I’m bleeding. Again. I squeeze my fingers into the inch-wide wound and keep going. No big deal. Just a scrape. Might as well be a paper cut. I wince and hiss through my teeth. Okay, maybe a tad worse than a paper cut, but even so, it doesn’t sting as much as Joshua’s failure to notice my fall.
The flourishing verdure thins and spreads. A fern here. A shrub there. I walk easier, no longer inhibited by weedy fingers of grass and vine. The branches seem to shift up the more the vegetation disperses, a trodden path materializing ahead. A tall hedge wall forms a dead end at the path’s conclusion, untrimmed branches sticking out like Ky’s cowlicks.
We near the rectangular bushes, their true formation sliding into focus. Not a dead end, but actually two overlapping walls, the barricade an illusion. Gage sidesteps into the opening and leads our group into a maze of green. Right, left. Right, left. I can’t help but think of the labyrinth scene in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. A Portkey would be great about now. I’d rather be anywhere but here.
The maze exits into a courtyard, a dry fountain as wide around as a trampoline at its heart. The knee-high bordering wall encircles a bronze statue of a serious-looking man with a book tucked between his forearm and chest. Unkempt hair brushes the back of his gladiator-style battle garb. As we near, I squint at the words engraved on a rusted plaque beneath him. “In sincere memory of Lancaster Rhyen—Wichgreen Province prince and founder of the League of Guardians.”
Lancaster Rhyen? As in Ky Rhyen?
We skirt the fountain, three to the left, four to the right. Ivy and wisteria crawl over its lip, and moss blankets the stony, hollowed-out belly. An iron gate, run over with more tangled wisteria vines, looms just beyond.
“Why are we stopping?” Ky shoves past me and Stormy.
Gage ignores the interruption, steps up to the gate, and rings a brass bell protruding from the vines.
Ky turns to Joshua. “We have to keep moving. A village is way too obvious. The Maple Mines would be less conspicuous. There’s an entrance just a couple more hours south—”
“Get back in line, traitor.” Gage darts to Ky, snatches a fistful of his jacket collar, and lifts him off his feet. “I have been lenient with your past discrepancies to this point. Do not try my patience or you may find yourself back in the Crypts where you belong.” He sets Ky down, bristling as he faces the gate once more.
Ky rolls his shoulders and resumes his position at the rear with Kuna. Kuna doesn’t say a word, merely shakes from silent laughter, apparently finding Ky’s attempt to undermine Gage humorous.
And Joshua? Joshua says nothing.
My shoulders tense and my toes curl in my boots. Fear creeps its way up my spine, raising the hairs on my neck. The feeling is irrational. Despite his caveman methods of bringing me here, Gage wouldn’t put our entire group in danger. If he feels this is a safe place to rest for the night, who is Ky to argue otherwise?
Right?
An owl soars overhead, hooting hello. A few moments lapse before a haggard, hunchbacked woman hobbles to the gate. Her walking stick tap, tap, taps in rhythm with her meander. When she smiles, she bares half a mouthful of missing teeth and spreads lips so cracked and flaky I expect them to fall off. “Welcome, my friends.” She opens the gate, and it whines in dispute, offsetting her cool, deep voice.
We file through, a cobbled path extending on the opposite side.
Once the gate closes with an ominous bang, the woman shuffles to the head of our line. “Come,” she coos.
On either side of the path, quaint cottages take refuge beneath the golden wings of maples. Walkways well kept. Weeds plucked. Stoops swept. A curtain in one window flutters, five little fingers curled around its hem.
I gasp. “There’s a child in there.”
Stormy just nods.
“Families live here? Shouldn’t they be at the Haven?”
“The Haven is for rebels only, people organized in the ongoing Revolution against Crowe and the Void. Many didn’t agree with his actions, but not all resolved to fight him. We’re in neutral territory now. The people here hold no loyalty to either side. Careful what you say. If Lark”—Stormy inclines her head toward the old woman who teeters as she leads—“gets the slightest notion of trouble, we’ll be sleeping in the woods.”
Lark? Why does the name ring a bell?
I glance back at the window. The curtain is still, the fingers gone. Stormy’s explanation only serves to deepen my anxiety. Is it really the best idea to stay in a place where the residents would surrender us should Crowe’s men come looking? Why is no one besides Ky questioning Gage’s decision?
The farther we walk, the more my thoughts battle. Majority rules, right? Besides, the others have done nothing to deserve my mistrust. Ky, on the other hand . . .
That settles it. The doubt stops here. I have to at least try to put my faith in those who have risked their lives for mine. Otherwise I’ll make myself sick with worry. What has Mom always said?
“Distressing about the future only serves to make us miserable in the present.”
When the path ends, it opens into a quaint square. Businesses bearing awnings and wooden signs line the perimeter, giving it a turn-of-the-century, small-town feel. A butcher shop with raw meat draped like tapestries beyond the glass. A bakery with bushels of bread and rolls on display. A library with a slanted welcome sign on its door. It’s a scene straight out of The Music Man. All this place needs is a building marked Billiards, and Professor Harold Hill would feel right at home.
Lark ushers our group to a two-story brick structure at the northernmost corner. Two weathered Adirondack chairs face outward from the porch, and a calico cat sleeps on a paint-chipped windowsill behind them. The sign above the door reads Wichgreen Village Inn, the letters bleeding gold. Whoever fashioned it didn’t wait for the paint to dry. Lark walks in, and we follow her into an inviting, bed-and-breakfast-type atmosphere.
A lemony scent settles around us. Whitewashed furniture dots a sitting room, and lonely vases rest on empty surfaces. I imagine in the spring they’re filled with flower arrangements. A chest-high counter stands close to the back wall, a balding man with deep dimples and rosy cheeks positioned behind. He’s got a book in one hand, his mouth agape as he reads by lamplight through a pair of spectacles.
Lark clears her throat.
Baldy doesn’t budge.
She ahems a second time, an overacted sound.
The man starts, as if he didn’t hear us come through the creaking door or walk over the moaning floorboards. His eyes fill with light. “Visitors? Visitors here?” He stretches up on his toes.
“So it would seem.” Lark gives him a nod and then directs her attention to us. “May I introduce Master Thomas Grizzly, innkeeper and librarian of Wichgreen Village.”
Thomas circumvents the counter, his distended belly squishing against the wall as he squeezes through to greet us. “Welcome, welcome. Pleasure, pleasure.” He shakes each of our hands in turn. “I’m Grizz, just call me Grizz. No need for formalities, no need at all.”
Grizz steps back, puffing out his chest and rubbing circles on his stomach. He lets out a soft whistle. “My, my. What a fine group of guests, a satisfactory lot of patrons indeed.”