Reyka’s allies? “I wasn’t,” Crier said. She held still, but in her mind she was calculating the distance between her and Rosi. The distance between her and Della, who was waiting for her at the gates. Thank the gods Crier hadn’t tied her to the gatepost. Thank the gods she was ready to run. “Rosi, whatever you’ve heard, it isn’t true. I didn’t betray Kinok.” She thought quickly. “I—I wanted to marry him. I wanted nothing more than to marry him. But my father—”

“You liar,” said Rosi, and leaped forward.

Crier bolted.

She flung herself off the stone steps, landing hard on the ground. Behind her, Crier heard a terrible noise—as if Rosi, missing her target, had crashed right into the door of the manor—but didn’t bother to look back. She just sprinted, running faster than she’d ever run before. Distantly, she was very glad to be wearing pants instead of a long gown.

She reached Della within a matter of seconds and swung up onto her back, nearly overbalancing and falling off the other side, and kicked hard. “GO,” she shrieked, her voice raw with terror, “GO, GO!” Della seemed to sense her fear and broke out into a gallop, fast as a racehorse. Only then did Crier dare to look back—and nearly screamed. Rosi was racing after them, but it looked wrong. It was like she was running on broken legs, her movements jerky. She kept pitching forward, fingers clawing at the ground, dragging herself upright again. She wasn’t going to catch up with them, but still Crier felt sick. Rosi’s body was breaking down. The Nightshade had eaten away at her, first her muscles and then her mind.

What a terrible way to die.

Crier urged Della forward, back up and over the hill. She didn’t want to stop until she was far away from the manor, from Rosi, from the monster Rosi had become. A fur of trees was visible maybe half a league away, the promise of shelter. The sky deepened from blue to the purple of the gloaming as Crier rode toward the trees, the sun sinking at her back. “Just a little farther,” she told Della, reaching down to pat her neck. The mare’s coat was foaming with sweat. “Just a little farther.”

The fur of trees turned out to be a small wood of skinny, white-barked birches, naked with winter, like finger bones rising up out of the earth. The cover was scarce, but it was still better than being out in the open. Crier felt better the second she and Della broke the tree line. The ground sloped downward, and she could even hear the rush of a river at the bottom. An unexpected blessing: Della could drink her fill, and maybe in the morning Crier could bathe. Della had slowed to a walk, and Crier led her downhill toward the sound of the river. The spaces between the trees was so narrow. Twigs kept catching in Crier’s hair, plucking at her sleeves.