark.
This creature looked too much like one.
"Go," she whispered, waving a shaking hand. "Go away."
The dog only barked again, delighted.
"Sheepy!" a man called from the brush. "What hast thou found, boy? What is it? Sheepy, here!"
Lili's blood turned cold.
The missing guard was coming. His torchlight pushed through the reeds, and then he appeared.
He was broad and brawny, older than the others, with gray threaded through a thick beard and a kettle helm shoved back on his head. Mail covered his body beneath a blue tabard, and the torch in his hand painted fire over his rough face. He looked like an old bear forced into armor: heavy, scarred by weather, and stronger than any man his age had a right to be.
He stopped when he saw her.
For one heartbeat, he only stared. There she stood in the river, wet, muddy, barefoot, her dark cloak clinging to her body, her pale hair half-hidden beneath a hood that had begun to slip. The water pulled at her legs. Her eyes were wide with terror.
The old guard lifted the torch higher.
"What in God's name dost thou there, girl?" he barked. "Out of the water with thee! Dost thou seek to drown?"
Lili understood almost none of it, he spoke too fast, with too thick of an Albion accent. His voice sounded like command. His armor bore the lion. His body filled the riverbank, broad and iron-clad, cutting off the way back.
Panic struck her hard. She turned and threw herself toward the deeper water.
The river took her at once. Her feet slid from the stones. The current caught the heavy cloth of her dress and pulled. For a terrible instant, the far bank swung crooked before her eyes, and the water dragged at her hips, trying to turn her sideways.
Then the old guard crashed in after her. His armored boots struck the riverbed with a heavy splash. Water burst around his legs. He lunged forward, torch lifted high in one hand, and seized her with the other just as the current began to take her.
Lili screamed.
His arm closed around her and hauled her back against his chest. He was hard as a wall behind her, hot with breath and life beneath wet wool and iron.
"Peace, girl!" he snapped. "Peace! Cease thy flailing, or thou'lt drown thyself yet!"
She did not understand the words, only the powerful armoured arm around her middle. The helplessness of being held.
"No!" Lili cried, twisting wildly. "No, let go!"
She struck at him with her elbows, kicked against the river, tried to pry his arm away from her belly. He held her with one arm as if she were no heavier than a child, keeping the torch high with the other while he backed toward the bank step by step.
"By the saints, thou art a wild thing," he growled. "Hold still!"
She did not hold still, yet it made no difference. He dragged her from the pull of the current and carried her up onto the riverbank. There, on firmer ground, he let her go like a man dropping a sack of grain.
Lili stumbled, caught herself on one hand, and scrambled back from him at once. Her chest heaved. Her soaked dress clung cold to her legs. Her whole body shook from the river, from fear, from the knowledge that she had almost been swept away.
The dog came circling close, nose twitching, tail wagging. Lili flinched hard.
The old guard sighed. "Back, Sheepy. Give the lass room."
The dog stopped, ears lifting, then sat in the grass with a soft huff, as if very disappointed that no one appreciated his good work.
The old man looked down at Lili and lowered his torch a little, keeping the flame away from her face.
"Calm thyself," he said. "The beast will not harm thee. Sheepy finds folk. He doth not eat them."
She caught only pieces, "Calm, not harm, Sheepy." The dog looked at her with bright, harmless eyes and wagged once.
Lili was not reassured.
The old guard studied her more carefully now. His gaze took in her bare feet, scratched and bleeding from the marsh. The soaked hem of her dress. The mud on her cloak. The way one hand had gone, without thought, toward her belly.
His rough brows drew together.
"Well then," he said, quieter. "What art thou? Intruder? Traveller? Or only a foolish lass who took the river for a road?"
Lili stared at him. She did not know how to answer. Worse, she feared that if she answered at all, the North would come spilling out of her mouth. One wrong sound, one wrong word, and he would know she did not belong.
So Lili kept silent and looked up at him with pleading eyes.
