One Dark Window

Mind the mist.

It does not lift.

The Spirit doth hunt, ever adrift.

Stay out of the wood,

Be wary, be good.

The Spirit doth hunt, ever adrift.

Mind the mist.

It does not lift.

The Spirit ensnares, like grain through a sift.

Hold tight to your charm,

And you’ll come to no harm.

The Spirit ensnares, like grain through a sift.

We’d been in the armory only a short while before Thistle, kind as he was, made it abundantly clear I was no use to them in a dress.

Elm snickered, his green eyes roving my body, resting on the flower crown in my hair. “But she’s made such an effort to look pretty today.”

Jespyr elbowed her cousin. “Shut it. We’ve enough to do without your tripe.”

Two servants arrived, carrying a bundle—tunic, jerkin, cloak, leggings, and boots. Wool, linen, and leather, all black. One by one the others filed out, leaving Ravyn and me alone.

I frowned at my gray dress, its hem muddied by the tromp through the garden. “I wasn’t aware I’d dressed improperly,” I said, suddenly deeply conscious of my appearance.

“We can’t exactly wear our family seals, can we?” Ravyn said. He paused, gently extracting the flower crown from my hair. “I’ll have your clothes sent back to your room. Join us when you’re ready.”

If he looked back at me as he slipped through the armory doors, I did not know it. I was trying with all my might not to look back at him.

Five minutes later I was leaning against the door, willing myself to open it.

The Nightmare shot hot air out his nostrils. By the trees—They’re just leggings, Elspeth.

I felt exposed, naked without my wool skirt. I plaited a long knotted braid in my hair that started at the crown of my head and traveled like a rope down my back.

The Yew girl wears a tunic and pants. Why not you?

Jespyr’s entirely more fearsome than I am. I glanced down at my legs. I look like a bloody stable boy.

How you look is—and perhaps always has been—utterly irrelevant.

I groaned, wishing him gone. Still, he was right. This wasn’t about me. This was about Cards, mist, and blood. What did it matter if I was dressed in clothes suspiciously similar to those of a boy Emory’s age? If I was going to take up with highwaymen, I had to look the part.

After a final rattling breath, I pushed my way through the armory door.

They waited, clustered at the entrance of the yard. When they saw me, one of the Ivy brothers whistled, only to be silenced by Jespyr’s sharp elbow.

I didn’t know where to look. “Well?” I stepped forward, my hands knotted in my sleeves. “Am I better suited for the task?”

I didn’t miss the way Ravyn’s eyes jumped up and down my body. “Much better,” he said, a flush inching up his neck into his cheeks. He handed me two finely sewn gloves. “You’ll need these.”

I stared at them. “Riding gloves?”

“Did you think we’d be walking?” said Elm.

“We get to the Black Forest on horseback,” Jespyr explained. “The rest of the way we travel on foot, out of sight in the mist. When Pine’s carriage passes, we halt it. You tell us where to find his Iron Gate, and we’re in and out in less than five minutes.”

I surveyed the group. For a party without the intention of violence, they were curiously well armed. “Then what?”

“Then we’ll come back,” Elm said. “And you can tell us all about the Well Card in your father’s house.”

Ravyn, Elm, and I remained in the stable while the others retreated for final supplies. “You’ll be needing a horse,” Ravyn said, retrieving a brown mare from one of the stalls. When I paled and stepped away, he raised his brows. “Don’t tell me you’ve never ridden a horse before?”

Elm’s scoff filled the stable. “Good god, what were you doing all these years in the forest?”

I glanced at him through narrowed eyes. “Animals don’t like me much.”

The Prince took a seat atop a nearby bench. “If that doesn’t tell you something,” he said under his breath.

Ravyn ignored his cousin, holding out the reins to me. “Horses are skittish,” he said. “You need to be calm—assured. Once she feels safe, she’ll trust you.” When I didn’t reach for the reins, he leaned against the horse. “Do you want me to help you?”

It felt like a challenge. And how I wanted to deny him—to see the impress on his face when I took the reins and mounted the beast without him. But I couldn’t. I didn’t know a damn thing about horses. “If it’s not too much trouble, Captain.”

