Wren’s POV
I wake up with my cheek against wet wood and no memory of falling asleep, which is becoming a theme in my life that I would very much like to stop.
Everything smells like river.
“Don’t sit up fast,” Maren says. “You’ll go over the side, and I’m not going in after you.”
She’s a shape against gray sky, sitting at the back of a flat boat with a pole across her knees. Reeds go past on both sides, taller than she is. My hands are in front of me, not tied, and there’s a wool coat over me that isn’t mine and smells like the herbs in her skin.
“What happened?”
“You don’t remember.”
“No.”
“Good,” Maren says. “That’s the dose working. It’ll wear off by tonight, and then you’ll wish it hadn’t.”
I get myself upright anyway. My head swings once and settles.
“Where’s Garrick?”
“In
