Page 9 of The Curse and the Silver Rose

Even the air smelled different—like crushed pine needles and heather. Amelie stared around, drinking in the sights and sounds. Had they passed other travelers in her sleep? What had they thought, to see a sleeping woman on an impossibly fast-moving golden horse?

“Would you like a break?” asked Amelie as she sipped from the water skin she’d packed in her satchel.

The mare twisted her neck a little and gave an indignant snort.

“Okay, okay,” said Amelie with a chuckle, taking out some bread to nibble on. “Will we arrive at Castle Grange by the end of the day?”

Trésor flicked her ears once. Relieved she’d not need to ask for direction, Amelie tried to enjoy the ride, determinedly ignoring her anxieties about the man her brothers called a brute and a beast.

Of course, the more she tried not to think about him, the more she did. How would their first meeting unfold? A maiden arriving at a nobleman’s castle unescorted was most irregular.

Would he court her? Imprison her? Devour her on the spot? Perhaps her looks would disappoint him and he’d wish to be rid of her. What then? Would her family still be in danger, if she’d fulfilled her duty to present herself to him?

These thoughts and more plagued her. She realized with a dull heart that her brothers would be awake by now and aware of her departure. What if they set out after her? She was relying on her brothers’ good sense to not give chase.

But when grand heroics were involved, men were rarely prone to good sense. Amelie had no choice but to trust that Raphael and Marcel would respect her wishes, as she had made them clear in her letter.

She was drawn from her reverie by Trésor halting at the bottom of a rise. The mare stood still, her head lifted and ears turned forward, sniffing the air. It was the first time they’d stopped since leaving the cottage. Amelie heard nothing except the ceaseless buzz of insects and the occasional bird call.

“What is it?” asked Amelie. “Are you tired? Hurt?”

Trésor’s only response was to veer off the dirt road, plunging into the thick forest. Amelie grasped the reins in alarm, taking care not to yank them, lest she disturb the horse further. Something had spooked Trésor. The mare had proven capable of steering them though, so Amelie let her.

They continued a little way into the trees. Trésor stopped under a giant yew, emerald-green moss creeping up its trunk. The forest canopy was so dense that the sun was only sprinkles on the ground.

Amelie swallowed hard. Why did the mare bring them here? Should she dismount and have a look around? Did Trésor mean for Amelie to rest?

Before she could decide what to do, a sound from the road made her breath catch. She heard the deep, gravelly voices of men. At least four of them, Amelie quickly deduced. There were horses’ hooves, too, moving at a slow walk. It was some kind of traveler’s party: merchants, perhaps, or local farmers. Surely raiders would not be brazen enough to amble along the main roads in a group.

As the party drew closer, the conversation became discernible.

“—got away from you, Igor. She played you well.”

“A tease,” said another man. “Bleating like a lamb after I gutted her beau. She could run though, couldn’t she? How’re these village girls gettin’ to be so fast?”

“They ain’t, ya dolt. You’re getting slow. Old and slow and fat.”

The men laughed uproariously.

“That’s why you put an arrow in their thigh before you have yer way with them. Makes ‘em cry all the harder, too. I do love it when they cry.”

Amelie pressed her hand over her mouth, stifling a gasp of terror. These men were not merchants or farmers. They were raiders, and they were plenty brazen.

Shaking violently, she fumbled with her satchel. Her fingers closed around the stem of her rose. She did not remove the bud to release the Sirenstone sword, for the song would alert the men to her presence.

She sat poised, heart thudding, and listened to the men continue their vile discussion. Trésor remained utterly stationary beneath her, which Amelie knew was wise. The men might hear the mare’s hooves on the leaf litter if Trésor took any steps now.

“Wait, let’s stop,” said one of the men. “I said halt!” he repeated, after a beat.

Boots and hooves scuffled on the road as the group heeded the man’s words. Amelie’s stomach clenched. Was his request a ruse? Had they realized she was here? Should she dig her heels into Trésor’s flank to bid her gallop?

“Need to take a leak,” said the same man.

To Amelie’s horror, one set of heavy footsteps entered the tree line on her side of the road. Trésor still did not move, although Amelie felt her powerful equine form tense under the saddle. The mare was preparing to bolt.

Amelie gripped the saddle horn with one hand, the silver rose brandished in the other. She resolved not to remove the bud until the man was upon her. There was no point doing it before he was within striking distance. She’d stab him, and then pray Trésor could outrun his friends.

The man advanced farther, his boots crunching sticks and twigs like fine bones. He was mere steps away from spotting her. She summoned every shred of her courage, readying herself to fight.

---