For the moment, I let numbers and formulae dribble out of my head. I stuff my feet into the old boots that came from a relative—one of my father’s. I’ve been wearing them for two or three years, and I still have to put on extra socks, because my mother doesn’t care about fashion when it’s being worn to the barn.
Tonight is cold, so I put on an extra skirt over the leggings and heavy skirt that I already wear. Bundled up like this, I hardly look romantic, but I don’t expect to actually see Boron. If his light is on, that little hope of him will be enough to see me through one more night. Tomorrow is Holy Day, so after I milk and feed, I can crawl back in bed for a little extra sleep.
Cold air always bites when I first step outdoors, and I hunch down into my coat and scarf to keep the breeze from trickling down my neck. After one look back to make sure that no one at home has woken up and noticed that I am gone, I set my boots walking over the stubby ground. I wear my lumicube around my neck, but I keep it dark. I can see enough by the waxing crescent and the stars to know where to put my feet. I’ve walked this way many times before, and the goat-cropped grass doesn’t trip me up.
Maybe I should have stayed and put something together, but my brain was getting tired, and the experiment I’m planning can wait for tomorrow. In another week, I’ll have passed my Exam. In about two weeks after that, I’ll be able to apply for a Class C license, and then it won’t be illegal. So it’s a question of timing more than of right or wrong.
Normally it’s not a problem since most students don’t know much magic.
But I do. It helps that I have a grandmother who knows greenwoman magic. My mother warned her not to teach me, but she did anyway. It’s not the right kind of magic; it’s not academic magic. But Anen, my grandmother, knows about things that have nothing to do with crystals and the normal mechanical uses of magic. She knows about spells.
Just when I’ve reached the dark part of my walk, the part near the creek where willows grow in thick clumps, I hear rustling and talking. Instantly I duck down. It is only when I hear men talking that quick-beating of my heart is joined by the sinking feeling in my stomach. They talk back and forth, their words a low muttering that I can’t understand.
And while I am frozen, the world explodes with light and and sound. I roll over before I know what is happening. Smoke rolls upwards, climbing along flaming willows.
I feel my brain straining to gather information, to piece together some kind of idea about what is happening, to decide what to do. I smell burning. People yell, and I hear a horse whinny that sounds more like a scream.
My feet don’t wait for orders. I’m still looking around while I’m running. My lungs catch up quickly, gulping cold air that stings.
At first I don’t hear the footsteps behind me, then I hear feet hitting the ground hard, keeping pace—then closing the gap. Footsteps match the blood I hear thumping in my ears. Fortunately, it is dark. In darkness I can probably see better than he does. In darkness, I use my ears to know who is behind me instead of turning my head to see because then I would lose my balance.
“Stop! Wait!” His pace drops a fraction because he spent his air on words. I keep running. “Kestrel!” he yells. “Kestrel, I need your help. Stop!”