The motion loosened her hood. It slipped back just enough for the torchlight to catch what she had tried to hide. Platinum hair, pale as moonlit snow, clung wetly to her cheeks and throat. Her violet eyes lifted by accident, wide and frightened in the firelight. Below, her soaked clothes pressed close to her body, the wet fabric revealing far more of her small, pale shape than she would ever have chosen to show.
The old guard went still.
Lili saw the change in him. It was brief. So brief another girl might have missed it. But Lili knew that look. She had seen it in Leo. In sailors. In castle guards who stared too long before remembering themselves. Interest, want, that first cruel spark of a man realizing something beautiful stood close enough to reach, helpless and afraid before him.
Her stomach clenched.
Then the spark vanished almost as quickly as it had come. The old guard looked away at once. He turned his eyes aside as if ashamed to have looked wrongly at her at all, then thrust out one rough hand.
"Up with thee, lass," he said gruffly. "No more river. If thou must cross, use the bridge, for God's sake. Men built it for that very purpose, and good men paid dear for it. One was taken by this current and carried clean to the sea. Never found, he was. Thou wouldst have followed him."
Lili poor as her language skills were, understood his meaning.
The old man's voice had changed. It still barked like command, but beneath the bark was something else: stern worry, the kind her father had used when scolding a child who had climbed too high or wandered too near thin ice. Harsh words, yes, but wrapped around fear.
His eyes, when she dared glance at them again, were pale blue and tired.
Not Leo's blue.
Not bright and hungry.
Old blue. Weathered blue. A father's blue, almost.
Lili hesitated.
She looked at his offered hand.
Then at the bridge.
Then at Sheepy, who wagged hopefully.
The old guard sighed.
"Stubborn," he muttered.
Before she could decide, he reached down, caught her by the arm, and pulled her upright. Her knees buckled almost at once.
He frowned.
"No boots," he said. "Barefoot through marsh and thorn. Foolish child."
Lili tried to step back.
He did not let her. With a grunt, he bent, caught her around the waist, and hoisted her up over one shoulder as if she were a sack of grain.
Lili shrieked.
"Peace!" he snapped, shifting the torch to keep the flame clear of her wet cloak. "I shall carry thee, that is all. Thou canst scarce stand, and I'll not have thee cutting thy feet to ribbons for pride."
She understood carry. That was enough to frighten her worse.
Lili went rigid over his shoulder, one hand braced against his back, the other clamped over her belly as best she could. Her face burned with terror and humiliation. She wanted to kick, bite, claw, anything.
But she was too tired, and he was too strong.
The old guard began walking, muttering under his breath as he went, with the dog trotting beside them, proud as a prince, occasionally glancing up at Lili as though expecting praise for saving her from the river.
Lili did not praise him.
She hung over the guard's shoulder, soaked, trembling, and silent, trying to decide whether she had been saved or captured.
Soon the bridge torches widened before them. And there the two other guards turned as the old guard came into the light carrying her.
One of them, young by the look of him, tall and broad as well, leaned on his spear and grinned.
"Eamon," he called, "what trouble hast thou dragged from the reeds this time?"
The second, shorter and sharper of face, pushed his helm back and peered at her. "That is no trouble. That is a whole drowned maiden."
"Near enough," Eamon grunted.
He lowered Lili from his shoulder and set her on her feet between them.
Her bare soles touched the cold bridge stones, and at once she felt smaller than ever. Three armored men stood around her, broad-shouldered, iron-clad, bright with torchlight. Their blue tabards bore the lion. Their shadows stretched over her like prison bars.
Lili lowered her head.
The taller young guard whistled softly.
"By the blessed saints," he said. "She is a pretty one."
Lili stiffened.
Eamon rounded on him at once. "Mind thy tongue, Rob."
Rob lifted both hands. "No harm meant."
"Then mean less of it."
The other guard gave Rob a look of lazy amusement. "Thou hast the grace of a kicked mule."
