Rowan Pinwell's Arc

Chapter 3 of 8

Rowan crouched by the hedge and stared at the small prints in the dirt. The trail thinned to nothing on the hard ground beyond. They needed a marker, something fixed, something the thief had also passed. Rowan's eyes lifted to the old stone pillar rising at the bend, its smooth face layered with faint, ghosted confessions. People always paused there. The thief would have too. Rowan ran to it and pressed both palms against the cool stone. A fresh smudge marked the lower edge — ink, still tacky, shaped like a thumb. Beside it, a torn corner of paper clung to a crack. Rowan pulled it free and read one word in the baker's hand. The smudge pointed toward the square, clear as an arrow. Rowan had a direction now. But ink that fresh meant the thief was close, and reading as they walked.