Thornwyn Mossbrook's Arc

Chapter 7 of 38

Thornwyn woke before dawn. She had until noon to decide something she could not decide alone. The elf's story held together — the cell, the kept shirt, the year — but a story was not proof. If he had lied, she would be walking the girl toward a stranger who knew how to sound sad. She needed a second opinion, and she had only one witness who could not lie about a scent. She went to the yard. The piebald deer stood by the step, its long tail brushing the frost off the boards. Its patchwork flank steamed in the cold. She held her staff low so the deer could see her hands. "You saw him in the woods," she said. "You watched him under the birch. I need you to walk the ridge with me again. If he smells wrong, you tell me." The deer lifted its head. It had blocked a butcher's arm once. It had grazed at the doorstep while the girl slept. Thornwyn trusted its nose more than her own hope. She left the girl asleep with the crow on the bedpost. She and the deer took the ridge path. The elf was not there yet. Thornwyn found the birch, the peeled stick, the flattened moss where he had knelt. She stepped back and let the deer work. The deer put its nose to the moss. It moved to the stick. It followed a line east, slow, ears forward. It stopped at a hollow log and pawed once. Thornwyn crouched. Inside the log sat a tin cup, a folded blanket, and a small carved horse. The horse was worn smooth at the mane where a child's thumb would sit. The wood was old. Older than a year. Thornwyn picked it up. Her hands shook. A man planning a lie did not carve a horse and wait a year for the thumb to wear it down. A man planning a lie did not sleep in a log within sight of a ward he would not cross. The deer watched her. It did not bristle. It did not back away. It lowered its head and cropped a leaf near her boot, calm as a hearth. Thornwyn put the horse in her pocket. She walked home with the deer at her hip. At noon she brought the girl to the window. The elf stood outside the ward with his hands open at his sides. Thornwyn opened her palm on the sill and set the carved horse there. The girl went still. Then she reached past Thornwyn and pressed her hand to the glass. Thornwyn opened the door. "Come to the line," she called. "Not past it. She wants to see your face." He crossed the field slowly. The girl watched him the whole way. She did not turn away. Thornwyn had her answer. Now she had to decide what a father was allowed to do next.