Stray (26 page)

Aislynn took a step back. And another.

Then, before she could move any farther, someone reached out of the darkness behind her and slid a hand over her lips.

A
islynn tried to scream, but the sound was muffled by the leather glove pressing against her mouth. She felt a warm breath on her cheek and started to struggle.

“Shhh,”
Ford whispered.

Aislynn stilled, and he let go. She spun around to face him, her heart racing. What was he doing here?

“Did you hear something?” Madame Moira asked. It sounded as though she was just a few yards away.

Taking her hand, Ford pointed to the other side of the garden, where Aislynn could make out the shape of another gate. This one was open.

“Go!” he urged hoarsely.

Gathering her skirts in her hands, Aislynn rushed toward it, Ford close on her heels. Her dress caught on the latch, but she freed herself with one sharp yank and tumbled out of the garden doorway onto a dusty path. Scrambling to her feet, she glanced frantically around. They were surrounded by hedges.

“This way.” Ford pointed to a break in the foliage.

Aislynn could hear the headmistress in the garden. “Is someone there?”

Stumbling on the uneven ground, Aislynn's feet slid painfully in her too-tight shoes, but she did not slow. Ford's breath and his footsteps were heavy behind her as they raced through the hedge maze.

Suddenly it ended. Aislynn skittered to a stop at the edge of a road. There was the forest, dark and waiting. “You just be careful of the woods,” Aislynn remembered Ford telling Thackery once. “They're dangerous.” That night seemed so long ago.

Ford's footsteps came crashing behind her. “Don't stop!” he wheezed.

Heels clicking on the stone road, Aislynn sprinted into the trees, the darkness swallowing her immediately.

Her feet hit the forest floor, breaking through the twigs and leaves that were strewn across the ground. The faraway sounds of the party, of the world, faded as she ran. Every muscle burned, and she was sure her feet were bleeding. Her corseted lungs screamed for air.

With dense branches above, there was hardly any moonlight now to guide her way, so she didn't see the thick tree trunk until it was too late. Aislynn slammed against the ground. It was muddy and slick. Spots swam in front of her eyes as if someone had boxed her ears, and she struggled to pull herself up, her hands and knees unsteady.

Somewhere behind her, a branch snapped. Footsteps. “Ford?” she whispered, still out of breath. The footsteps came closer and faster.

Suddenly a hooded figure burst through the trees in front of her. Aislynn scrambled backward, her hands and knees slipping in the muck.

“Where is it?” The stranger yanked her to her feet. “Where is it? Where is the mirror?” he thundered.

Aislynn kicked him. His grip loosened, but before she could pull away, his other hand was around her throat.

“Don't try to run,” he hissed, his hood and the dark masking his features. Tangling his fingers in her necklace, he gave it a yank, and the delicate chain broke. When he held it up to examine it, Aislynn saw that he was wearing a large silver ring. A silver ring with a white stone. It began to glow.

“Where's the mirror?” Westerly demanded, his hand on her neck tightening.

Her magic gave a strange lurch, as if it was being pulled from inside her. As if there was a hand sliding up through her ribs, stripping the magic away from her very core. As if she was being turned inside out and scraped clean.

Then, suddenly, the feeling stopped. Aislynn dropped to the ground, gasping. Westerly was backing away from her, his hands raised. The ring was no longer glowing.

Something brushed against her arm.

A wolf was standing next to her. Aislynn jerked back, startled, but the animal didn't seem to notice. It snarled at Westerly, sharp white teeth gleaming.

It was the animal from her dreams. With a shaking hand, Aislynn reached out and touched its silvery fur. It was soft and warm. The wolf turned and gave her chin a gentle nudge.

With an angry cry, Westerly lunged toward them.

Aislynn's magic returned with a burning rush. She slammed her hand into the grass and from the ground burst a wall of fire, the power of it blowing Westerly off his feet. Through the flames, Aislynn saw him hit the forest floor several yards away. He did not get up.

Without hesitation, the smell of smoke and flame in her nose, Aislynn pulled herself to her feet and took off, deeper into the trees, the wolf racing beside her.

H
er legs were warm, but the rest of her was cold. The blanket must have slipped to the end of the bed, Aislynn thought hazily as she reached out for it. But instead of wool, her fingers found a soft, thick handful of fur.

Aislynn's eyes snapped open. The silver wolf was lying on her legs, and she was sitting up against a tree.

“Oi, you!” A girl's voice broke through her confused haze. “Get up!” There were two figures standing nearby, silhouetted by the sun.

Aislynn scrambled to her feet. Her first instinct was to bolt, but her knees buckled and she collapsed next to the wolf, which licked her face.

“Whoa there,” a male voice said. He stepped forward but paused at the wolf's growl. “We're not going to hurt you,” he said.

“Who are you?” Aislynn's voice was hoarse.

“Who are
you
?” asked the girl, stepping closer. She was around Aislynn's age, and like the boy, she had a blade at her side, a quiver of arrows across her back, and a bow in her hand. Their clothes, colorful and worn, indicated that they were peasants. The girl's dark hair was braided and pinned around the crown of her head, her face covered in freckles.

Kneeling down, the boy reached out to the wolf, which approached cautiously. Aislynn watched as she sniffed the extended hand and gave it a lick, her tail wagging.

“I was attacked,” Aislynn said, the rest of the evening coming back to her in a painful jumble. The headmistress's threat. Ford. The glowing ring. Westerly's hand around her throat. The mirror.