"And thou hast the face of one, Hugh," Rob answered.
Hugh snorted. "Aye, yet ladies still prefer me."
"Ladies with bad eyes, mayhap."
Eamon's stare cut between them, and both men shut their mouths.
Lili watched them from beneath the pale fall of her wet hair, not understanding every word, but understanding enough. They were joking. Teasing one another. Speaking as if she were some odd trouble brought to the bridge, not a prisoner to be seized and dragged back.
That made no sense to her.
Rob tried again, gentler this time. "What is thy name, miss?"
Lili did not answer.
Hugh leaned slightly to see her face, then stopped when she flinched. His expression softened.
"Easy, lass," he said. "No man here means thee ill."
Lili still said nothing.
Speaking would betray too much. Her tongue was northern. Her words were clumsy. If she opened her mouth, the truth might climb out before she could stop it.
Eamon answered for her.
"She is frightened, half-frozen, and near drowned. That is name enough for now."
The younger men exchanged a look, but neither pressed.
Sheepy padded close and leaned his shoulder against Lili's leg.
She nearly jumped out of her skin.
The dog looked up at her, tongue hanging out, tail sweeping the stones with pleased importance.
"He likes thee," Rob said.
Lili stared down at the animal with wide, uncertain eyes. Good dog boy, some foolish part of her thought. Dangerous wolf-dog, the rest of her insisted.
Eamon clicked his tongue and gave Sheepy a gentle nudge with his boot. "Give the lady room, boy."
Eamon turned back to her and pointed across the bridge, toward the dark road on the far side.
"Go on, then. Cross, if crossing is thy wish. Thou art no prisoner of ours. Within Albion's bounds, a free woman walks under the king's peace."
Lili stared at him.
"You… let me go?" she asked carefully.
Eamon's pale eyes softened, though his face remained stern, as he answered simply with an, "Aye"
Rob struck one fist lightly against his chest. "And if the dark troubles thee, fair miss, thou need only ask. We are reliable men."
Hugh nodded with grand importance. "Aye. Men who have stood watch upon the northern marches and faced Lykans in the night."
"Not alone," Eamon said dryly.
Rob waved that aside. "No wise man faces a Lykan alone. Still, we drove the beasts off, did we not? They were huge like horse's, with claws like sickles, eyes like burning coals, howling fit to freeze the marrow—"
"And yet here we stand," Hugh added, pleased with himself. "So if thou hast need of escort, lass, thou art under worthy protection."
Lili understood only pieces of it. Darkness. Protection. Beasts. Northern marches. The young men were trying to sound brave, perhaps trying to comfort her, perhaps trying to impress her.
She did not know what to do with that.
So she lowered her eyes and held her cloak tighter.
Eamon gave both men a tired look. "Enough. Ye will frighten her worse."
Before either could answer, Sheepy stepped closer.
The sheepdog had grown bored of men speaking. He pressed his nose not to Lili's hand, nor her cloak, but to her middle.
To her belly.
He gave a soft, questioning whuff, then rested his brow there gently, as though greeting something hidden beneath the wet cloth.
Lili went still so fast it was as if the night had frozen her.
Her hands moved at once, covering her stomach.
All three men saw.
The joking vanished.
Rob's grin faded first. Hugh's brows drew together. Eamon looked from her hands to her face, then closed his eyes for one brief moment, as if asking God for patience.
"Art thou with child?" he asked quietly.
Lili's throat tightened, as her fingers curled protectively over her stomach.
Slowly, she nodded.
Hugh swore under his breath and looked toward the river, jaw tight.
Rob's face changed completely. Whatever foolish flirtation had lived there a moment ago was gone.
"Barefoot," Eamon muttered. "Soaked through. In the marsh. With child."
Lili stepped back.
"I go," she said quickly. "Please. I go over bridge."
Her Albion words came out thin and broken.
The men heard the foreignness in them. Of course they did, but none of them reached for her.
