Emris raised an eyebrow. He fixed on her mark momentarily, but there was no judgment in his gaze. “Perhaps. But people outside Duke’s Forest aren’t looking at your birthmark—not in that way. Once they know you’re a Rogue, they’re looking at you, wondering whether you might kill them.” He threw her a slight, unnerving smile, the scars on his face puckering with the motion. Unsettled, Lena took a seat inside the carriage.

The large, sturdy vehicle had clearly been designed for practicality rather than comfort. It was tall enough to stand up in, for a start, although Emris’s head almost grazed the ceiling. Inside, narrow benches bordered walls crammed with storage space: cupboards with slatted wooden doors fastened with rope, drawers of wicker that tied shut with string hoops. There were no windows, and Emris lit a lamp attached to the ceiling. In its steady light, Lena glimpsed rolls of blankets, a miniature iron stove, and a box labeled “Panacea” next to another labeled “Venomsbane”—alongside other items of unidentifiable use (a bundle of finely carved twigs in the corner, a couple of bright medallions hanging from pegs, a knot of strange leathery leaves suspended from the ceiling). The smell of tough salted meat and old sweat assaulted her nose.

Emris knocked on the ceiling, and the carriage lurched into motion. Steadying himself against the shelving, he plucked a couple of long white feathers from a drawer, a leaf from the bundle suspended from the ceiling, and a few lengths of silky black string. Finally, with a glance at Lena, Emris unhooked a gray cloak identical to his own from the carriage wall. “Here,” he said, “you’re shivering.”

It was true: her habit was soaked through with storm vapor and sweat—she was freezing. Lena wrapped the cloak around her body gratefully. It was spun of plain gray wool, finer and softer than the wool of her habit, and lined with black flannel. She pulled it close.

“You called yourself a huntsman. What does that mean?” she asked.

Emris sat opposite her, elbows on his knees.

“I will tell you everything, but I’ll need quiet while I prepare this charm,” he said, and he began to weave the strands together, the feathers and leaf slowly encased. “Rest if you can.”

“But—”

“Trust me.” He shot her a quick smile. “You’ll get nothing out of me while I’m working—this is tricky. You’ll just have to be patient.”

Lena relented, rested her head against the wooden boards of the carriage wall, and shut her eyes, secretly glad of a few moments’ peace. The carriage jolted, rocked, and trundled along the pitted dirt road leading from the forest. The sound of the road roared in her ears, and for a while her mind was empty. But then thoughts and memories slushed into her all at once, as if spilled clumsily from a bucket.