His stone expression eased, the corner of his lips tugging. He’d won the challenge. He took my hand and pulled me next to him. “Put your hand here,” he said, holding my gaze as he stripped away my glove. He placed my palm on the horse’s flank just below the saddle. “Feel her breath, her energy.”

The mare’s eyes widened, her nostrils flaring as my hand roved across her side. My fingers moved across her broad back and the coarse mane along her neck. Calm, I told myself. Calm, assured.

It cannot be, the Nightmare purred. She knows you’re not alone. She knows she’s not safe.

The horse stirred and took a step away, raising her head and swishing her tail.

“Easy, girl,” Ravyn said, patting her firmly. When she’d recovered, his gaze returned to me. “Shall I help you up?”

Trees, I was tired of giving him the satisfaction. “Fine,” I said.

But in the end, the victory was mine. When Ravyn stepped to me, he hesitated, the flush from before returning to his jawline. Our eyes met a moment. Then, as if he was proving something to himself, he reached for me. His hands, broad and firm, met me at the dip of my waist, resting a moment on my hips. They were warm, his hands. And I caught myself wondering what the calluses along his palms would feel like against my bare skin.

He inhaled sharply, lifting me with ease and placing me on saddle. I sat there a moment, unsure what to do with my legs. It felt crass, swinging a leg over to ride astraddle, but instinct told me if I didn’t, I would incur more scathing ridicule from Elm, who remained on the bench, his Princely face fixed in an expression somewhere between humor and revulsion.

But the moment I swung my leg over, my thighs flexing around the saddle, I felt I’d made a terrible mistake. The smell of hay and sweat wafted off the mare, her skin flinching beneath my touch. I sat like a rock in the saddle, clinging for dear life to the horse’s mane. “Where do I hold?”

“Try the reins,” Elm called.

Ravyn put his hand on my ankle. “Take a breath, Miss Spindle. She’s nervous because you’re nervous.”

“Or because she doesn’t know what you are,” Elm offered.

Trust me, she knows exactly what you are, the Nightmare cackled. Watch this.

His hiss radiated through me—an animal noise that seized my muscles—an invisible calling to the horse beneath me.

The mare reared, struck by a sudden panic that sent her screaming from the stable.

I didn’t recall falling. Only that it hurt like hell.

When I came to, the horse was gone, and the low, silky laughter of the Nightmare echoed through my skull. Ravyn and Elm knelt at my sides, their eyes wide as they stared down at me.

“Trees.” Ravyn tucked his hand behind my neck, cradling the top of my spine. “Can you hear me?”

I tried to sit up. Dizziness struck me, and I heaved a long, aching breath, wind rushing back into my lungs. “I—told—you,” I wheezed. “Animals don’t—like me.”

Ravyn and Elm exchanged a glance. A small, mischievous smile crossed the Prince’s lips. “Well,” he said. “That was unexpected.”

I coughed, pushing to an upright position. “Don’t look so pleased.”

Ravyn’s hand slid from the back of my neck to my shoulder. “Anything feel broken?”

Only my pride, I fumed into the darkness. What the hell was that?

Just a bit of fun.

I could have died!

Don’t be dramatic, the Nightmare said. People fall off horses every day.

That doesn’t make it a particularly pleasant experience.

At least now you realize what you’re getting yourself into—who you really are.

“Miss Spindle?”

I snapped back to Ravyn. “Nothing’s broken,” I said.

“She’s fine,” Elm yelled, footsteps rushing toward us.

Jespyr and Thistle skidded to a halt nearby. “You’ll have a few bruises, no mistake,” Thistle said.

I blushed red to my roots. “Did everyone see?” sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ (ꜰind)ɴʘvel.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“No,” Elm said. “Just the servants, the fletcher, the groomsmen, the blacksmith—”

“Enough,” Ravyn growled. “We’ve got to get going.”

“We can’t go now,” Jespyr said, gesturing at me. “She’ll fall to her death.”

Elm yawned. “She’ll be fine. Strap her to the beast and be done with it.”

Nausea hit my stomach anew. “Strap me?”

