Page 51 of The Falconer

‘Why?’ I ask. ‘Why would you do that for me?’

He looks away from me, frowning, as if remembering something he’s tried so hard to forget. ‘I tried to help once,’ he says. ‘One of the people from my visions. The faery was so fast, it broke six bones in my body before I reached her.’

‘Gavin, I—’

‘I think you’re foolish,’ he says harshly. ‘I think this is an exceedingly terrible idea that will probably end with both of us being killed. But if I’m to die, I’d rather do it knowing that I tried to help and didn’t run.’

There’s nothing I can say to that. I know that Gavin should go back inside where it’s safer, where he isn’t with someone being hunted by the fae. They’ll hunt him too once they figure out he’s a Seer in the company of a Falconer. I can’t believe I’m doing this.

I sigh. ‘Fine.’

God, I hope I don’t regret taking him with me. As we round the house to the side garden, I listen for any indication of a faery nearby, but hear nothing. Instinctively, I reach for the reassuring thistle necklace but find it gone – then I remember in a rush that I can’t see or hear them.

Swearing softly, I ask, ‘Do you hear any howls?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Good.’

I crouch next to the hedges and pull my satchel out from its depths, reaching inside for my boots. I yank the blasted slippers off my feet and shove them inside in the bag, then lace the boots up. It’s always best to be prepared in case I’m forced to run. If only I had thought to bring some spare thistle with me.

Next, the holster and my lightning pistol, two items I will never be without again. I slide the leather strap around my waist and pull the buckle tight.

‘Do you always hoard your weapons in other people’s gardens?’ Gavin asks.

‘Only when I don’t want to be killed,’ I say brightly.

The remains of my wet silk gloves stick to my skin as I tug them off and toss them into the bag. The crossbow comes out next. Then the fire-starter, which is now attached to a gauntlet of my own design. I slip it on and buckle the straps around my wrist and upper arm, where the fuel reserve rests.

I pick up the crossbow and check its interior chamber. It holds twelve slender quarrels, their tips dipped in a tincture distilled fromseilgflùr. Designed to break on impact, the tips contain small wads of the thistle, enough to kill a faery almost instantly. The cranequin’s reloading design loads and draws the quarrels automatically after each one is fired.

‘Well,’ Gavin says. ‘You’ve certainly been busy.’

‘A lady has to find something to do between painting landscapes.’

‘You know, I’ll never look at a woman in the same way again. I’ll wonder if she’s hiding weapons under the hedges.’

I grin. We edge around the bushes to the side gate, which opens with a squeak. I duck my head out and check the dark street for any people. Empty but for pools of light from the street lamps and a lone parked carriage. Gavin looks out with me and nods once to indicate it’s clear of faeries, too.

The only noise filters from Gavin’s house, where laughter and chatter and fiddles playing the Highland schottische drift through the open windows.

This is the first dance after the refreshment break, the one I had promised to return for. I’ve given away this dance, and the ones that would have followed. There will be no way to repair my reputation after this. Come tomorrow, it’ll be in tatters. I’ll be lucky if my father doesn’t take the first offer he gets for me. This is my last chance to go back before that happens.

Gavin touches my shoulder. ‘Are you all right?’

I make my choice. The same one I’ll always make. I choose survival. I choose the hunt. Because Father would tell me,duty first, andthisis my duty.

Gavin scans the road. ‘Aileana. I hear them now.’

I reach for his arm and pull him along as I sprint past his neighbours’ houses, shoving a low-hanging branch out of my way. I dodge through the gate into the public garden, which shuts behind me with a sharp clang as loud as a gunshot. We rush along the path between the trees inside. My boots slip and sink into deep mud.

‘Where are we going?’ Gavin asks.

‘If we’re quick enough, we might be able to bypass them on the way to Charlotte Square.’

Out of the garden and into the street. Our feet pound through puddles, our swift steps clack on the cobbles. As I enter St Andrew Square between the dim light of two street lamps, the rhythm of my breathing is strong, swift. I grip Gavin’s hand, our fingers slippery from the rain.

He skids to a halt and I almost pitch forward onto the ground. ‘Gavin?’ I ask. ‘What is it?’

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