“What do you think? Will they find that one?”
“I don’t know. But you’re the one who told me that Hunters have found a way of detecting cuts and Hunters are good at hunting.”
“Yes, there’s at least one Hunter who can do it. It’s her Gift. I think she has to be within a certain distance, though—what do you think? A mile? A few hundred meters? Ten? I’d imagine quite close but I don’t know. So I expect the worst and make new cuts every month.” He turns to me. “Always moving on, always staying safe.” He looks at the river. “At the moment this is a good home, a decent view and fresh water. I’ve stayed in worse places. But, if I stay here too long, they’ll be here: one day, later, sooner, who knows? I stay in one place for three months, sometimes less. Never more.”
I look at the river and the trees. The sun is setting here too.
“Still, I’m not due to leave here for a few weeks, so we should have time to talk.”
“That would be good.”
“We’ll see.”
And I wonder about telling him about the Alliance but I get the feeling that this isn’t the right time and I don’t want to talk about that. I’ve spent so little time with my father, know him so little, that I want to talk about us, about him—but I don’t get the feeling he wants to do that either.
I look around. Behind me is a wall of trees that seems to be the edge of a forest cloaking a hillside. The first tree isn’t for a few meters, though, and the bank is covered with brambles and ferns. It feels safe and clean and open. I turn, kneeling to face the forest. Even the shade and the smell of it are seductive and the river behind is surprisingly quiet.
This is close to how I dreamed my home would be but there’s no meadow, no cottage. Ahead of me the brambles are thick, fairy-story thick; they’d be impregnable without hacking through with a sword. It’s a safe boundary; no one could come at us from that direction. The brambles remind me of my cage bars but they’re somehow enticing too and I see that there’s a gap in them, a gap barely big enough for a human. I crawl toward it and discover that once I’ve started along the tunnel I can’t go back: my clothes get caught. I keep going. The entrance slopes down and I have to follow it lower and further.
Ahead the brambles open out into a wide, low den. It’s dark inside but warm and lit by the natural light that makes its way through the myriad tiny gaps. It’s like an animal den but this is definitely a human home. A low room, mostly empty. There’s the remains of a fire, just off the center. A small log store is to one side and the wood is all dry. An area around the fire is bare earth, where my father must sit, feed the fire, and cook and eat. It’s hard to imagine the most feared of Black Witches making soup or stew, eating with a metal spoon from a simple dish, but that’s what he appears to do. And I know he spends his time here only briefly human. Mostly he’s an animal. This is his life. Lonely. Alone. Human only sometimes. And I have to sit down.
He doesn’t want to talk about his life. Instead he’s showing it to me so that I can know him. And, if I know him, I will know myself. But this is not the life I had envisaged he’d have. I’m not sure what I expected, perhaps something impressive, grand, a place full of treasure and history and power, but I realize now that that isn’t him, no more than it would be me.
And I’m crying, and I’m not sure if I’m crying with sadness or joy, for him or myself, or just a connection with him or because of all of it. I recognize this is a place I might end up living in if I’m like him. But I don’t want it.
He still hasn’t come and I know he’s letting me get used to it. Or maybe he’s just taking in the sunset.
In a corner are some wool blankets, worn and riddled with holes, and a pile of sheepskins, seven of them. They’ve been rolled up to keep them dry. I pull them out and lay them by the cold ashes of the fire.
He comes into the den when the light is fading to nothing. He lights the fire in seconds, getting the flames licking up some twigs he’s brought in with him. He feeds the fire and we both watch it. I’m sitting, then lying, and I find I’m crying again and I can’t stop and I look up at him and see no tears on his cheeks. And I close my eyes and the Alliance and all those people, even Gabriel and Annalise, feel like they belong in a different world. This is my father’s world and it is another place. It’s wild.
*
I wake. The den is light but I can tell it’s early. I’m lying where I fell asleep; the fire is cold now and I’m alone.
I crawl out of the den. Marcus is sitting just by the exit, close to the riverbank. I sit by him. The sun is coming over the hill ahead of us.
“Hungry?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“You want to hunt with me?”
I nod.
“Ever been an eagle?”