I left for Plovdiv at dawn. Mama wept openly as I packed my few treasured belongings in a leather knapsack, the back of her hand pressed to her mouth to keep the sobs at bay. When at last I slung the pack over my shoulder, she reached for me and clutched me to her breast, peppering my temple with kisses. "I love you, Katerina," she whispered desperately. "I love you. Please forgive me."

For a moment, I felt my throat grow tight. Faced with the very real possibility that this might be the last time I ever laid eyes on my mother, I felt my fury melt into something that resembled pity. She was a simple woman, tender and warm, meek and cooperative – everything I was not. I couldn't begin to understand her; I didn't have a submissive bone in my body. But I knew that her words were true: she loved me unconditionally, no matter what Papa decreed. Even that small act of defiance made my heart swell for her a little. I swallowed hard, kissed her papery soft cheek, and turned to the door before Papa could see my tears. I pretended that I didn't see the flash of pain in his eyes as I walked out of the house without a word. There was no point. He would never admit that his anger, too, had subsided; that he loved me; that he didn't actually want me to go. He would not revoke his decision – it would be a show of weakness, in his eyes. And I, in turn, was too proud to beg him to let me stay. The Petrova stubbornness ran deep.

I held my head high as I walked away from the only home I had ever known. Only once I was well down the wooded path and out of sight did I stop to wipe away my tears. I leaned against a sturdy tree for support, already exhausted after barely two hundred paces. I squirmed uncomfortably as my womb cramped with afterpains and a surge of blood soaked my undergarments. I was breathless and shaky, and the trees spun precariously around me. Not even ten minutes out the door, it was blatantly apparent that while my mind was set upon searching for my baby, my body would not be so accommodating. I'd spent the better part of two days in labor, and by the end I had been drenched in sweat and shivering uncontrollably from over-exertion. A handful of hours of rest had not been enough to recover my strength, no matter how much my heart willed it. Plovdiv was easily three hours away on foot. At this rate, I would never make it.

The wheels in my head began to turn as I eyed the wooded path. Up ahead another decare, the path fed into a busy roadway that led into the city. There were always travelers on the road – locals, merchants, traders, caravans. If I could just make it that far, I would surely be able to charm my way into a ride the rest of the way. My father's youngest sister lived on the outskirts of town, not far from the city gates. If I were to wager which relative he might have asked to take my baby, she was my first guess. She and her husband originally had five children of their own, but three had been lost to fever. This entire venture would hinge on my ability to appeal to her sympathy, as a mother who understood too well the pain of losing a child. At the very least, even if she didn't have my daughter, she might know who did.

Steeling myself for the journey ahead, I took in a few open mouthfuls of air, then blew them steadily out. I was a Petrova, and I did not surrender. Willing back my pain and my exhaustion, I forced my weary body forward again, counting the number of steps to encourage myself. Steady and measured, one foot ahead of the other, I trudged on. Every 100 paces or so I would stop to rest and take a sip of water out of the flask in my knapsack. My progress was agonizingly slow – glacial, really – but soon enough I could make out the distant clop of hooves on the packed dirt of the main road. It was just the encouragement I needed to propel me across that last, long stretch and out into the broad clearing.

As I'd suspected, the road was bustling with activity, even at this early hour of the morning. I put a hand up to shield my eyes from the bright morning sun, and surveyed my options. A young boy rode bareback on a grey donkey; a fur trader pulled a broad wooden cart stacked with bear, wolf, and polecat skins; a thickset older gentleman, nicely dressed, urged his horse along at a brisk trot; in the distance, an ox-drawn farmer's cart approached, though I couldn't tell anything about the driver yet.

Trusting my gut, I kept my eye on the farmer's cart, squinting down the road to watch its approach. On closer inspection, I noted that the driver was a woman, about Mama's age, with a leathery face and grey-streaked hair. Her cart was filled with plump late harvest potatoes, still dusted with soil. I raised a hand to her in greeting as she approached. She eyed me warily, and I suddenly realized how I must have appeared to her: a young woman, traveling alone, with a drawn, pale face, dark circles under my eyes, curls matted with sweat – I probably had never looked more a mess in my life. Now extremely self-conscious, I drew back a little and tried to act natural.

"Dobro utro," I greeted politely, giving a little curtsy.

She nodded brusquely, still unconvinced. Her hands tensed on the reins.

"Please, madam, I mean you no harm," I said. "I am only a weary traveler, bound for Plovdiv."

"Where is your escort?" she demanded, her eyes still narrowed suspiciously.

"My husband awaits me in the city," I lied. "My brother meant to accompany me, but he fell ill the night before we were to depart."

"And your father?" she pressed.

"Dead, madam."

She grunted, sucking the rotted black remnants of her front teeth. "Well, what a convenient story. I don't believe you! You're a runaway if ever I saw one. Get yourself back home, child, before the highway bandits get their hands on you."

"No, please, you don't understand—" I began, taking a step toward her. Quick as lightning, she took up her whip and snapped it in my direction. I stumbled back and landed on my bottom, startled but unhurt.

"Get!" she barked again. "Go home. You'll not stow away with the likes of me."

I watched her go, incredulous and more than a little disheartened. So much for charming my way into a ride! Clenching my jaw in determination, I decided to switch tactics. Manners and courtesy were getting me nowhere fast. It was time to try something a little more diabolical.

Without bothering to rise from the ground, I took a handful of dirt and smudged it liberally across my arms and face for dramatic effect. I waited until the coast was clear, then crawled a few feet out into the road and lay down.

I didn't have to wait long. Barely two minutes passed before I heard the telltale approach of hoof beats. The rider saw me right away – I heard him gasp and cry out a startled "Whoah!" to his horse. Here, I made sure to groan and clutch my head; I didn't want him to mistake me for dead. The rider dismounted at once, and ran to my aid. I finally got a good look at him as he dropped to a knee at my side and placed a hand on my arm.

"Miss? Miss! Are you hurt?"

I made a show of wincing and hissing through my teeth. "I was – I was thrown from my horse." I gave a weak little cough. "He spooked at a fox on the trail."

"Can you sit up?" the man asked, sliding a hand under my shoulder for assistance.

"I think so…"

I allowed him to 'help' me up, and offered him my sweetest smile as a reward. "Thank you."

"Is anything broken?"

I prodded my ribs and twisted my limbs to and fro. "No. I am well, sir, truly." I pretended to attempt to stand, and then clutched my head and fell back down again. "Oh!"

"You are not well," the man insisted. "We should get you to a doctor. Where are you headed?"

"Plovdiv," I answered. "But I do not mean to burden you. You have gone out of your way to help me already."

"What should I have done? Left a wounded young damsel alone in the road?" He shook his head. "No. I shall take you into town. I won't hear another word against it."

It was all I could do to suppress a smirk as he lifted me into his arms and carried me over to his horse. Wounded damsel in the road – I made a mental note of that. Evidently, it worked like a charm.