Anthea leaned low over Florian’s neck as his hooves pounded the road. The dense mist that crept out of the trees on either side of the road swirled out of their way as they passed, and closed again behind them, obscuring the way they had come as much as the way ahead. Anthea didn’t like it. There was something unnatural about the mist.
She pressed her face against Florian’s damp neck. He smelled like sweat and dust, and his mane whipped at her eyes. She closed them and listened to the beat of his hooves and the pounding of the blood in her ears.
Keep going, she told him. Keep on, my brave one!
Hold tight, Beloved.
She tugged her scarf up over her nose and mouth as protection against the mist as Florian surged forward again. Her hair fluttered out behind her—she had long ago lost the ribbon holding it back, but while they kept moving it hardly mattered. She shifted position again: she had been in the saddle for hours, and needed a break, but there was no time. She sat up a little and looked over her shoulder, but all she could see was mist. Florian slowed, but she urged him on.
After a few more minutes, though, they had to slow down. Anthea didn’t want Florian to injure himself going flat out for too long. Besides which, the mist was thickening and she didn’t want him putting a foot wrong.
I can keep running, Beloved, Florian said.
When the mist clears, Anthea reassured him. For now, call ahead to Brutus. If you can.
I can feel him, but I do not know if he hears me, Florian told her.
We will go closer, we will reach him, Anthea said.
Anthea cast her own thoughts ahead with the Way. She could dimly sense that there was a horse somewhere ahead, but that was all. They had never been able to re-create their feat of last year, when Florian and Anthea had reached all the way across the length of Coronam and told Constantine and Finn that Anthea was in trouble. Uncle Andrew was sure that they would be able to do it again, but so far they had not had any luck.
She lost the feeling for Brutus, but then it came back stronger. The mist was being stirred by the wind, and this section of road was as smooth as they could hope it to be, so she gave Florian a little nudge with her heels.
Go, my love! Go!
Florian went. He practically flew. Even though he was exhausted, he raced along the road, parting the mists like a saint parting the waters of a sea. Anthea wove her gloved fingers into his mane to make sure she was holding tight as she reached yet again for Brutus.
They had to deliver their message, but the mist had slowed them down since they had left their last posting. They were hours behind now.
“I. Can. Almost. Find. Him.” She panted into her scarf, spitting out wool. “I can—”
Florian reared and Anthea screamed. A man had appeared in the mist directly in front of them, holding something large and dark in front of his body. Anthea yanked the reins up and back and Florian nearly sat on his haunches to avoid stepping on the man. With one hand Anthea fumbled out her pistol, cursing the safety strap on the holster.
“Who are you? What do you want?” Anthea shouted.
“Don’t kill me!” the man pleaded. “Please! I have a family!”
Anthea brought Florian down on all fours and backed him away from the man. She had her pistol out finally, and trained it on the dark thing the man held. He was muffled from head to foot against the mist and cold, and she could barely make out his eyes, which were wide with fear. What was that thing he was holding? And what was he doing on this lonely stretch of road, on foot, in this weather?
“Don’t move!” Anthea ordered him.
“Don’t let your beast kill me,” the man begged.
“Then tell me who you are!”
“I’m an emissary for the Crown!”
Anthea pondered that for a moment.
“Oh,” she said, lowering her pistol. “So am I.”
He slowly took in the long gray army overcoat she wore, the pistol, and the wild tangles of her brown hair. His eyes went to her face, stopped on the scar through her eyebrow, flicked down as though embarrassed, caught on the rose pin on her lapel, and grew even wider.
“They didn’t say there would be a girl,” he muttered.
“Who didn’t say that?” Anthea asked, her voice sharp. “Who sent you?”
“The … the Crown,” the man said.
Florian snorted, and Anthea felt her mouth twitch in response. “Could you be a bit more specific?” she asked. His eyes were on her pistol now, but she didn’t lower it.
“The Crown,” he said stubbornly.
“Where are you going?” Anthea said. “What did the Crown send you to do? Alone. In the middle of nowhere. On foot.”
She looked at her watch. She could almost feel Brutus still, and it was making her testy. If this man made her even later for her rendezvous …
“I’m looking for the … the horses,” the man said.
His eyes went to Florian, then slid back to her pistol. Anthea realized that this was not because he thought the pistol was more dangerous, but because he could hardly bring himself to look at the stallion. Nor did he look back at her face again. Anthea knew that her scar, while it visibly bisected her left eyebrow, wasn’t hideous or disfiguring, so she guessed that what made him uncomfortable was seeing a girl riding a monster.
A girl wearing the Queen’s Rose.
“Well, you’ve found one,” Anthea said. “Now what?”
“I have to … to take your photograph,” the man said.
“What on earth?” Anthea marveled. “Here? Now?”
“My motorcar broke down,” the man explained. “I was told there was a camp of your … brigade … near here …?”
“Perhaps there is,” she said warily. “What is your name?”
“Er, Watson. Arthur Watson.”
Anthea’s attention was snagged. Was that Brutus? She reached out to him, remarking idly to the man, “I have a pet owl named Arthur.”
Beloved?
What is it, my dear? Her attention snapped to Florian.
There are horses coming!
Who?
I cannot tell yet!
Where are they coming from? Is Brutus coming toward us with Caillin MacRennie?
No, they are behind us!
Once he said it, Anthea could sense them as well.
“It’s Finn and Uncle Andrew,” she said aloud as she identified Marius and Pollux. “They’re supposed to be farther up the line,” she added, mostly to herself.
“What’s that?” the man asked sharply.
“Two more riders are coming,” Anthea told him. “From relay stations farther up the road.” She frowned. “One of them is the leader of the Horse Brigade, Captain Andrew Thornley.”
“Thornley?” the man said, looking even more pale. “Then we are at war.”