The mirror . . .

Aislynn fumbled for the bag at her waist, but instead of the familiar curved edge, she felt only the soft crunch of paper.

“No,” she whispered, her insides turning to ice. She and Linnea had never switched their bags back. The wolf let out a quiet whine. “No, no, no, no.” Tears began to fill Aislynn's eyes. She was exhausted and everything hurt.

The boy and girl exchanged a nervous look.

“We can't leave her here,” the boy said, but the girl looked unconvinced. He knelt down next to Aislynn. “What's your name?”

Tahlia had trusted her with that mirror, and Aislynn had left it behind. She touched a hand to her throat. The skin was raw. What would Westerly do if he discovered the mirror was with Linnea?

“Aislynn,” she finally said. The boy's eyebrows shot up.

“Thackery's Aislynn?” he asked.

Somehow, despite the fear and exhaustion, Aislynn still managed to blush. “I—”

But he was already standing, wiping his hand on his trousers before offering it. “I'm Rhys,” he said. “And this is Elanor.”

Realization dawned on her. “You're Orphans, aren't you?” A tiny bit of hope blossomed in her chest.

Rhys nodded as he helped her off the ground. Every muscle in her body was in agony, and even though she couldn't see them beneath the ruined hem of her gown, she knew her feet were swollen and bleeding.

“What are we going to do with her?” Elanor whispered to Rhys. They both looked concerned. “She looks like she's about to collapse or go insane or both.”

“We could take her to Muriel's,” he suggested. “It's not too far.”

Elanor glanced at Aislynn. “Can you walk?” she asked.

Gritting her teeth, Aislynn nodded. She wanted to be out of the forest as soon as possible.

The other girl narrowed her eyes suspiciously but didn't question her.

“Fine,” she said. “Let's go.”

Sunlight filtered through the orange and red leaves, creating a stained-glass canopy. Elanor led their small party, with Rhys bringing up the rear and Aislynn hobbling between them, the wolf at her side. Each step felt as if she was wearing red-hot irons on her feet, but she bit her lip and tried to keep up.

She had attempted to explain to Elanor and Rhys how she had ended up in the woods with a wolf and a torn ballgown, but they seemed unconvinced and confused. She didn't blame them. None of it made sense to her either.

Everything inside her felt numb. Why would Westerly want a hand mirror that Aislynn's fairy godmother had given her? How did he even know about it? Tahlia had told Aislynn to keep the mirror close, which meant it was important.

Which meant that Aislynn had to get it back.

The wolf gave her hand a gentle nudge, and Aislynn started. Looking down, she realized how pale those eyes were in the sunlight, and how the fur behind her ears was marked with streaks of carroty red. The wolf had saved her life last night. Her dreams had never shown her that. Had they ever been dreams, or were they something more?

The snap of a branch made her jump.

“Sorry.” Rhys had come up behind her. He was holding out a hunk of cheese. “I thought you might need something to eat.”

Aislynn realized that she hadn't eaten since yesterday. But as hungry as she was, and as good as the cheese smelled, it tasted like dust in her mouth.

Elanor was nowhere to be seen. “She's scouting ahead,” Rhys said before she could ask. He stooped to feed the wolf a piece of cheese. “Does she have a name?”

“Cinnamon,” Aislynn said, the name coming without hesitation.

“Cinnamon.” Rhys gave the wolf a good scratch behind her carroty ears. Someone had broken the boy's nose. Not recently, but it looked crooked, in a familiar way. “You know”—he gave Aislynn a sideways glance—“Thackery described you perfectly. Minus the wolf, of course.”

“Thackery.” Aislynn blushed again. “Does he . . .” She stopped, knowing that Rhys wouldn't have the answer to the question she really wanted to ask. “Is he okay?”

Rhys nodded, still kneeling to scratch Cinnamon. “Hasn't been his usual pleasant self since he returned to camp, but I bet that'll change soon,” he said with a wink.

Suddenly Elanor appeared, her face serious, and the smile dropped from Rhys's lips. He stood.

“Any sign of them?” he asked, his tensed shoulders relaxing when Elanor shook her head.

“Best to keep moving, though,” she said.

Once again Elanor took the lead, but instead of following behind her, Rhys matched Aislynn's labored stride. It was getting harder and harder for her to hide her limp.

“Here,” he said, offering his arm. “M'lady.” Even though his tone was playful, Aislynn could see that his smile was strained. Cinnamon padded silently behind them.

“Do you think we're being followed?” she finally asked.

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “It's nothing we can't handle,” he said. The fear must have been evident on her face—Rhys's expression softened, and he patted her hand comfortingly. “Today's not the day we get captured by Josetta's huntsmen.”

Elanor appeared in front of them. “We're almost there,” she said.

With a nod, Rhys dropped Aislynn's hand and slipped off into the trees.

Elanor turned to Aislynn. “Follow me,” she said, heading off in the opposite direction.

Her footsteps barely made a sound on the forest floor, and Aislynn did her best to walk quietly through the mud and leaves. She was so tired, and it almost seemed as though they were walking in circles.

Suddenly the trees ended and a huge mountain towered over them. Nestled at its foot, between a craggy cliff and a grove of trees, was a cheery yellow house. Rhys was standing on the porch, and Cinnamon raced to join him.

“How did he—” Aislynn was confused.

“He cleared our tracks while we took a detour,” Elanor explained as they climbed the cottage steps. She rapped sharply on the door.