Amber Honeywell's Arc

Chapter 11 of 14

Amber had not slept when wheels stopped at her gate. The carriage stood low and black against the gray sky, two pale horses breathing steam. The hooded driver did not climb down. A gloved hand lifted, palm up. "The jar was a taste," the driver said. "I want the comb. The queen. The whole row." Amber's hands stayed at her sides. Behind her, boots crunched gravel — a short man in dented armor, red feather bent, mustache wet with dew. "Morning," Sir Bumblewort said, planting himself between her and the wheels. "I'm guarding the lane today. Mostly." He cleared his throat. "Entirely, actually." The driver laughed once, low. Amber stepped past the armored shoulder and set a small clay pot on the stone where the wildflowers still lay. "One pot," she said. "Wrong color. Made tonight, on purpose. Drink it and you'll dream a lie. That is what you bought when you bought the runner." The gloved hand hovered, then closed around the pot. "Clever," the driver said. "We'll come back." The wheels turned. Sir Bumblewort exhaled like a bellows. Amber walked to her ledger and wrote one line: sent a false dream down the road. The true hives stayed covered. The gate was hers another day.