“No one’s going to strap you in,” Thistle said. “What about a carriage?”

Elm shook his head. “They’ll hear us a mile out.”

They debated transportation. I said nothing, keeping my eyes straight ahead as I inched my fingers up and down my ribs, wincing.

There would surely be bruises.

“I still think we should use a carriage,” Jespyr said. “If we stash it a mile into the wood, they won’t hear it.”

“And if they see fit to chase us?” Elm bit back. “Last time I checked, you couldn’t outrun a warhorse, cousin.”

Jespyr pulled her Black Horse Card from her pocket. “Is that a wager?”

“Both of you, shut up,” Ravyn said. “Collect your charms and go to your horses. Thistle, find the Ivys. We leave in five minutes.”

They scuttled away, a few final scowls darting between Jespyr and Elm.

Ravyn turned to me, his voice low. “Are you all right? Truly?”

I coughed, then winced. “I’ll survive.”

“May I?”

There he was again, asking to touch me. I nodded, and when his hand traced up and down my rib cage, I almost forgot the pain, too worried he’d feel the rapid beat of my heart.

“You’ll be all right,” he said, pulling his hand away, almost too fast. “I’m sorry, Miss Spindle. We’ve no choice but to go on horseback. Your best option is to ride with our most skilled horseman—so that he might thwart any of the animal’s unease.”

I eyed him narrowly. “And who, pray tell, is your most skilled horseman?”

Elm’s riding was much the same as his overall demeanor. Pitiless and abrasive.

By the time we entered the Black Forest, I felt so battered and winded I might have fallen off the horse a dozen times more. When we dismounted, the Prince let out a wheezing breath.

“Trees!” he coughed. “Grip tight enough? It felt like I was wearing a corset.”

“Everyone all right?” Jespyr called up ahead.

“Marvelous,” Elm said through his teeth. “Best ride of my life.”

“I wasn’t asking about you.”

“Who else is there?”

Ravyn dismounted in a gust of black. “Your bickering isn’t impressing anyone,” he called. “Get your charms. Best we keep quiet from here on out.”

The Black Forest was a dense collection of poplar trees and bramble. The horses were nervous to leave the path, but we coaxed them with sugar and stepped, apprehensive, into the mist.

It felt strange, not needing my crow’s foot. For the others, the need for a charm was more dire. I could smell the salt in the air. The Spirit of the Wood lingered in the mist, invisible, watching, held at bay by only our magic and our charms.

The Ivy brothers carried identical hawk feathers. Jespyr tossed a small femur bone between her palms. Thistle twirled a dog’s canine tooth on a leather string. Elm wound a tight braid of horsehair around his knuckles.

I followed behind Ravyn, his burgundy and purple lights purposeful as they moved through the mist. Next came Jespyr, fitted with a Black Horse. Thistle and the Ivys were Cardless. Elm—who had left the conspicuous Scythe behind, fitted with a second Black Horse—took the rear.

Thistle passed bread and cheese up the line, and we ate as we walked, like travelers in one of my aunt’s old books. At twilight the crickets sang, waking owls and other creatures of the night.

The mist grew heavier, so dense it swallowed the fading daylight, casting us into darkness.

Rock or bramble, hill or dell, it did not matter—Ravyn moved on sure steps. His boots were silent, his pace unflagging. Only once did he stop, holding up a hand to halt the group, his eyes trained on the mist.

I slipped on crumbling poplar leaves, the Nightmare’s vision the only thing keeping me from blindness. “How can you tell where we’re going?”

He shrugged. “Practice.”

Up ahead came the distant rustle of leaves. A moment later, a doe and her fawn ambled across our path. Ravyn watched them, his shoulders easy, his face untroubled. Only when they’d cleared the path did he signal us forward.

The temperature in the wood dropped. I shivered and rubbed my twinging nose, the air dense all around us. “The salt is strong,” I said.

“It’s the Spirit of the Wood,” Ravyn replied.

My aunt had told me many stories about the Spirit of the Wood. She’d said the Spirit could take the form of animals, but never an exact replication. There was always something other about the animals the Spirit pretended to be. Their bones were too long—their teeth too jagged.

