Her bow sank and dangled at her side from fingers slowly chilling into ice. Ermentrude was right. She hadn’t been in the garden or the fields in weeks. And what would her parents have said about that? Her parents who had wanted nothing more out of life than dirt under their fingernails and the sun at their backs? The parents who had taken her in as their own, a little orphan found muddy and crying in the woods after a storm that by all rights should have killed her. The parents who had been so hopeful that their adopted daughter would carry on their legacy when they were gone.
The world went misty as tears welled in her eyes, shimmering there without falling. They must be rolling in their graves over how I turned out.
“I’m sorry, Lady Marian.” Ermentrude’s voice softened and she dropped her arms to her sides. She wrung her hands a bit and tilted her head to try and meet Marian’s eyes. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Marian turned her cheek, unwilling to share this moment with the gardener.
“You’re right of course,” Ermentrude continued feebly. “I have got an awful habit of speaking out of turn.” She shuffled her feet, stirring up the earth that matched her muddy boots until it looked as though her legs had melted into the forest floor. “I’m sorry, Lady Marian. It won’t happen again. Please don’t cry.”
“We will have to reschedule our meeting.” She forced the minced words past the lump in her throat through sheer willpower and unpinned the lapels of her cloak. Light, moss green material closed around her body and washed around her legs, and for a split second she wished she really could disappear into the surrounding greenery like some kind of forest sprite. “I will try to make some time tomorrow.”
Ermentrude shuffled uncomfortably. “As you wish. You know where to find me.”
There was no censure or disbelief in Ermentrude’s voice now, but Marian’s psyche was only too happy to fill it in. The servant politely lowered her chin and turned to lumber back the way she’d come. Every footstep she took was a condemnation of Marian’s deplorable loyalty, her total lack of dedication. Every pace took Ermentrude closer to the gardens that Marian’s parents had loved so dearly. The gardens Marian couldn’t bear to be in for more than a moment, the gardens that held not even the briefest flicker of interest no matter how hard she tried. The order and calm of the gardens couldn’t compete with the wilderness, the unpredictability of the forest.
The hunt.
Groaning wood tickled her ears and Marian abruptly eased her grip on her bow before she snapped it in two. She took a slow breath in through her nose, willing the tears back where they’d come from, and holstered her bow across her chest, the string a welcome and familiar pressure.#p#分页标题#e#
Something brushed against her leg, rustling the skirt of her teal-toned dress. Her brow furrowed as she gripped her cloak and skirts and slowly pulled like she was drawing a curtain. Beady little black eyes blinked at her before squeezing shut as the fox scratched its chin against her toe, features tight with concentration.
Marian’s jaw dropped. “Why you little…”
The fox yipped and took off, leaping over fallen branches and plowing through piles of twigs and leaves, forest debris flying into the air. Marian’s bow was already in her hand, the other plucking an arrow from her quiver as she threw herself into fierce pursuit. A flood of adrenaline burned away the painful memories, lifted the weight from her chest so she could breathe again if only for this moment.
The tears dried and her vision sharpened, bringing every leaf, every twig, every flicker of movement into crystalline focus. The branches of the towering willows, rowans, ash, birch, and oak bowed and waved as she zigzagged over their roots, silent even in her haste. The sharp scent of wet earth from last night’s rain, the aroma of crushed greenery, and the bite of rustling pine filtered past her nose, immersing her in the world of the forest. Of the hunt.
Her prey danced just ahead of her, its red fur a slash of vibrant color in the green and brown of the trees. Marian leapt up on the trunk of a fallen oak, careful not to slide on the slippery coat of moss. Her bowstring sang with tension as she pulled the arrow into place. One more flicker of movement and she let it fly, exhaling a moment before release. The arrow flew straight and true, sharpened point meeting its fleshy target—
And hit a tree.
Marian gaped at the quivering arrow, her body completely still, not even breath stirring inside her. The arrow was buried an inch deep in the smooth silver bark of a young birch—and not in the rump of the pointy-eared pest.