Wayfarer

Julian slowed beside her.

The boy wore an oversize white robe, but had tugged it up when he’d crossed his legs, and she could see the fine stockings and velvet breeches underneath. At their approach, he merely flipped to the next page of the book in his lap.

Julian cleared his throat, but the boy held up a finger, still eyeing his book.

“Hello?” Etta tried.

Finally, the golden child lifted his gaze, and she almost laughed at the annoyance on his face. She knew what it was like to be interrupted in the middle of a particularly good page.

“It’s just the two of us in the bidding party,” Julian told him, finally sliding his backpack off his shoulders with a relieved sigh.

This only served to further irritate the boy, who slid from his stool and motioned to the scale. He stepped onto one side, leaving the other for them to pile their sacks on top of, and they began their prayers that they had not misjudged the weight.

“How do we know you weigh a hundred pounds?” Etta asked.

The boy glowered back, bobbing like a ship on a wave as the scale balanced. Etta caught herself holding her breath as their side dipped lower than the boy’s, only to straighten in triumph. They’d brought more than enough.

“Oh, thank goodness.” Julian rushed forward to remove some of the gold. “Would’ve been a shame to let all of this—”

“Welcome! Welcome, my young beasties.”

A woman pushed through the pale curtain, careful to close it again behind her before Etta could see what was there. Her long legs devoured the distance between them in two quick gulps, stopping uncomfortably close to Etta. She fought every natural instinct to take a step back and reclaim some semblance of comfort.

Instead, Etta looked up and met the woman’s dark gaze over the silver veil that covered the lower half of her face. Her full-figured body was dripping with black lace that looked as if its ornate floral patterns had been cut from the shadows themselves. And, as if she thought the occasion might call for it, she had added a silver-and-diamond diadem that sat on her head like a row of wolf’s teeth.

She exchanged a look with the golden-haired boy, who nodded some sort of confirmation.

Julian wobbled a bit on his feet with what Etta believed might have been a bow that he thought better of halfway through. “Good evening, madam. We’ve brought the requested entry fee.”

“And not much else,” she said, her catlike eyes flitting from his face to Etta’s.

“It doesn’t matter,” Etta said, with what she dearly hoped was something resembling confidence, “when we have the secret we do.”

“Indeed.” The veil fluttered, as if she’d given a silent laugh. “Only two of you, when others have tried to bring in nearly a dozen.”

“I know your rules,” Julian said. “Only eight per party.”

She ignored him, her gaze still fixed on Etta. “How curious, beastie. Yours is a face I have seen before.”

She waved the other woman off. “Yeah. Been getting that a lot recently.”

“And such a pleasant temperament to match. Now, if you’ll each please take a robe and a mask from the basket and don them—yes, you’ll need to put the hood up as well. Safety in anonymity, as I always say.”

“A jolly good policy if I’ve ever heard one,” Julian said, placing the mask on his face and quickly knotting it behind his head. It covered the whole of his face, save for his eyes.

The woman cocked her head to the side. “Aren’t you—”

“The previously-believed-to-be-dead Julian Ironwood?” he said, with the eagerness of someone who’d been longing to be recognized.

“—going to close your robe?” the Belladonna finished, and without any sort of preamble, took up the task of knotting the series of ties that ran down its side. Etta quickly laced her own, and tried not to laugh when the woman ran her spindly fingers down Julian’s front.

“I believe you are our last bidding party. If you would follow me…You have set us back several precious moments. I cannot delay the start of the auction any further.”

The woman cut in front of Etta and pulled the curtain aside.

If Etta had been asked to guess what was behind it, she would not have gone with two dozen other white-robed, golden-masked travelers and guardians, all of whom remained facing forward, packed together like cattle in a stall. The Belladonna reached up for one of the silver lanterns hanging in the trees and held it in front of her as she pushed her way up through the ranks.

Julian started to follow her, but Etta held out an arm, shaking her head. It was better if no one took particular notice of them, and moving to the front would give everyone ample time to guess who might be under the robe. As it was, no one dared to utter a single word as the pack began to follow the Belladonna and her lantern up the rest of the path, toward the temple several hundred yards away.

Only one figure, bringing up the rear of the first group, risked a look back at them. He or she was the only one who allowed themselves to break from the quick march of the others, moving slowly, with an almost labored gait. Hurt, or old, maybe. Etta narrowed her eyes, wishing it wasn’t so dark. Because it looked like, it seemed like…

That person is slowing down. Drifting back intentionally. Etta felt for the small dagger she’d plucked off a knight in Jerusalem, dread combing its cold, clammy hands through her hair, down her neck. She was so wholly focused on the figure that she did not see the movement in the forest just to the left of Julian, until something lashed out, hooking a black-cloaked arm around his neck. His shout of alarm was smothered by the gloved hand smashing against his face.