Page 29 of The Monster You Made
“We stop here,” I tell her. She nods but says nothing, her lips pressed tight. Rourke groans awake and begins cursing about his aching leg. The child just watches me, eyes too old for her small face.
We trek inland through tall grass, the earth damp underfoot. Birds wheel overhead, their cries sharp in the morning air. A hamlet lies ahead: a cluster of thatched huts, smoke curling from a few chimneys. Farmers move quietlyamong goats and chickens, their eyes darting toward us with suspicion. I keep my hood low, my hand near my knife.
An old woman offers us bread and ale in exchange for cash. Her hands tremble as she passes the food, her gaze lingering on my face as if she recognizes something she cannot name. Around us, whispers ripple, fragments of rumor carried on the wind.
“Old Vienna burned…assassins in the opera house…traitors of the Crown….”
I listen in silence. Every word confirms what I feared: Declan’s lies have already spread. We are not rebels in their eyes. We are villains.
After eating, I leave Vera and Rourke in the hamlet and walk the treeline alone. The forest speaks if you know how to listen: snapped twigs, trampled earth, the faint smell of leather and steel. I crouch near a ridge and find a clear sign, boot prints too deep and disciplined for farmers. The Crown’s scouts have been here.
We are being followed.
When I return, Vera reads my face before I speak. Her hand tightens on the satchel. “How close?”
“Close enough,” I answer.
That night, we camp in a clearing. A fire crackles low, throwing sparks into the dark. Rourke sharpens his blade while grumbling about doomed causes. The child curls against Vera’s side, already asleep. Vera studies me across the flames.
“We can’t fight Declan with blades alone,” she says. “If Marta’s truth is to live, we have to rebuild what she started. Slowly. Carefully.”
My jaw tightens. “Careful will bury us. Strike first, strike hard; that’s the only way he falls.”
“And how many innocents will burn with him if you do?”
Her voice cuts sharp, but it’s her eyes that hold me still, bright, unyielding, fierce. The firelight dances across her face, painting her in both shadow and flame. For a moment, I want to tell her that she is the only thing keeping me tethered. But I don’t. I turn back to the dark, where the forest waits with its whispers of pursuit.
Tomorrow, the hunt will close in.
***
The night passes in fragments of restless sleep. Every snap of a branch in the forest sets my hand on my knife. The fire gutters low until only embers glow, and the damp scent of moss thickens in the clearing. I lie still, watching Vera’s profile outlined by moonlight. Even asleep, she clutches Marta’s satchel like it is her lifeline. Rourke snores unevenly, the child curled beside him.
At dawn, I wake them with a gesture. No words are needed. We stamp out the coals and shoulder our packs. The forest is heavy with mist, but the silence feels wrong. Birds should be crying with the sunrise. Instead, only our footsteps crunch on wet leaves.
Half a mile downriver, we come upon signs too clear to ignore. A campfire, recently doused. Horse tracks pressed deepinto the mud. A strip of blue cloth snagged on thorns, the same shade as the Crown’s patrol sashes. Rourke curses under his breath.
“They’re closing fast.”
Vera studies the cloth, her mouth tightening. “They’ll twist every village into thinking we’re the monsters.”
“They already have,” I say flatly.
We push onward, moving parallel to the river until the trees thin and a small riverside town appears. Traders unload crates from boats, their shouts muffled by fog. Crown banners hang from poles, their fabric damp and heavy. The villagers’ faces are gaunt, eyes darting nervously toward the guards stationed at the docks.
Vera insists we enter cautiously, disguising ourselves among travelers. I pull my hood low and stretch my hand for the child. She simply looks at me and says, "Abigail."
"What?" I whisper in reply.
"Abigail!" she repeats, quietly but firmly.
"Okay, Abigail!" I conceed, offering my hand again. She takes it without hesitation this time.
We proceed with me guiding Abigail by the hand while Vera mingles near a row of washerwomen. Rourke carries himself like a merchant, his limp hidden by a heavy cloak.
We overhear fragments of talk: Old Vienna aflame, rebels on the run, the government promising safety to the loyal. A peddler unfurls a sheet of paper, crude likenesses sketched inink. My blood runs cold. Vera’s features, Rourke’s, and my own stare back at me under the heading: WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE.
Vera catches my arm, pulling me away before my rage boils over. “Not here,” she whispers. “Not yet.”
