Maren Goldweaver's Arc

Chapter 9 of 42

Maren woke with her cheek on Miller's chest. His shirt smelled of smoke and pine. His arm was loose across her back. She held still for one breath, then pushed off him and sat up fast. The cub rolled off her lap and yawned. Miller yawned too, eyes closed, and rolled onto his side like nothing had happened. She watched him a second longer. He kept up the act. She let him. The file was still inside her coat. She pulled it out for something to do with her hands. Red tag. Same red tag. She thumbed it open on her knee. "I don't even know your sister's name," Miller said. His eyes were open now, on the trees, not on her. She looked up, startled. "Gisela." Her throat caught. "G. Goldweaver. Just like the file says." She turned the page toward him. The picture was clipped to the corner. Long curly hair. Gold hoops in her ears. A red sash at her waist. Fourteen in the photo, maybe fifteen now. Miller looked a long time. "She's got your face," he said. "She's got our mother's." A voice cut through the pines. Then another. Not close, but not far. Boots on needles. Someone laughed, short and wrong. "Trackers," Miller said. Maren shoved the file into her coat. She scooped the cub up one-handed. Miller was already on his feet, rolling the canvas, kicking needles over the flat spot where they'd slept. He grabbed the pack. She grabbed the water skin. Six seconds, maybe seven. "Which way," she whispered. He pointed away from the voices, deeper east, downslope. She went. He followed. They didn't run. Running snapped branches. They moved fast and low, foot to root, foot to stone, the cub tucked against her ribs with its wings pinned flat. Behind them a man shouted a name that wasn't theirs. A dog answered. Not close. Not yet. The slope dropped into a creek bed. Miller stepped down first and reached back. She took his hand. He didn't let go once she was down. He pulled her along the water, boots in the shallow, cutting their scent. They walked the creek until the voices thinned to nothing. Then further. When Miller finally stopped, the sun was high and her lungs burned. She checked her coat. File dry. Red tag intact. The cub blinked up at her, ears flicking. "They'll circle back to the road," Miller said. "We stay off it." "Four days east," she said. "Then we've lost half a day." She nodded. Half a day was not the file. Half a day was not Gisela. She could spend half a day. Miller finally let go of her hand. She felt the place where it had been. She didn't say anything about that either. They climbed out of the creek on the far side and kept east.