Natalie stood in the rain outside of Nathaniel’s house, unable to move.
She’d just killed somebody…she’d just killed a child.
She didn’t know what to think. She should have been upset, and in a way she was, yet she wasn’t crying. She was simply…numb. Cold and numb. Did that make her a terrible person? Shouldn’t she have been hysterical? Shouldn’t she at least feel badly? She’d just killed somebody. She’d just watched somebody scramble around, screaming, blood spraying everywhere. He was only a kid.
Nathaniel’s voice echoed in her mind like the thunder rolling overhead: You’ll never find your fucking boyfriend, you bitch.
He’d admitted it, or came close to it: he’d been involved with Artis’s disappearance.
Poor Artis. Was he really dead? Maybe. Probably.
Deep down, Natalie knew he was. There was no reason why Brago would’ve let Artis live. It would’ve been safer to kill him outright. As Nathaniel had said, never leave an enemy alive.
Where had they hidden his body? She wanted Artis to have a nice grave, somewhere she could plant flowers and visit from time to time. Did it really matter now, though? Dead was dead, and she’d never see him again.
Natalie glanced at her knife. The rain had washed away Nathaniel’s blood, the puddle at her feet a dark red. She, too, was as clean as she’d ever been—cold and beyond wet, but clean.
She sheathed her knife and trudged through the muddy streets to the Yellow Rose Inn, rain and wind slapping at her, thunder shaking the ground.
The innkeeper greeted her with a gasp.
“Come in! Come in!” He took Natalie’s arm and guided her into the common room, where a cheery fire crackled. Shaking, she pulled her dripping cloak around herself. “I was wondering if you’d make it back! Get closer. Here, let me get you something to warm you up!”
He ran out of the room.
The diners stared at Natalie. Did they know what she’d done? Could they tell she’d murdered someone? She huddled closer to the fire.
Soon, the innkeeper returned with a bottle. “Here!” He poured a little amber liquid into a goblet, then pushed it at Natalie. “Take this.”
Blinking at the yellow flames, Natalie took a sip, then started hacking. The liquor burned her throat. Several of the men watching laughed.
“Oh, don’t mind them. Here, let me take—” The innkeeper tried to remove Natalie’s sodden cloak, but she held it fast, not wanting to reveal that she was female.
“I think I’ll just go to my room,” she said tonelessly. “Do you mind?”
“No, of course not. Same room as always. In fact, I still have your key in my pocket.”
She took the key and made to leave.
“That boy,” she said, turning back around, “the one who’d told you about Lord Kettering’s summer manor…did he have brownish hair and one eye that was pointed slightly outward?”
“Yes, in fact he did! Roland, I believe he calls himself, though I’ve heard him use other names. Sharp as a tack! If you ever need to know something, you go ask him. Why do you ask?”
Natalie headed for the stairs, leaving a trail of water in her wake. “Just curious.”
• • •
For the remainder of the night, Natalie sat in her room, wrapped in a blanket and staring at the rain-splattered window. She now believed her first instincts were correct. Any place called “Dark Ford” would most likely be hidden in the steep hills that crowded the Lesser Green River. In that case, she’d have to ride west, not east, as Nathaniel had told the innkeeper. The problem was the weather.
Sir Edris and Reg had left well before the storm had come, so they were probably safe and dry in whatever village was a day’s ride away. How would she catch up with them? She’d ridden before, of course; she often exercised Henry’s horses. But she wasn’t an expert, not like Sir Edris or Reg. They could probably cover twice as much ground each day as she could. Yet she needed to reach them before they arrived at the Ketterings’ estate.
Natalie stared at the maps, water still dripping from her matted hair.
Lightning flashed. Then thunder rumbled dully overhead.
Whenever she closed her eyes, she could see Nathaniel running about, screaming, face contorted, his blood—
She forced the images away.
Her thoughts slipped back to Artis and her family, but she couldn’t think about them, either. Not now. She couldn’t be distracted. She had to get to Sir Edris and Reg before Brago did.
It was a race—and she was behind.