Five days ago
"Let me alone!" It was almost a scream, her voice shrill with the tears that burned in her eyes. Her voice caught, and the Frankish foppery fell in around her ears. Rook made her drop herself without even trying, it seemed.
She couldn't even remember what they'd been quarreling about this time. It wasn't important. It was just that she always happened to say the wrong things, and trip over her own tongue. She got angry at herself, and managed to take it out on him. Rook had taken a habit of confusing her most cruelly, staring ahead pinch-mouthed as she prattled on—Beau always caught herself afterward, but then it was too late. Or he'd leave them for days at a time, gone who-knew-where into the expanses of Sherwood. Once or twice, Beau had gone after him, but that only made things worse.
Later, she would probably realize that it was not Rook's fault, that he no more meant to spin her head than he did Etty's, or Rowan's. But Beau was not in a generous mood. As she stomped out of the grove, eyes fixed on the ground so that she could pretend her eyes were hot from anger alone, Rook stood staring after her as if transfixed. His face was an impassive mask, as always, and his arms hung limp at his side. He knew not what to do with her, either.
"What—?" Etty started as Beau all but crashed into her a little down the slope.
"Cresses," Beau snapped back, not slowing as she stalked down the hill in the vague direction of Fountain Dale. Etty might have stared after her, but Beau did not look back to see.
Beau was angry, and so she did not remember to be careful. The walk burnt off the worst of her anger—for Rook, at least. But with a little space to cool her head, that ire turned inwards, onto herself, who went bumbling on without a reason and took offense at the toads-blessed stupidest things. She made the show of hunting out cresses, jerking them from the ground when they appeared, and muttering to herself. She did not hear them coming, and when she finally looked up, it was too late.
Three figures walked abreast on the Nottingham Way, shrouded by long robes and cowls of sable black. They took Beau by surprise, and were only a good bowshot away when she finally spotted the danger, and hastily scrambled out of the way. The dark vestments should have cried warning, but Beau was not thinking, and Wanderer's garb did not seem out of place just then. She was just a beat too slow to turn hastily away and squeeze her eyes shut, her hand poised to cross herself as anyone else would have done when confronted by those of the Accursed Race.
Her nightmare came true as one hood swung up to stare at her, then the feet beneath the robe slowed to a glacial crawl, as a familiar voice, fraught with incredulity, whispered from within its shadows.
"Eiriss?"