Trial by Fire

Rowan brought them to water, tasting it carefully before he slung the pack off his back and took out a water pouch. He filled it and passed it to Lily. Hands shaking, she drank from the pouch while he scooped water into his mouth with his cupped palm. When she’d drained the pouch, he refilled it and they moved on.

Every now and again, Rowan would stop, brush some fallen leaves aside, and pick acorns or mushrooms off the ground. The mushrooms he’d hand to Lily, indicating that she should eat them, and the acorns he stowed in his pack. Lily eyed the mushrooms warily, her stomach still churning from what she had witnessed, but after the first taste of them—woody, earthy, and surprisingly meaty—she didn’t hesitate when he handed more to her the next time they stopped. After she ate, Rowan would reach out to touch Lily’s wrist in that odd gesture again, like he was taking her pulse. She wondered vaguely what he was doing, but was still too shaken to question him.

They never stayed in one spot for more than a few seconds at a time before moving on. Rowan ate nothing at all and drank only a few sips of water. Everything he gathered, he gave to Lily to eat or saved for later, even though she urged him to take some for himself.

“I don’t need it,” he’d said simply when Lily offered him the water pouch. “I drank my fill at the stream.”

He wasn’t acting tough, or trying to be noble. He’d stored those acorns against some kind of emergency. Lily could tell from the detached way he pulled up a handful of wildflower bulbs, scraped them clean with his knife, then gave them to Lily to eat without sparing them even one hungry look that he was someone who’d learned how to live with very little. He didn’t get thirsty or tire as quickly as someone with Lily’s upbringing. Rowan was a survivor.

Unlike Rowan, Lily felt her sore feet, thirst, and pounding head, but she was too sickened to put too much thought into them. All day long, she’d been able to think of little else besides the old history teacher.

Rowan pushed the pace, never letting them stop for more than a few minutes at a time, his eyes constantly darting through the trees, scanning for Woven. At dusk, Rowan built a fire and threw a handful of herbs on the flames. Their fragrant smoke smelled almost like a citronella candle, used to keep mosquitoes away in her world.

“Barely enough for one night,” he whispered to himself, scowling. Rowan looked up at the looming canopy of branches, his face pinched with fear. “But it should keep the Woven away for a few hours.”

Lily hardly registered what he’d said. She was so tired and numb she stretched out on the ground and fell instantly into a nightmare-filled sleep. She woke several times with a shake, seeing Gideon’s twisted baby face above hers and only fell back to sleep because of the steady, soothing pressure of Rowan’s fingers wrapped around her ankle.

It was late afternoon the next day before the shock had faded enough so that Lily could speak. “Did I bring the soldiers to the camp?” she finally asked, barely able to raise her voice above a whisper.

Rowan didn’t look at her as they walked along. “You can talk normally. No one’s following us.”

“Is it my fault?” she asked again, needing to know.

“No. It’s mine. I should have insisted we moved camp that night after Juliet showed up, even if the elders were on their way.”

“Do you think she told Lillian?” Lily asked, unable to believe any version of Juliet would do something like that.

“No. But Juliet’s not the stealthiest woman in the world. She could have been followed from Salem. Considering how fast the attack came, I’m pretty sure that’s what had to have happened.” Rowan angrily kicked a pinecone aside. “I should have fought the sachem harder about moving the camp.”

“Are they okay? Can you tell if Tristan is still—”

“Tristan’s fine,” Rowan replied impatiently. “He, Caleb, and the sachem are all out of danger.”

“Why you?”

“Why me what?” he asked, confused.

“Why did you agree to take me out here and not insist Tristan do it? You hate me.”