A few hours later.
When we finally stumbled into the northern safehouse, it felt, briefly and miraculously, like being swallowed by warmth. Not much—just a squat stone cottage with a chimney that coughed smoke and a single crooked door—but after hours of rain, mud, and the chorus of wolves on our heels, it was a palace.
My thighs literally ached from the ride. The horse had been kind enough, the saddle less so. I tried to sit like a lady when Leon’s hand offered me down from his mount, but then gravity and exhaustion decided I wasn’t that kind of person anymore. I landed in a heap on the flagstones, and for a glorious second I did not care who saw me. My butt had a permanent bruise shaped like a small, judgmental horseshoe and every muscle in my back whined with eloquent complaints.
My
