Free Ash & Bramble by Sarah Prineas Page B

of ferns, and, among the pines, trees with yellowing leaves as big as his hand. The forest feels welcoming, a place where they will be safe.
    After the gray stones and cloudy skies of the Godmother’s fortress, it is too much all at once, and he closes his eyes as he creaks to his feet, then looks again. Off to his right, he hears the rustling of a stream. Leaving Pin to sleep, he finds the stream and follows it, climbing over moss-covered rocks, winding between pine trees as big around as he is tall, until the stream widens into a pond fed by a waterfall that tumbles from a notch in a high gray cliff. For a moment Shoe stands mesmerized by the falling water.
    Then his stomach growls. “Oh, sure,” he tells it. “Give you a bit of gingerbread and some half-moldy cheese for dinner, and you just want to eat again in the morning.”
    A kingfisher darts past, a brilliant flash of blue. Where there are fish hunters, he reasons, there must be fish, and where there are fish, is breakfast. He finds a big rock that juts into the pond, and there he unravels a thread from the bottom of his ragged shirt and ties it to one of the pins he found in the knapsack. He bends the pin and sticks on a crumb of cheese, then settles himself in a sunny spot and drops the baited hook into the water. The lightest spray from the waterfall wafts over him as the breeze shifts.
    He doesn’t remember fishing from the Before, but whenthe bait is taken, his body knows exactly what to do, jerking the flashing, silver fish from the water, holding it behind the gills while he takes out the hook, then stunning it against the rock. He baits the hook again and catches another fish. He and Pin will have a feast for breakfast.
    As he makes his way downstream, he comes to a sun-warmed clearing not far from their tree-cave. To his alarm, he sees Pin’s gray woolen dress spread on a rock to dry. And her apron, which is dripping wet from a washing. Pin’s clothes, but no Pin.
    She is right, he realizes. In the Godmother’s fortress they’d only had the monotony of work; they never talked, never touched, never felt anything but fear. Now he feels something else, a longing for Pin that sweeps over him, leaving him feeling a little breathless.
    After peeking into the cave, he goes to the stream. There he finds Pin, wearing only her shift, lying on a flat, moss-covered rock, eyes closed, basking in the sun. She’s washed her short hair, and it is curling as it dries. He creeps closer, wanting suddenly to kiss her, to feel her skin under his hands. It is a strange, unremembered feeling, but his body knows what to do with it.
    As his shadow falls across her, she opens her eyes. “You could use a wash too, Shoe,” she says, smiling. The sun reflecting off the water is dazzling, and she shades her eyes with her hand.
    He is about to smile and answer, when he freezes. Thefizzing excitement of seeing her suddenly drains away. She has rebandaged her wrist with a clean strip torn from the bottom of her shift.
    The bandage is already stained with blood.
    One thing he’s learned from his time at the post is how long a wound like that should bleed. Setting down the fish, he goes to his knees on the rock beside her. She sits up, still smiling. He takes her hand, turns it over, inspects her wrist.
    â€œIt’s still bleeding,” he says.
    She glances down at it, then back at him. “It’s all right.”
    â€œNo, it isn’t all right. Does it hurt?”
    â€œNo,” she answers, and tugs her hand out of his. “It just drips.”
    â€œIt drips,” he repeats. With a stab of terror, he realizes what that means. As he speaks, his lips feel stiff. “It left a trail.”
    Her gray eyes widen. “The thorns.”
    He nods, knowing what she means. The thorns are the Godmother’s. They were meant to slash, to make a wound that will not heal, so that if anyone ever managed to get over the wall,