Dawn came soft and gray over Blackthorn. The mist still hugged the hills, and the morning air smelled of moss and rain. Inside the keep, servants moved quietly, laying out cloaks and boots.
Shannon tightened his belt and checked the clasp on his father's riding cloak. "We'll keep a slow pace," he said. "The woods aren't far, but the paths can be uneven."
Lord Savannah gave him a dry smile. "You've been saying that since you learned to walk."
Tristan carried his violin case carefully, wrapped in oilcloth against the damp. Kim stood ready by the horses, checking straps. "The forest road's clear up to the old marker," he reported. "After that, it's wild ground."
"That's where we'll stop," Shannon said. "We'll go the rest on foot."
They rode out after breakfast, four riders following the narrow trail into the woods. Sunlight broke through in thin shafts, catching on the damp leaves. The forest smelled old—earth, bark, and memory.
