Page 71 of The Sorcerer's Thief
By the time the sun has fully risen, we’re out of the Irondale proper and traveling east.
I knew Cricket hailed from the farms bordering the city, not the city itself, but I didn’t realize how different the terrain would look.
The lands are faded green, not sandy. Pine trees shade the edges of field after field, dormant now that the growing season has passed. Even the smell is better: clean air, a fresh breeze, the earthy scent of farm animals, which I don’t mind after spending so much time with Slinger.
We don’t talk much. I’m lost in my thoughts, as I’m sure he is as well. My mission is over, and it wasn’t me who completed it.
I owe Cricket my life, my thanks, about a thousand apologies. How does one begin to settle such debts? Nothing I can do or say could come close to what he deserves.
Probably the best thing I could do for Cricket would be to leave him to a better fate than one with me, but I’m a selfish man at heart, and I want him for myself.
“See the little brown farmhouse up ahead?” Cricket sounds like himself. Like he’s unaffected by recent events. I know it’s not true. He can’t be. He’s rallied for me. For Slinger. For the upcoming reunion with his village folks.
“I see it.” Not far off sits a small house surrounded by large oaks.
“Roslyn lives there with her granddaughters. She’ll help us tidy up before we go farther.”
“We won’t scare her, looking as we do?”
“Nothing scares Roslyn. Don’t worry. She can handle a little blood.”
I’m dragging as we approach. Exhausted. Sore. Hungry. I hate to make a new acquaintance in this state, but Cricket seems sure of our welcome. I trust his instincts better than my own.
A couple of black-and-white herding dogs spot us and sound the alarm, barking loudly. They run toward us, hackles raised,but their posturing quickly turns to wagging tails and wiggling hind ends when they recognize Cricket.
He kneels to greet them while Slinger casually hides behind me, her one good eye focused squarely on the boundless canine energy in front of us.
“Hey Farah! Hey Snuffie!” Cricket scratches them all over while they cover him in slobbery kisses.
They ignore me and Slinger in favor of smothering him in adoration.
“I missed you. How’ve you been? How’s old Roslyn?”
A gray-haired woman steps out onto the front porch. “Excuse me, Jumping Bean. Did I just hear you call me old?”
Cricket laughs. “Well, you’re not young.”
“Get over here and give me a hug before I make you pick a switch to swat your bottom with.”
He runs to her. Positively sprints up the three stairs, hair flying, dogs following, and throws himself into her arms like a man drowning.
They embrace, rocking back and forth. She pats his hair and coos at him. He tucks his face against her bird-boned shoulder.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, feeling out of place. Dirty, foreign, probably smelly too. Definitely not at my best.
She gazes over his shoulder at me and smiles. “Who’s your friend, and why are you both so bloody?”
Her inquiry is casual enough to make me question how often Cricket has come home bloody.
He waves me over. “This is Julian. We could use some help.”
“Clearly.” She steps around Cricket and waits at the top of the stairs. “Well, come on up, Julian, or I’ll threaten to swat you too. Don’t think I won’t do it.”
“She will,” Cricket adds totally unnecessarily because I absolutely believe this woman would swat my bottom with a switch if she thought I deserved it.
Roslyn has gray eyes—kind eyes—to match her hair, with a healthy smattering of crow’s feet in the corners and smile lines on her dimpled cheeks.
She hones in on my neck and frowns. “You’re injured.” She flicks Cricket in the same way he sometimes flicks me when I’ve annoyed him. “You should have told me he was injured. You’re not hurt too, are you?”
