They didn’t speak again until they flopped, spent, beside each other on the bed.

And when she finally slipped from bed and pulled on her clothes, Farrow tried to convince her to stay, but it was a lackluster attempt at best. She didn’t know what she would’ve said if he’d offered to come with her.

Because he didn’t.

But she did grab the book off the shelf and stuff it into her pack on the way out.

Once the door was closed, she stood with her back against it, breathing. “Of course I’ll remember you, you idiot,” she whispered. “I don’t need a book to do that.”

Approaching Kestrel, Finfalla

“What in the…” Bryony drew back on the reins to halt her horse, staring in disbelief at the tangle of branches and leaves blocking the way forward. Several of the trees had grown so close to the sea cliffs that their roots were protruding, dangling into open air. Their branches were bending over the sea itself, an occasional dead leaf breaking free and fluttering to the salty water below only to be pounded against the wall of stone.

She hadn’t followed the coastline path from Marchessault to Kestrel for many years, but the last time she was here she was certain there was no forest to speak of. Could Lostwood really have expanded its boundaries so many miles during that time? She’d heard talk of lumberjacks being commissioned by the crown to cut back the forest but had thought nothing of it at the time.

Now she wondered whether she should’ve paid a bit more attention.

She eyed the entanglement, considering. Climbing down the sheer cliffs was only a valid option for someone with a death wish, and the water wasn’t clear enough to determine whether a leap from this height would crush her onto any hidden rocks beneath the ocean’s surface. Not to mention the dangerous aquatic creatures that were known to hunt the waters of the Strangled Sea. Backtracking was out of the question; she’d already delayed things too much with her final dalliance with Farrow.

Final, she thought, just now realizing the assumption she’d made. That this was to be a one-way trip. That she would never see Marchessault, or Farrow, again. Rut it. She repositioned her satchel and dug her heels into the sides of her steed, a fine black mare named Lena she’d paid over asking price for.

Lena didn’t move, whinnying and tossing her head back stubbornly as she chewed on her bit. “Come on, girl,” Bryony said. “It’s just a bit of shrubbery. We’ll be out the other side in no time and then it’ll be nothing but lush plains all the way to Kestrel.”