Eamon studied her face, her wet pale hair, her violet eyes, her trembling hands, and the way she stood like a deer with a snare still around one leg.
"Didst thou run from home?" Rob asked, softer now. "Is there some man after thee?"
Lili shook her head too fast, "No, I go."
"We can take thee to the chapel," Hugh said. "There are women there. Warm hearth, dry clothes. None would harm thee."
"No," Lili said again, sharper. Then, afraid of sounding too sharp, she lowered her head. "Please, I go."
Eamon watched her for a long moment. He could stop her, but instead, the old guard exhaled through his nose.
"Then go," he said. "But not empty-handed."
Lili tensed, but he only turned to the younger men and demanded whatever useful things they had. Rob gave a small bundle of bread, cheese, and salt meat. Hugh offered a leather canteen of water. Eamon, seeing her torn and bleeding feet, knelt with a grunt and wrapped them in folded cloth.
Lili stood frozen through it all.
Eamon tied the cloth firm around one foot, then the other, and stepped back.
"There," he said. "Poor boots, but better than none."
Then Rob hesitated, reached to his belt, and drew a knife in a dark leather sheath.
Eamon's eyes narrowed. "Rob."
"She needs more than bread," Rob said.
The knife was no supper blade stolen from a tray. It was a good working knife, with a polished wooden grip and a broad, honest blade. Rob held it out by the sheath, hilt turned toward her.
"Roads are long," he said. "Some men are worse than roads."
Lili stared at it, then slowly took it. The weight struck her harder than she expected. It was a real knife, better than anything she had ever held.
"Thank you," she whispered, the words shaking.
The men seemed pleased by that, though they tried to hide it beneath roughness and jokes.
For one strange moment, Lili almost smiled.
Then Hugh's gaze caught on her wet pale hair.
His brow creased.
"Eamon," he said slowly. "Was not the duke's northern woman said to have hair like—"
Eamon's head snapped toward him.
Hugh stopped.
Rob looked at Lili's face, then quickly away.
For one terrible moment, Lili could not breathe. She stared at them in slight disbelief. They knew, or they suspected enough. And still they stepped aside.
Eamon gave her the smallest nod.
"Go, lass."
Lili clutched the food beneath her cloak, slung the canteen over her shoulder, tied the knife at her belt with shaking hands, and began crossing the bridge.
The river ran beneath her, dark and fast, dragging moonlight toward the sea. She kept to the middle as Eamon had told her. Her wet dress clung to her legs. Her body shook with cold. Her heart beat so hard she felt it in her throat.
No one stopped her.
Then, behind her, claws clicked softly against stone.
Lili stiffened but did not turn.
The sound came again, quicker now. A light trot. Then a soft, hopeful whine.
Sheepy.
The dog had followed her onto the bridge.
For one foolish, aching heartbeat, Lili almost wanted him to keep coming. He was frightening, yes. Too bright-eyed, too sharp-toothed, too much like the wolves of home. But he was warm too. Kind, in his dog way. And he had found her without meaning to betray her.
"Sheepy," Eamon called from behind, his voice firm. "Back, boy."
The paws stopped. A small unhappy bark answered.
"Back."
Sheepy whined again, then, after a moment, his claws clicked away from her, returning toward the torchlight.
Lili swallowed hard.
She did not dare stop. She did not dare look back. If she did, gratitude might make her weak, and fear might make her run.
So she crossed the rest of the bridge in a hurry, stepped onto the mainland road, and let the darkness take her.
Ahead, the road ran between hedges toward the black line of trees. Somewhere beyond them lay fields, villages, forests, hunger, cold, danger, and perhaps a place where no one knew her name.
Lili pressed one hand to her belly through the cloak and kept moving.
For the first time since the ships, since the tower, since Leo's hands and lion banners and locked doors, a small bewildering thought followed her into the dark.
Perhaps Albion was not made only of brutes.