“But those carved heads were so meticulous. May I see yours?” Devin held out a hand.
Marcus handed it over with reluctance, placing it on Devin’s palm.
Devin traced the carving with his fingers; the frowning forehead and spray of wrinkles around Marcus’ eyes were typical. Only the mouth was unusual. “She made you smiling!” he said in surprise.
“Well, I do smile occasionally,” Marcus blustered. “Give that back!”
Devin chuckled and handed it over. “If Lavender was a spirit, she could actually have been the little girl who lost her pony in Arcadia’s Chronicle.”
“Then why didn’t she appear to us as a little girl?” Marcus asked.
Devin shrugged. “Because she may have lived a long time, searching these mountains for the pony she loved. We have no idea how old she was when she died.”
“I’m not sure we will ever discover exactly who or what Lavender was. There is really no sense speculating about it when there is no way to prove whether one theory or another is correct!”
“That’s true,” Devin agreed. “But I would rather think she was a spirit than a very old woman wandering alone out here in the night. I do wonder about her brother named Sébastian.”
“Do you know the last name of the Lavender who appeared in Arcadia’s Chronicle?” Marcus asked.
Devin shook his head. “I don’t believe Armand ever told me. So many of those stories aren’t dated either; we can only assume they took place at a certain time from hints in the story. Even if the Chronicle doesn’t specify her last name, Armand might still know.”
“You’ll have to wait to ask him then,” Marcus said, stifling a yawn.
Devin pulled his knees up and crossed his arms on them. “Do you want me to take the first watch?”
“If you like,” Marcus answered. “How do you feel? No more voices in your head?”
“None,” Devin answered. “I believe those voices were only meant to lead us to Father Sébastian and this journal. I don’t think I will hear them again.”
“Still,” Marcus said, wrapping his blanket around his shoulders and curling into a ball at the foot of an oak. “Wake me if you do.”
Devin smiled. “You’ll be the first to know.” He looked west, toward Calais and the sea and saw the full orange globe of the moon rising. The wind increased, rattling the branches in the grove of oaks and the air smelled of rain. Overhead, an owl asked questions of the night as small animals scurried through the grass. In the distance, a wolf howled and was answered by another.
It was a relief to hear normal night noises and not the unearthly quiet of the valley where Albion had stood. If ever a place was haunted – that one was. He thought of Comte Aucoin’s chateau and the ghosts that seemed to chasten Angelique. If spirits linger simply to correct a wrong, why had Angelique’s family tormented her dreams, turning them into nightmares? Or were nightmares something else altogether?
For the past few days, he’d felt as though his dreams had become muddled with his daily life and it was hard to separate one from the other. He’d always had a problem with “waking dreams.” It had started when he was a child and seemed to happen when he was just at the point of waking up. Something or someone in his room would appear to be something else – usually something frightening. The malady had followed him into his adult years and had proved a great source of amusement to his roommate and best friend, Gaspard, when he was at the université. After Dr. Verstegan, a friend of one of his older brothers, had prescribed valerian before he went to bed, the dreams had stopped, only to return on this trip. Lavender had brought back the uncertainty of what was real and what was not. Thankfully, Marcus had seen her and spoken with her, too, or he might have doubted his own sanity.
A few hours after midnight, it began to rain, a damp misty drizzle at first and then a downpour, bringing Marcus upright, his blanket over his head. “What in God’s name!” he grumbled.
Devin turned to look at him. “Sorry, I can keep watch but I can’t control the weather.”
Marcus gave a shiver, pulling his sodden blanket around him. “It’s late. Why didn’t you waken me?”
“I could feel the rain coming,” Devin answered. “I thought I’d give you a chance to sleep while it was dry.”
“Not so great for you!” Marcus observed. “Where’s your blanket?”
“I’m sitting on it,” Devin replied. “I thought I’d keep it as dry as I could. I’m worried about the journal.”
“Why don’t you sleep against one of the trunks?” Marcus suggested. “Put the side of your jacket with the Chronicle and the journal against the tree. You can have my blanket, too, if you like.”
“No, thank you,” Devin said, sliding over to hug the nearest oak tree. “It’s already soaked.”
He moved to snuggle against the tree trunk and found the bark ridged and unyielding. He doubled his blanket over his shoulders and closed his eyes but the drip from overhead branches made sleep impossible. After several unsuccessful attempts, he watched a gray dawn touch the eastern horizon with Marcus.
“Can we move on?” he asked.
“If you’re ready,” Marcus answered. “This doesn’t appear to be letting up. We may as well be on our way.”
The rain continued all day, leaving their clothes and boots soaked. Finally, by late afternoon the storm clouds scudded off, leaving the sky brilliantly blue and cloudless.
“It’s going to be cold tonight,” Marcus predicted. “We need to find shelter – somewhere we can dry our clothes and get warm.”
“Do you have any money?” Devin asked.
“I picked the pockets of the men I dropped in the bay,” Marcus admitted. “What are you thinking?”
“Finding an inn, perhaps?” Devin suggested. “If I tie this bandage around my eyes and find a stout stick, I could pretend that I am blind and you are my father. We’d hardly fit the description of the men the soldiers are seeking.”
Marcus shook his head. “That’s risky, Devin. I think we need to stay out of any populated areas.”
“A cave then?” Devin asked hopefully, thinking of the misery of sleeping outside on a cold night in wet clothes.
“We’ll see,” Marcus said without agreeing.
They crossed fields, slithered down into ravines, and clambered over stone walls, all to avoid the main road. As the light began to dim, Marcus spotted what looked like a low shelter for livestock at the corner of a pasture.
“That looks promising,” Marcus remarked cheerfully. “Stay here in the hedgerow while I check it out.”
He was only gone for a few minutes, skirting the field and soundlessly approaching the shelter from the back. For a man on the far side of forty, he moved like a cat, swiftly and silently covering the distance. Devin lost sight of him when he disappeared inside. A moment later he motioned Devin ahead.
“Luck is on our side,” Marcus said with a grin. “This is a shepherd’s hut. There’s dry straw to sleep on and even a lantern filled with oil!”
“Too bad there is no roast mutton hidden away,” Devin said as his stomach rumbled.
“That I don’t have,” Marcus replied. “But there is time enough for me to hunt and you can read your precious journal tonight as long as you keep the lantern shuttered.”
Devin dropped his pack and felt for the pages of the Chronicle in his jacket. They were warm and dry