EXCERPT - Ghosts

Preview

The bird, freed from duty, pops up onto a nearby branch and preens its wings. It's trained to wait for a return message, if I want to send one. But more likely it's waiting for more jerky. I could send it away, back to Turn Hall, with the hand gesture that means "go home." It would go, empty-pouched and immediately, but . . . nah. Maybe, like me, the damned thing deserves a rest after its long task. Maybe it could use a lazy afternoon on the riverbank, too. I could feed it fish guts, if it wanted them.

Or maybe the hawk might appreciate a mug of reviving tea. That brings up the image of a hawk with its whole head jammed into one of our metal cups and I grin. Then I stand, wiping soot on the thighs of my leather trousers.

"Kin," I chortle. "Post!"

"Who's it from?" Kin asks, standing. He leaves the pots by the shore—hopefully somewhere where they won't wash away again, or I'll put my boot up his arse and make him go for a swim to fetch them back—and saunters his way back to the campsite, in no rush this fine morning. Kin squints at the hawk's leg-band. That wrinkle appears between his eyebrows, the one that I still haven't been able to describe correctly when I write about it. "Not actually Turn Hall?"

"Why not Turn Hall?"

"Most likely the Sheriff," Kintyre says, dismissing my question and the assumption that it could be his younger brother all at the same time. "Sneaking Forssy's things again."

"You know, your brother is actually quite generous," I point out. "Never lets us leave Turn Hall without full ration packets and wineskins. 'Course, he'd never admit it."

"He's a pretentious twat."

"I won't argue with that. I'm just saying he's a generous pretentious twat. Pointe wouldn't've had to sneak anything, is all I'm saying." I hold out the message, but Kintyre folds his arms and glowers. His stupid rivalry with his brother now apparently includes him not even stooping to open his more-superior-than-thou brother's letters. "Come on," I cajole.

Kintyre's only answer is a huff and rolled eyes.

"Fine," I say, and untie the leather lace keeping the message rolled. "Huh. It really is him."

"It is?"

"It is."

Kin tries not to look interested, but I can tell that he is. He's trying to peer over my shoulder out the side of his eyes. "What's the book-mouse want?"

I suck air in between my teeth, unsure of how to say this without setting Kintyre off. I'm sure as the Writer's calluses not going to actually read the message out loud. That's just asking for an hour of pacing and ranting. "You, apparently. We're being summoned."

"He can't summon me." Kintyre bristles, and I barely manage to clamp down on my own eyeroll. "I'm the eldest."

"But he's the Lordling of Lysse," I remind him. "And he summons us."

Kin grumbles, but asks, "What for?" He leans over my shoulder, taking up all my space, like usual, and sucking all the air out of the world. He peers at the parchment, a tongue of corn-silk hair brushing against the skin just under my ear.

The shiver it causes is entirely involuntary, and I squeeze my eyes closed, and swallow hard.

Bastard. I try very hard not to wonder if he's doing it on purpose. If he knows.

Of course he doesn't know.

When I've got myself composed again, I turn my face up to him and grin, ignoring the way his mouth is just right there and I could—auhg.