Page 8 of Gilded Locks

At night, the coppers and golds of their wheat fields faded into a nearly monotone grey with an occasional metallic glint. Sherwood Forest, too, was a dark mass in the distance, the tops of the trees shining green in the minimal moonlight. The leaves hadn’t turned yet, but soon enough, most of them would be brilliant reds and oranges that rivaled Grace’s hair, leaving only a single oak that always seemed to turn later in autumn than the rest of the forest.

Grace smiled. Few knew the true reason that tree kept the vibrancy of summer a little longer. It was one of the secrets she protected.

For that reason, the commotion in the forest concerned Grace. What if it wasn’t a deer?

She was probably overreacting; the forest seemed fine. Who else but a Protector would roam the forest at this time of night?

She was sure the secrets beneath the canopy of the forest fortress were safe.

Chapter 2

Grace shushed her brother as they shivered in the driver’s seat of the wagon. It was early morning, so early the sun hadn’t peeked from the horizon to burn off the chill of night, though the sky was lightening.

Still, her shivering couldn’t be attributed solely to the weather. Grace’s eyes flicked left and right. Conversations sounded louder and carried farther in the silence of pre-dawn.

Russell rolled his eyes. “I can talk if I want.”

Rather than respond, Grace raised her eyebrow.

Russell huffed. “Fine.” He settled in to mope. A moment later, Father, clad in farming attire, slipped out of their home. The beginnings of a complaint escaped Russell, but Grace placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Wait until he’s in and we’re moving,” she whispered, then winced. Too loud. Russell huffed again but didn’t speak. It was a minor relief.

Grace kept her eyes ahead to avoid drawing attention to her father as he climbed into the bed of the wagon as though to arrange the contents. When he was confident no one was watching, he would slip beneath empty bags and a golden-brown cloak strategically placed in the center of a haphazard ring of empty boxes and barrels, and bags full of food and supplies.

When a quiet knock sounded on the seat of the wagon Grace swallowed a sigh of relief and flicked the reins. Turnip and Butternut, their mares, began to trot, pulling the wagon behind them. Once they’d made their way past the weed-filled Milner field and onto the main road, she urged the horses to move faster.

She turned to Russell. “Now, we talk.”

“You always tell me what to do.” He flung his head away in dramatic frustration, brown hair tossing.

Grace waved away the complaint. “It’s not me telling you. It’s Mother and Father. You wanted to help. They told you we had to talk.”

“Then I wanna talk about the Rogue.”

“Russell,” Grace hissed, anxiety spiking again. They were passing the edge of Craftsman Ridge, the raised stretch of town containing the housing and shops of Fidara’s craftsfolk. She didn’t see any pedestrians or wagons and shouldn’t until sunrise. Still, even muttering the name of Fidara’s infamous rebel was a risk.

“You know we can’t talk about that,” Grace whispered.

Russell crossed his arms. “We have to talk, so I don’t see why not. I’ve got new stories.”

Grace shook her head at the idiocy of youth. Russell didn’t just want to talk about the Rogue, he wanted to talk about the stories their parents told about him. Their family’s version, the true version, differed vastly from the mayor’s warning tales ofthe villainous Rogue. She wondered if she’d been that foolish at thirteen. “You know why.”

“Fine. Then at least let me drive.” He grabbed for the reins, and to keep him quiet, Grace didn’t resist.

“Slowly.”

“I know,” he said, then flicked. Turnip and Butternut trotted faster.

Grace inhaled deeply and settled back. It would have been so much easier if she could make the supply run without her brother, but their parents insisted Russell join her.

He’s of an age to train,they’d told her. All Grace knew was that the day Russell started training to be a Protector would be the day the entire town found out about it. The kid didn’t have a grain of discretion in him. But they couldn’t wait beyond his next birthday. Three Protectors was too few.

Grace wished, not for the first time, that she’d been a Protector in the time of her parents, when there had been five families. Two dozen people to work with.

She pictured herself in stories even Russell hadn’t heard.

She was jumping through the forest, her leather shoes pushing against the smooth bark of a beech tree, extended arms reaching for a sturdy branch a foot above her. Her gloved hands collided with the wood, and practiced muscles tightened on the branch. Then she walked her feet up the trunk to get her trouser-clad legs over the branch so she could swing herself up. Soon she was sitting, then standing on the branch.

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