The ride up to Cinnamon Hill was hot but otherwise uneventful, thank God. It had rained heavily in the early hours, leaving the forest dripping and steaming as the sun climbed in the sky, the air reeking of mouldering vegetation. Could I really see the lush undergrowth sprouting? Surely not, though it certainly seemed so. I blinked, telling myself the vines were not creeping slowly higher on tree trunks as I passed.
The rain also meant there would now be no sign of spilled blood where we would claim to have found Rifkind the afternoon before. His body was wrapped in heavy canvas secured with ropes. The mule carrying him across its back appeared indifferent to the burden as did the stable boy leading it from another sturdy beast. We, of course, were weighed down by his presence – Noah most
