With these thoughts bouncing around her skull, she completed her ensemble by fashioning her serash around her waist and then headed for the door, pausing with her hand on the knob before dropping into a crouch and scattering the contents of her satchel onto the floor. Her fingers quickly worked over each item, stuffing them back inside, lingering in temptation on the book but then returning it, moving on until they closed around the one she sought. A small, glass vial no larger than her small finger, stoppered with a cork. Inside were tiny gray flecks that moved when the vial was shaken or turned upside down.

“I’m going to find him, Mother,” she said to the ash. “I’ll find him for you.”

She slid the portion of her mother’s ashes back inside her pack and then gathered the rest of the loose items, sealing them within. Only then did she turn the door’s knob and slide smoothly into the hall. Out of habit and training, she paused to listen for creaking floorboards behind the closed doors or the soft pad of enemy footfalls on the staircase to her left.

Enemy footfalls, she chided herself. What enemy could she possibly face in the frivolous town of Kestrel more known for its drunkards than the village guardsmen who could be bought for a wink and a coin pressed into their greasy palms?

Still, as she strode along the corridor, she was alert and ready for one of the doors to open to reveal a would-be assailant. “Stop being ridiculous,” she muttered. But then one did open, a door on her right, but before she could react a hand had shot out, grabbing her by the shoulder, spinning her around and wrapping her tight.

Her hand snuck down toward the dagger hidden in a hip pocket. “Don’t,” a voice said, sounding familiar. The warning was reinforced by the cold steel pressed to her throat.

“You,” she said. “The woodsman. Threatening me with my own knife. You know, they say imitation is the greatest form of flattery.”

“It seemed appropriate. And we both know I’m not a woodsman. So that begs the question: Why did you let me go if you knew I was lying?”

So my instincts were correct, she thought with a sliver of self-satisfaction swiftly tempered by the feel of cold steel against her throat. “Why does it matter? We could’ve just parted ways and never seen each other again, but instead you stalk me to Kestrel of all places?”

“That one is a coincidence, not unlike our first meeting. We just happened to be traveling in the same direction.”