Their eyes too knowing.

My gaze darted across the mist. But the doe and her fawn were gone. “Do you think,” I whispered to Ravyn’s back, “if we manage to collect the Deck—to lift the mist—that the Spirit will remain in Blunder?”

The Captain pondered this. “The Old Book says magic sways, like salt water on a tide. I believe the Spirit is the moon, commanding the tide. She pulls us in, but also sets us free. She is neither good nor evil. She is magic—balance. Eternal.”

The Nightmare whispered behind my eyes, his claws sharp. But the Spirit was neglected, no matter her plea. The Rowans erased her, as they once did to me. But she keeps her own time, and I keep a long score. The tide that comes next will blot out the shore.

I shivered. But it had nothing to do with the cold.

“So, no,” Ravyn continued. “I don’t think the Spirit of the Wood will disappear with the mist. But perhaps she will no longer be a danger. Perhaps she will rest.”

A few moments later, he stopped. “Tether the horses here,” he called to the others. “I can see the road twenty paces beyond.”

I moved aside, clear of the horses. When Ravyn joined me, he held a knife.

“It’s no garden shear,” he said, offering me the blade. When I hesitated, he smiled. “You won’t need it. But it’s a poor disguise without a weapon.”

I looped the hilt of the knife through my belt. “Now what?” I said, a slight tremor touching the edge of my voice.

“We wait.”

Apprehension built like soil tossed upon a new grave.

An hour later I was fighting to keep still. The others milled quietly, scattered in the mist among trees and rocks and shrubs. Only Ravyn remained unmoving, his eyes forward on the road ahead.

When a twig snapped beneath my foot, he broke his stillness, casting me a sharp glance.

“Sorry,” I whispered.

Reaching into his pocket, Ravyn extracted a dark, silky fabric—the cloth he’d blindfolded me with on Equinox.

I bit my lip. “What’s that for?”

Ravyn pulled a second cloth from his pocket and secured it to his face just below the eyes, obscuring his nose, mouth, and jaw.

A mask.

So vividly returned the memory of that night along the forest road, the men in masks—the violence and fear—that I recoiled, tripping on bramble.

Ravyn must have understood because a moment later, he took off the mask. “I’m sorry,” he said, stepping to my side, his voice no more than a whisper. “Miss Spindle?”

I ran my hand over my face and did not look at him. “I never thought I’d be dressed as a highwayman,” I managed. “With the same men who attacked me, no less.”

Ravyn sucked in a breath. “Had I known who you were—”

“You would have—what? Been a bit nicer?” My nostrils flared. “I was alone on the road. You were awful, the both of you.”

He did not deny it. After a long, uneasy pause, he sighed. “I came back to the road—alone—the next night. I kept to the forest for three days, hoping to catch a glimpse of you, to speak to you if I could.” He looked off into the distance. “The Prophet Card leaves holes in our understanding. Yes, my mother predicted where you’d be—your connection to the Cards. But the rest was conjecture. We had no idea what we were stepping into. Had I known you carried magic—” He paused again, his brow furrowed. “There are so few of us, Miss Spindle. You are more special than you know. And it pains me to think I might have hurt you. I’m—sorry.” He paused. “Trees, I’m sorry.”

I listened to the wind through the wood, the lull blending with Ravyn Yew’s voice. He seemed different dressed as a highwayman—changed. Gone was the austere, controlled persona he displayed as Captain of the Destriers. Here, in the wood, he was just a man in a black cloak seeking repentance.

I extended my hand. “You’re forgiven. On one condition.”

The invisible string tugged the corner of his mouth. “What’s that?”

When our hands touched, heat moved into my cheeks. “Call me Elspeth,” I said. “We’re about to commit treason together, after all.”

The elusive half smile, cautious though it was, overtook Ravyn’s mouth. When he shook my hand, his calloused skin caught along my palm.

A shrill whistle ripped through the trees, echoed by another, then another.

The signal.

Ravyn froze, his hand still in mine, the noise of approaching horsemen rumbling in the distance. “Best put that mask on, Elspeth,” he said. “It’s time.”