She must work for him, that’s why she was in Greymere, helping to collect the tithes. I notice now that she wears a set of keys and a silver sparklight on a long chain around her neck. The same as our keeper does, in the village.
The monster stands beside her. The two of them are immersed in a hushed, urgent conversation, but when they notice Arien and me, they fall silent. The monster starts to pace a restless circle on the road, his boots scraping angrily through the dust.
The woman turns toward us slowly, her face knit into a frown. “Really? This is him? He’s just a kid.”
“I’m thirteen.” Arien folds his arms. “I’m not a kid.”
The monster pauses in his pacing and sighs. “Yes, Florence. This is him.”
He spreads his hands, as if challenging her to argue. She stays silent, but her eyes linger on Arien, and she shakes her head, clearly uncertain. Then she glances at me and looks even more confused. “What about her, then?”
I hitch the strap of my satchel higher up on my shoulder. They’re talking about Arien and me like we’re not even here. “I’m his sister.”
Her pale green eyes narrow. “Are you also—？”
The monster cuts in. “Never mind about her. She’s no one.” He goes over to one of the horses, unbuckles the pack strapped onto the saddle, and takes out another pair of gloves. He pulls them on, fastening them tight at his wrists. “Let’s go. I’ve wasted enough time here already.”
Florence puts her arm around Arien’s shoulders and guides him toward one of the horses. She helps him up before deftly climbing into the saddle behind him. Neither of us has ridden before, and Arien looks very small, so far up on the horse’s back.
Then Florence flicks the reins, and she and Arien are gone, a cloud of dust on the road that grows rapidly smaller. I’m left alone. Alone—with the monster. His sharp features twist as he looks me over. The way he described me—no one—still stings.
“I’m to ride with you?”
He shoves back the hood of his cloak, drags a gloved hand through his long hair. “Unless you’d prefer to stay behind.”
I shake my head quickly. I look up at the horse. It’s enormous, with immeasurably deep, liquid eyes. It shifts restlessly on silver-shod hooves. I can see the ends of the nails, where they’ve been driven through its feet to hold the shoes in place.
Shakily, I touch its side. Muscles and ribs and heat move against my fingers as it takes a long, hollow breath.
The monster looks at me pointedly. Dread creeps over me at the thought of the two of us, pressed close together as we ride. “You’ll have to help me up.”
He puts out a hand. I fold up my skirts and he looks disdainfully at my dirt-grimed boots. Beneath the cloak, his dark linen shirt doesn’t have a single crease. His own boots are polished to a dull gleam. I step hard against his hand as he helps me, hoping I smudge as much of the dust onto him as I can.
He looks at me askance, and then he laughs—a dark, incredulous sound. “Why are you wearing woolen stockings in the middle of Summerbloom?”
I grab for my skirts and pull the hem down to cover my knees. “Why are you wearing a winter cloak?”
He ignores my question, but he reaches absently for the collar of his cloak, adjusting the clasp where it ties at his shoulder. Then he gets onto the horse behind me. Clasping the reins in one hand, he wraps his arm around my waist. I suck in an involuntary breath and lean away from him as much as possible. He kicks the horse into motion. Grit from the road comes up, and I’m choked by the dust.
Each movement of the horse, each jolt and hoofbeat over the road, feels as though it will throw me loose. It’s only the monster’s arm, so tight around me, that holds me in place. I feel the dense heat of his chest against my back, his rough breath stirring my hair.
Trees flash by, streaked crimson as the sun sets. Twilight spreads through the forest with glowing brilliance and umber shadows. We round a bend in the road, and I can see Arien and Florence, far up ahead.
“What did you mean, that you could help my brother?” I ask the monster. “What do you want with him?”
I turn, trying to see his face, and flinch. His skin is washed red by the last flare of sunlight, as though he’s been drenched with blood.
“You really don’t know?” He waits, but I don’t answer. With a scowl, he goes on. “I want his shadows.”
“They’re not his. They’re only dreams. Arien has nothing for you.”