Melia looked up at the hill where a stone manor stood, exactly where it had stood for three hundred years.
Tinyspring had grown naturally around the foot of the hill over time.
Melia didn’t even know which generation of the family lived there now.
Rive had probably told her, but, well, that information had somehow slipped her mind.
In truth, she might not have listened at all.
She suspected Rive was angry with her too, for not showing up when she’d promised.
She needed to make it up to him.
So Melia ran fast, faster than she’d ever run before.
She dodged the people in her path, weaving between them, her eyes fixed on the hill.
A few people shouted after her.
Maybe she had pushed them as she passed by, or knocked their goods onto the ground, but Melia didn’t stay to find out.
She held the scarf in one hand and kept the other clenched in a fist as her feet pounded over the cobblestones.
Her whole body felt ready to burst with the need to tell Rive what she’d found in the shed.
Tears of excitement filled her eyes, and she couldn’t hold back her laughter.
Melia’s strength gave out halfway up the hill to Thornwick House.
She braced her hands against her knees and gasped for breath.
When she wiped the sweat that had beaded on her forehead with her sleeve, she realized her headscarf was long gone.
It must have fallen off somewhere along the way.
She could already hear the scolding she’d get from her mother when she got home.
It mattered a great deal to her mother that her daughters always wore a scarf over their hair.
In the village, well-behaved girls were expected to keep their hair covered.
If she were honest, Melia wasn’t one of those.
Ha!
Far from it.
She could curtsy, say her pleases and thank-yous, and bow, if she really tried hard and had absolutely no choice, but as a rule, that simply wasn’t Melia.
Instead, she left that job to Talia.
It came to her sister far more naturally.
Melia took a few good, deep breaths, bent low, and broke into a run.
She had only a short distance left to cover.
But then she remembered that she had been forbidden from coming to the house.
More precisely, she had been forbidden from seeing Rive because Henry Thornwick, Rive’s father and the lord of the manor, thought she was a bad influence on his son.
So she changed her plan.
Thornwick House wasn’t just a manor.
The whole place was almost a little village of its own.
Instead of going straight through the main gate, Melia circled behind the manor, past the hired workers’ houses, storehouses, stables, and livestock pens.
Though the manor kept its own guards, they mostly escorted trade caravans rather than keeping watch over every passerby.
Except at the main gate.
And even that was mostly for show.
So sneaking inside wasn’t much of a challenge for Melia.
She found Rive on the training ground practicing archery, his favorite hobby.
Melia crouched behind the fence, trying to keep out of sight.
Unfortunately, Henry Thornwick stood on the far side of the field.
Fortunately, he was still quite some distance away.
He was showing his guest the weapons on a rack.
The guest was dressed in fine clothes, his round belly jiggling slightly as he nodded along as if he understood every word Mr.
Thornwick said.
Atop his head sat a tall hat in the latest fashion, its glossy fabric gleaming in the sunlight.
“Psst,” she whispered, but Rive was too focused to notice.
Melia tried again a few times.
It had no effect—instead, Rive drew another arrow and took aim at the target.
Rolling her eyes with a huff, Melia peeked over the fence and called out, “Rive!” then dropped straight back down out of sight.
Rive lost his concentration at exactly the wrong moment, just as he loosed the arrow, sending it flying wildly off course.
The arrow flew straight toward the guest, and neither Rive nor Melia had time to shout a warning before it struck the man’s handsome hat dead center.
It took the hat clean off, carried it along, and pinned it to a wall.
The guest froze without his hat.
Henry Thornwick’s hand remained lifted above the weapon rack.
Rive looked pale as milk.
And when Henry Thornwick and his guest turned their heads toward where the arrow had come from, all that lay there was the instrument of the crime.
The culprit was nowhere to be seen.
Melia and Rive leaned breathlessly against the wall of the storehouse, laughing so hard they could barely breathe.
“Well, that was funny,” Melia said, holding her stomach with both hands.
“Did you see the man’s face?” “No, I was too busy running away.
But it must have been a sight.
I hope he didn’t soil himself.” “Maybe he did.” Both of them burst out laughing again, even harder.
“Where the heck have you been?
I waited forever,” Rive demanded once the laughter died down.
“Wait.
You are not going to believe what happened,” Melia started, and told him everything that had happened with Venya, the forest spirit woman.
“Whoa!
That’s wild.” “Should we see if she found the old inn?
Maybe help her?” “You’ve known her for, what, five minutes?
And you’re already buddies with her?” “Oh, please.
No one can take your place, Rive.
She needs help.
She has nothing.” “Nah.
Maybe if she were still naked, I’d consider it.” That earned him a punch to the shoulder.
“Really?
Aren’t you even a little curious?” “You should have seen her eyes.
They were practically begging,” Melia added, raising an eyebrow.
“I was just kidding.
Of course I’ll help,” Rive said, flashing that stupidly charming grin of his.
Once they had a plan, Melia sneaked out of the manor grounds as quietly as she had arrived.
The road from the manor down to the village wasn’t completely empty.
A lone horse cart was slowly coming up the hill, its driver sitting hunched on the front bench.
Melia didn’t recognize him or the cart.
Either way, she had no intention of being seen sneaking away from Thornwick House.
Maybe if she ran past really fast, no one would get a proper look at her.
So she ran.
But the road was still wet from the previous day’s rain.
Melia’s foot slipped, and her momentum sent her stumbling forward.
She flailed her arms wildly, untamed red curls whipping around her face.
It didn’t help.
Down she went.
The horse snorted, the wheels jolted, and the driver pulled hard on the reins.
The cart stopped with a creak.
“Oh, bull’s balls,” she blurted when she hit the ground beside one wheel.
A carriage door opened above her.
A pair of legs stepped down and stopped in front of her.
“Pardon me, miss.
Are you hurt?
Allow me to help.” CREATORS’ THOUGHTS Terri_Pauline Have some idea about my story?
Comment it and let me know.