The hours passed slowly in the quiet rhythm of the river.
After they'd eaten, Isabell excused herself to check on the stowage below decks, leaving Ashlynn alone at the bow with nothing but the fog and the steady creak of the mast for company. The crew moved about their business with the unhurried confidence of men who had made this journey hundreds of times, calling to each other in low voices as they adjusted lines, checked the depth with a weighted rope, and kept a watchful eye on the narrowing channel ahead.
True to the master's warning, the river tightened after the third great bend, and the banks rose higher on either side, pressing the fog into a dense, cottony blanket that turned the world into a tunnel of gray and white. The current quickened, and the cog's hull groaned softly as the water pushed harder against her timbers, adding a low, rhythmic vibration to the rocking that Ashlynn could feel through the soles of her boots.
