Free White Hart by Sarah Dalton Page A

it’s hardly audible. Yet it continues as though it lies in wait for us. A hunter waits for the perfect moment to strike. That’s what the creature is doing. It’s waiting for the perfect moment before it strikes us. I feel it deep down in my bones.
    *
    T he first light of dawn is a welcome sight. It filters through the trees and warms everything it touches; shades of yellow and gold dance on the forest floor, mingling with the green and brown leaves, turning dull grey tree bark into glittering gold. Casimir’s sandy hair becomes tinted gold, and his skin warms from its usual pale complexion. As I sit by the fire, I find myself wondering what his eyes look like in the sunlight. I’ve seen the pale silver of them at night and the warm grey of the daytime. I’ve seen the way fire can turn them to an orange gold. I wonder what early morning sunshine turns them to. Amber? Gold-flecked grey?
    He stirs, and I look away, embarrassed by my thoughts, and I busy myself with the task of creating a breakfast from our rations. We have berries and goat cheese.
    “Did you sleep well?” I ask.
    Casimir rolls over and assesses me with a cool expression and firm lips. His face is in shadow, and I try not to stare for too long, aware of my thoughts from a few moments ago. It wouldn’t do to get soft on the prince, not after everything. Not when I have something important to do.
    “Considering I’m stuck in an evil magical forest with a surly urchin girl for company, I can’t really complain.” He takes a handful of berries and examines them.
    I don’t reply for a while. The apology is there on my lips, but to utter it would feel weak. I hate that feeling. And then I leave it too long to apologise without feeling foolish, so I clear my throat. “We should leave soon. We need to keep pace with the Wanderers so that their tracks do not go stale.”
    “Sure,” Casimir mumbles. He runs a hand through his hair. “Plus we should find a stream or river. I could do with a wash. So could you.” He wrinkles his nose at me.
    My cheeks warm, and I move away from him, gathering our belongings from the campsite. Is he trying to get back at me? Or do I really smell? I don’t know. When he isn’t looking, I try to angle my arm so I can sniff my armpits, but I’ve lived too long without caring how I smell. How do I know if that scent is bad or not? I don’t smell any different to the forest or to Anta or Gwen. I guess I’m more like them—a wild thing—than anything else. I will never be refined or perfumed. I’m destined to always belong in the forest.
    “I thought you wanted to leave?” Casimir asks.
    His question jolts me from my thoughts, and I realise I’ve been leaning on Anta, gazing into the distance. I turn and pack my bedroll and some of our food into Anta’s saddlebags.
    “The tracks lead this way,” I say, examining breaks in low branches and clotted earth where horse’s hooves have pulled at the ground. The boot prints and the number of horses indicate these are Wanderer tracks. Unless there is another group of people travelling through the woods, but it is unlikely, considering the reputation of the Waerg Woods. We’re lucky it hasn’t rained yet. When it does, we will lose the tracks altogether. “But we need to listen for water as we ride.”
    Casimir mounts his horse and nods. “Yes, my lady.”
    I climb onto Anta’s back and ignore him. He can use his sarcasm on me all he wants. I’m not rising to it.
    We ride in silence. The forest seems quieter in the daytime, perhaps because we don’t listen as intently in the day, and my thoughts are distracted by tracking the Wanderers. There are bird calls up ahead. The odd rabbit flits through the trees. I should nock an arrow on my bow, but every time, I let the moment pass. Truth be told, I was never a good hunter or particularly talented with a bow. I’ve only ever caught one rabbit, and I’ve let many more go. Father always handled that side of things. I