Orfeus blinked. She glanced outside. Not far from the Hub the train station gleamed ready, with its quartertrain once a day. “Now?” she said, truly startled.

Threadgall’s hands slowly dropped, and a frown crinkled their brow. “Now,” they said. They looked at the computer doubtfully, as though questioning the evidence of their eyes.

Orfeus had no doubts at all about Threadgall’s competence. The origin of the message was another matter, but if Threadgall said it was from the Blooded at Eldergrove, she presumed Threadgall would know. But why? Rapidity wasn’t the usual way of things for the Elders. Rather the opposite. And Orfeus didn’t take kindly to being so summarily summoned.

But Eldergrove was far away. Maybe far enough away to be safe. She didn’t trust the Wolf, who hadn’t even given their word, and it was tiring to look for masked shapes in home’s familiar shadows. Things like that didn’t belong here, not here. Tinctora was a peaceful town. If the Wolf had chosen to attack her in the eating house instead of after she’d left it, then Primrose…then innocent people could have been hurt.

“I’ll pack a bag,” Orfeus said, without giving it any further thought.

Threadgall said with a strained version of their usual cheer, “Good luck!”

Orfeus had to make an effort to keep her eyes straight ahead as she walked home, instead of jerking her head behind her to re-examine every shadow. Her back itched and bled.

She packed and dressed lightly. A tunic with embroidered sleeves, tan breeches, her usual boots. A travelling cloak of deepest viridian. No extra jewellery, just her daisy earring. In the sturdy canvas bag that had been a gift from an enamoured wayhouse-keeper, she packed some light provisions and clothes, only the vital things. She placed her guitar carefully in its case.

She rinsed her wounds clean again, and watered the aloe vera and her other plants, and then there was still far too much time left before the quartertrain was due in the late afternoon. No point in saying goodbye to anyone, really; there were few to say goodbye to. Orfeus paced, then hung her cloak back up, her bag. She took her guitar out of its case.

Out in the garden, she settled amongst her favourite block of ferns and the small apple tree she’d never managed to convince to bear much fruit. She played a few chords, then chord progressions, then finger exercises. Gradually she relaxed enough to lean back and let the tension out of her wound-tight muscles, as her hands limbered and the warm familiar music nestled in amongst the leaves.

Orfeus was packed and waiting at the station when the quartertrain pulled in, slowing over the course of a league from faster than blinking into slow enough it wouldn’t blow through and past. They never stopped for long, though, unless accessibility demanded it.