Royce nodded. “Whatever it is, it’s huge. So how come no one has seen it?”
“It gets very dark here,” Thrace told them, wiping her cheeks as she stood. A curious expression crossed her face and she walked to where a yellow-flowered forsythia grew at the base of a maple tree. Taking a hesitant step, Thrace bent down and drew back what Hadrian thought was a wad of cloth and old grass. As she carefully cleaned away the leaves and sticks, he saw it was a crude doll with thread for hair and X’s sewn for eyes.
“Yours?” Hadrian ventured.
She shook her head but did not speak. After a moment, Thrace replied, “I made this for Hickory, Thad’s son. It was his Wintertide gift, his favorite. He carried it everywhere.” Plucking the last bits of grass from the doll, she rubbed it. “There’s blood on it.” Her voice quavered. Clutching the doll to her chest, she said softly, “He forgets—they were my family too.”
Royce guessed it was still early evening when they returned to the village common, but already the light was fading, the invisible sun quickly consumed by the great trees. The little girl and her herd of pigs were gone, and so were their horses and gear. In their place, they found a host of people rushing about with an urgency that left him uneasy.
Men crossed the clearing carrying hoes, axes, and piles of split wood over their shoulders. Most were barefoot, dressed in sweat-stained tunics. Women came behind, carrying bundles of twigs, reeds, thick marsh grasses, and stalks of flax. They too traveled barefoot, with their hair pulled up, hidden under simple cloth wraps. Royce could see why Thrace had made such a big deal out of the dress they had bought her, as all the village women wore simple homemade smocks of the same natural off-white color, lacking any adornment.
They looked hot and tired, focused on reaching the shelter of their homes and dumping their burdens. As the three approached the village, one boy looked up and stopped. He had a long-handled hoe across his shoulders, his arms threaded around it.
“Who’s that?” he said.
This got the attention of those nearby. An older woman glared, still clutching her bag of twigs. A bare-chested man with thick, powerful arms lowered his pack of wood, holding tight to his axe. The topless man glanced at Thrace, who was still wiping her red eyes, and advanced on them, shifting the axe to his right hand.
“Vince, we got visitors!” he shouted.
A shorter, older man with a poorly kept beard turned his head and dropped his bundle as well. He looked at the boy who had first spotted them. “Tad, go fetch your pa.” The boy hesitated. “Go now, son!”
The boy ran off toward the houses.
“Thrace, honey,” the old woman said, “are you all right?”
The bearded man glared at them. “What they do to you, girl?”
As the men advanced, Royce and Hadrian moved together, each one looking expectantly at Thrace. Royce’s hand slipped into the folds of his cloak.
“Oh no!” Thrace burst out. “They didn’t do anything.”
“Doesn’t look like nothing. Disappear for weeks and you pop up crying, dressed like—”
Thrace shook her head. “I’m fine. It’s just my father.”
The men stopped. They kept a wary eye on the strangers but shot looks of sympathy at Thrace.
“Theron’s a fine man,” Vince told her, “a strong man. He’ll come around, you’ll see. He just needs some time.”
She nodded, but it was forced.
“Now, who might you two be?”
“This is Hadrian and Royce,” Thrace finally got around to saying, “from Colnora in Warric. I asked them here to help. This is Mr. Griffin, the village founder.”
“Came out here with an axe, a knife, and not much else. The rest of these poor souls were foolish enough to follow, on account I told them life was better, and they was stupid enough to believe me.” He extended his hand. “Just call me Vince.”
“I’m Dillon McDern,” the big bare-chested man said. “I’m the smith round here. Figure you fellas might want to know that. You got horses, right? My boys say they took two up to the manor a bit ago.”
“This is Mae,” Vince said, presenting the old woman. She nodded solemnly. Now that it was clear that Thrace was all right, the old woman slouched, and the look in her eyes became dull and distant as she turned away with her bundle of twigs.
“Don’t mind her. She’s—well, Mae’s had it hard lately.” He glanced at Dillon, who nodded.
The boy sent running returned with another man. Older than McDern, younger than Griffin, thinner than both, he dragged his feet as he walked, squinting despite the dim light. In his hands he held a small pig, which struggled to escape.
“Why’d you bring your pig, Russell?” Griffin asked.
“Boy said you needed me—said it was an emergency.”