Purest fancy. And yet.
Something moved within her. Something that did not carry the scent of the boss’s cigar or his whiskey.
Had she ever had the option to leave? If she’d left Flood behind her, followed her parents across the Mother’s Knife into Spain’s arms, or taken passage across the river into the States, or headed into the far north with the Métis, into English-held lands . . . Would she too have been driven back, sooner before later, ill and broken?
Had the choice she made been no choice at all?
And if so . . . had the devil known?
They made camp well before nightfall, choosing a spot on the bank of a wide creek, surrounded by scrub and berry bushes. They moved around each other smoothly, settling and grooming the horses, building a fire, settling their packs. The hum of insects was loud around them, and she spotted a pair of rabbits nearby, eyes wide at her before they decided she was no threat.
Somehow, the thought of trapping something held no appeal tonight. She picked a hatful of berries instead.
Among the supplies they’d taken on was a loaf of fresh bread that had been taunting them with its smell all day. Isobel cut two large slices off of it, then placed them on a flat rock she’d set just next to the fire, and left them to warm, while Gabriel cleaned the berries and added them to the meat he was simmering in the tripod pot. They’d not stopped for a mid-day meal, and Isobel’s stomach had been too upset with nerves to want any of the dried venison she carried, so even though she didn’t feel hungry, the tightness in her stomach reminded her that she would need to eat now.
They had another two days, at this pace, before they were back at the valley. Another two days before she had to face the haint—and its keepers—again.
Gabriel finished what he was doing, then sat back on his haunches and studied her until she felt the urge to check if she had a smudge on her nose or a leaf in her hair.
“So, what’s the plan?”
She almost laughed at that, except it wasn’t funny in the slightest.
“Isobel. Do you have any idea what you’re going to do once we get there?”
He sounded so much like Marie just then, for all that his voice was so much deeper, she broke into giggles. And once she started, she couldn’t stop. Hiccupping, painful giggles that formed deep in her belly, pushing up through her chest and into her throat, causing her to bend over and wrap her arms around herself, trying to make them stop.
Then warm arms were around her, drawing her against a broad chest, and the weight of something against the crown of her head, barely audible words of comfort against her ear.
“It’s all right. It’s all right, Isobel. Let it out. It’s been a horrible few days, hasn’t it? I know, it’s all right, there’s nobody here but us, you can cry, it’s all right.”
Slowly, the storm inside her wore itself out, leaving an aching emptiness behind. Her back ached, and her nose was snotty, and dinner had likely burned itself, but Isobel couldn’t bring herself to move just yet.
“I don’t know what to do.” The words were muffled against his chest, her hands fisted between them, nails digging into the flesh of her palms. “I don’t . . .”
She knew what needed to be done. She thought she would even know how to do it once she was there. But she didn’t want to. “I’m tired, and I’m sore, and I don’t want to be this person anymore.”
The admission was torn out of her, scraping her throat raw, making her cringe at the sound. She’d made a Bargain, she’d inked the pen with her own blood and bound herself to the boss, and once on the Road, she’d bound herself to the Territory somehow, and she didn’t regret it she truly didn’t but she was so tired.
She didn’t realize she was saying all of that out loud until too late. Horrified, she pulled away, opening her left hand?—wincing at the ache in her knuckles—as though afraid that the mark there would have disappeared, that her words would somehow be enough to break the binding.
It was still there: thick black lines looping twice, an open circle curling around it. The devil’s sigil, pressed into flesh, and she traced the cool lines with the forefinger of her other hand and let out a sigh that ended with a painful hiccup.
Black marks, not silver. She took some comfort from that. She could see the boss, rage at him. He was real.
“Here.” Gabriel dug awkwardly into his jacket pocket and pulled out a kerchief. It wasn’t the cleanest linen she’d ever seen, but she used it to wipe her eyes and then blow her nose.
“Keep it,” he said, and she was able to giggle, real humor this time, even as she scrambled out of his lap, trying to reclaim a few shreds of dignity.
“Better?”
“Yes. No.” She sniffed, but her nose was too clogged to smell anything. “Did dinner burn?”
He glanced at the fire. “It’s fine. Go walk it off. Take the mule. Mules are good for this sort of thing.”
“What?” He was making no sense.