“When I travelled through the forest with Sana the first time, she spoke of regular meetings with envoys from Saintstone – the crows,” I tell Mel. I look at her cautiously. She must know the crows exist, but I have never talked about them with her. “She was just a kid, but she would be taken along sometimes. They would gather here and hand over resources: food and medical items and clothing. But I think it was a meeting of friends too; they would share food and messages and stories.” This makes Mel sit straighter.

“What else do you know of the crows?” Mel asks. Her voice is neutral and I glance at her again.

“Not as much as I would like,” I admit. “I know Obel, Oscar and Connor were – are – part of the group, and they felt the blanks were unfairly treated and would bring them supplies and news. And I think my dad was too, or at least he supported them. Agreed with what they were doing. But I don’t know how it works or who the rest of them are.”

I look to her for more, but she is quiet. Mel is thoughtful for much of our time riding – gazing around her at new sights, amazed at the way the light plays through the leaves creating shadows and glimmers that dance together.

Chapter Twenty-three

“We just cross the river here,” I say, nodding ahead. “You’re sure about this?”

Mel nods and we lead our horses over the bridge. I remember a story Dad used to tell about goats trip-trapping over a bridge and a troll threating to eat them. I didn’t like that one – it scared me. Made me wonder what else was under bridges and beds waiting to leap out.

We still have a way to go before we reach Featherstone, but we’re on their land now. I turn at every sound and try not to be lulled by the familiar giggle of the river water.

It’s a surprise, then, when it’s not an ambush that stops us, but a friend. A friend with hands up and a smile on his face a mile wide.

Oscar.

“Whoa!” he says in a deep lullaby voice, and the horses slow, not fazed by his appearance. He knows exactly how to behave. He always does. He comes near and rests his hand palm-flat between my horse’s eyes. He whispers to him and rubs his neck. Oh, I wish I was a horse. Oscar looks up at me and I blush extravagantly. “Fancy seeing you here.” His grin pulls me in and I let myself go.

I feel woozy as Mel and I walk, leading the horses, following Oscar, who has told us to save conversation for later. I don’t know whether the giddiness comes from being used to the rock and sway of being in the saddle or just the spinning feeling of seeing Oscar and the relief that he is OK. He’s leading us away from the path I would normally take. Oscar said we needed to be careful and quiet and to take a different route. He looks back at me now and then, each time with that smile that dazzles me more than a sunset.