Elise offered him a smile before she rolled up the shirt-in-progress and stood, carrying it to her makeshift residence. (It really wasn’t very makeshift anymore. With Brida’s axe and ability to work during daylight hours, she had significantly improved the shelter, crafting a sturdy wall and hanging a length of burlap from the entrance to block out the weather.
“HAH,” Brida said, shouting fearsomely as she stabbed her spear forward in her daily practice routine.
When Brida looked to Elise, Elise held up the length of burlap—which she used the carry the stinging nettles after picking them.
“Going to get more nettles, Princess?”
Elise nodded.
“Take your whistle and a knife with you,” Brida said before she turned back to her exercises. “HaaRAH!”
Elise grabbed her wooden whistle and the knife—Brida gave her a real knife so she didn’t have to use her sharp stone, which had lost much of its edge after slicing through more nettles than Elise ever wished to count.
Elise swung her arms and walked into the forest, smiling when her swan joined her. She had to go farther into the forest than ever before to find nettles as she had plucked every last one of them within a reasonable radius of the pond.
There was a huge patch of them that Elise had found weeks ago when she was first trying to avoid her brothers. She may as well start there.
After a ten-minute walk, Elise found the nettles. She laid out her burlap cloth and started slicing the plants at the very base, digging into the ground to get the maximum length possible.
The swan walked around the patch, grunting and occasionally flapping his wings. Elise thought he was eating, but she wasn’t entirely certain and concentrated on cutting the nettles. It was extremely painful, as Elise had to wrap her entire hand around the plant instead of gingerly maneuvering it like she could when knitting.
Elise bit her lip and glared at the plants, silently snarling at the biggest ones that were the hardest to cut. Before placing each plant on the length of burlap, she stripped the leaves and tossed them aside.
It was about an hour before Elise was satisfied with her gathered bundle. She rolled the burlap twice around her gathered nettles and held the rough cloth as she carried her cargo back, her whistle and knife wedged in the burlap wrap.
The swan padded along at Elise’s side, occasionally zigzagging back and forth in front of her.
Elise grinned, infected by the bird’s good mood. She would be able to finish the shirts before her predicted time of midsummer at this rate. With luck, by the end of winter they could take Arcainia back from Clotilde—if Angelique had been cleared of suspicion, that was.
Elise froze when she heard a horse neigh.
Falk’s horse and Brida’s mount were both tethered in their meadow. They were too far away for Elise to hear them so clearly. Elise’s elation left her as she abandoned her path and crept in the direction of the neigh.
She almost gave up hope of finding the creature when it snorted and pawed the ground.
Elise, still holding her prickly bundle, peered at it through the trees. The swan companion hissed from behind her ankles. She relaxed when she saw the mount.
She had been afraid Clotilde had found them and sent soldiers to kill them, but the horse was clearly Verglas bred, thick and furry with more mane and tail than a normal horse would know what to do with. Elise’s shoulders heaved, and she smiled as she studied the plainly dressed horse. It had nothing on it but a saddle, a small saddlebag, and a short bow that was hooked over its rump. It probably belonged to a hunter.
Elise dropped her bundle.
A hunter.
Elise hurtled through the woods, ignoring the horse that spooked at her when she burst out of the tress and the swan that flapped its wings and hissed at her.
She almost fell flat when her bare feet landed out on a moss-covered rock, but Elise caught herself and kept running in spite of the burning pain of her bruised foot.
She had to get back to the pond.
Most hunters went after big game—deer, boars, and the like. But some members of nobility had a taste for poultry, like wild quail, pheasant, ducks, or swans.
Branches ripped at Elise’s arms, and brambles scratched her legs, but Elise ran harder. She skid into the clearing around the pond. Six swans were there—the seventh was no doubt safe and angrily following her trail. But where…?
Elise covered her mouth to choke her gasp. A man garbed in green crouched behind a bush, an arrow notched in his bow.
A quick look confirmed he was targeting the swan sitting on the shore. It was the smallest swan, and his back was to the hunter. His feathers were poofed around him like a peacock and he admired his reflection in the clear water. It had to be Gerhart.
Elise couldn’t scream.
Her heart beat like a pounding drum. She wanted to shout, rail at the hunter, and warn Gerhart, but she couldn’t let a sound escape.
