For as long as people had used words as insults, they told Elena the things she could never do. They told her since she was a girl, she couldn’t fight. They told her since she was poor, she would always have to follow orders. They told her since she was pretty, she would have to use her body. She’d denied all of that. She’d refused to be someone else’s plaything. That wasn’t the way to find freedom, not out of the streets, not out of a life. Not by someone else’s charity—she’d worked to earn Walter’s hospitality. You can’t climb a ladder by clutching onto those higher and hoping they drag you a few rungs before shaking you off. Doing so would mean she would never belong where she had arrived. It was simply another form of possession.

Robin of Locksley thought they were skivers. Boot-clingers.

He’d learn.

Elena urged the horses faster.

A FADING AMBER LIGHT cut through the shafts of trees to show the burnt husk of Locksley Castle. Her stone walls still stood, mostly, though every window or doorway was scorched black. Grey dirt and weed surrounded everything, what once was tall grass. Here and there, ivy tendrils crawled their way back up into the cracks, the earth itself not satisfied that the structure still stood. Lower walls had crumbled, a few taller sections had collapsed. There was no sign of any door, shutter, or banner. Anything consumable had been taken by flame. The sun bit harshly onto what remained, giving an orange glow as if the embers still lingered.

Locksley had stopped a dozen or so paces back, hands limp at his side. Elena had her own solemn memories of this place, which she wrestled down. She wanted to focus on watching the son’s reaction. If anything could slap the arrogant smirk off his face to reveal the actual human beneath, this would.

“Not quite home sweet home,” John apologized.

“Yes, Locksley Castle!” Will burst in. “Thank you so much for the fine accommodations!”

Locksley closed his eyes. “What happened here?”

Eventually Tuck, with his usual blend of kindness, “Something that shouldn’t have.”

“I’m sorry we didn’t tell you,” John huffed, descending from the wagon. “Thought this would be better seen.”

Locksley moved slowly, placing his steps to the entrance with care, as if he were remembering each one. Against her will, a part of Elena felt sympathy for him. A small part, a pinkie, or the useless wattle of skin at the elbow. The Robin of body parts. They all had mourned this place in their own time, and come to terms with it. They’d had to, such was the way with grief. It consumed your thoughts like a fire, but once there was nothing left to burn, all that remained were scars. Robin of Locksley was still made of kindling.