Part I, Nick Hollow
Wednesday
It's thundering again.
I'm creeping through the ferns behind my Uncle Wilfred, and my trouble meter is leaping off the scales. The rain is dripping from the trees onto our heads, and Smalls is behind me, glancing around like he expects a wolf to jump out of the creepers and vines at any second. He's not my brother, but it would take a long time to explain. He's kind of adopted. Uncle Wilfred is as close to a father as I'll ever get. We don't talk about my real father. The twin swords on my back are cold against my skin, and I feel like I might need to use them sometime soon. Ahead of us, the leaves shiver, and we all jump. Well, Smalls and I. Uncle Wilfred looks back at us with a strange sort of smirk, like he's trying to decide whether or not to tease us. Twenty-four years of being alive and I still jump at every noise. I blame it on the Afterterrors. A bone-shattering crack of thunder sounds from above, followed by a lower rumble. Uncle Wilfred holds up a hand, touches a finger to his lips, and nods to me. I've somehow ended up as the unofficially nominated scout, don't ask me how. I drop to my stomach and shimmy over the wet ground, hoping the clothes in my pack are still dry. Ahead of me, firelight beams through the gaps in the ferns, and laughter drifts away into the damp air. I tug the hood of my cloak over my ears, and peer in between the leaves. I nearly jump out of my skin in fear.
Daggler's band.
We thought we'd be able to get out of First Warren without trouble from that discusting murderer, but it appears we were wrong. I scooch backward very slowly, noticing Daggler himself sitting on a log close to the fire. As I stand back up a good distance away from the camp, Smalls and Uncle Wilfred give me questioning looks. Daggler, I mouth. Smalls' eyes widen in shock, and Wilfred glares in the direction of the camp. I hold my palm out flat, and draw a semicircle around the outside of it, which is our signal for go around. They both nod, and we all drop to our knees and elbows, crawling through the bushes.
Twenty wet minutes later, we're back on the run, pounding through the trees toward East Wood. After another breathtaking hour, Uncle Wilfred signals a stop, and Smalls and I let out sighs of relief.
"You look tired, Sabine." Smalls is putting on that face, the one that means Ha, ha. I got you.
"And you look like someone who's dessert I'm going to eat." I can't help sticking my tongue out at him, no matter If I've been a legal adult for six years.
"If you two are going to stand there arguing," Uncle Wilfred quips from where he's spreading the ground sheet of a tent, "Then neither of you are getting dessert." Smalls and I wouldn't care if we didn't eat anything for supper for three days, but we jump into action anyway, quickly getting into a contest to see who can pitch their tent the fastest. We've been in and out of most places for the last twelve years, and we're used to not even knowing where we are. We like it that way, Smalls and I. Goodness knows what Uncle Wilfred thinks. After Uncle Wilfred pitches his tent and starts a fire, he sits down on a stump. Smalls and I glance at each other, and then get to work on supper. When Uncle Wilfred stops working after starting a fire, we both know what that means. It means, leave him alone, ignore him when he doesn't thank you for the can of beans you just handed him, and wait a long time before speaking to him. Finally, when the fire is burning low and we've eaten our fill of canned beans and fried puffballs, I speak up.
"So, where are we going?"
Uncle Wilfred looks up from a map, his eyes stormy, like the sky above. "To find my brother," He replies. "We're going to Nick Hollow."