Movement again, a flicker of blue. This time, the shadows took on shape and substance. She wasn’t imagining it after all. Someone was standing next to Winton’s stable. She could just make him out through the leaves—a tall man in an indigo coat looking right at her.
Briar’s heartbeat spiked, and her limbs quivered, making it harder than ever to keep her perch. She wanted to scramble out of the tree and run for it, but she didn’t know what the stranger would do if she tried. She stared at him, as motionless as a sparrow facing a tree snake.
Seconds ticked past. The tall man didn’t leave the shelter of the stable. His shock of blond hair was visible even in the shadows, and he held something long and thin in his hand.
Could he be Master Winton’s gardener? The merchant was a nasty fellow, according to the blacksmith, but would his man really stand back and allow him to be hexed? Briar could be planning to burn the house to the ground with the family inside, for all the gardener knew.
Her legs shook hard enough to rustle the branches. She would attract the attention of passersby if she kept on like that. She couldn’t do anything about the stranger. She had to finish the job.
The jar of vermilion popped open at last. Briar rushed the last few strokes of the curse and messed up two flowers. She repaired them with a few quick flicks of the hard edge of the paintbrush, sweat dropping from her forehead to the earth below. One more petal, and the curse would be complete.
She dipped the brush in the jar and brought it, dripping red, to the wall. The branch groaned beneath her as she stretched toward the farthest corner of the painting for the final stroke.
Suddenly, the stranger stepped out of the shadows. He held a longbow, an arrow already nocked. The action startled her, and her hand slipped, leaving a long red slash down the curse painting. Briar gasped and scrambled for more paint to counteract the slash. Before she could fix it, there was a loud crack, and the branch gave way beneath her. Leaves and twigs lashed Briar’s face as she tumbled from the tree and hit the ground hard. Paint jars crunched beneath her.
She stared up at the shivering branches, winded and shocked. She had fallen. She had actually fallen. Leaves drifted above her, floating on the late-summer breeze.
Don’t just lie there! You’ll be caught for sure.
She sucked in a breath and forced herself to sit up. Paint and shards of glass covered her shirt. As she brushed them away, pain shot through her wrist. Her left arm had taken the brunt of the impact. She tried to rotate her wrist, and agony lanced through her. She clenched her teeth to keep from vomiting, black spots dancing before her eyes.
If her arm was broken, she wouldn’t be able to work for months. She couldn’t afford such an injury. She would lose her home, everything she’d built from the remnants of her old life. She should have abandoned the job at the first sign of trouble.
A creaking sound reminded her of the precise curse marred with a broad slash of vermilion. The house gave a deep, ominous groan. She sifted through her curse painting knowledge, trying to work out what that slash was likely to do—and how soon. Every stroke had meaning, and that one …
The creaking came again, loud and insistent. Briar realized what was about to happen and leapt to her feet. She didn’t have much time. She snatched up as many broken jars as she could, shoveling the oily glass into her satchel with her good hand, then bolted away from the house. Running jostled her injured arm, and tears filled her eyes.
The stranger in the indigo coat retreated into the shadows as she darted past. He looked young, with a high forehead, sharp mouth, and dark, quirked eyebrows. The longbow remained undrawn, and he didn’t try to stop her.
Briar reached the shelter of the woods just as a roaring, squealing sound startled the magpies from their nests. She looked back.
The house teetered, two stories of whitewashed timber and fine clay shingles swaying like laundry in a stiff breeze. Iron nails began to ping out of the boards one by one, disappearing in the long grass around the house.
Don’t.
More nails loosened, fell, scattered.
Please, no.
But it was too late. The final nail popped free, and the house gave a moan like a dying animal. The walls buckled, glass windows bursting, clay shingles cracking and sliding. Then the entire structure collapsed with a thunderous crash.
Dust billowed into the sky, and splinters scattered across the grass. Briar crouched behind a craggy oak tree, horror consuming her. This can’t be happening. Magpies wheeled overhead, cawing and scolding from a safe distance.
The dust cleared slowly, unveiling the damage from her botched curse. Somewhere beyond the stable, the stranger gave a low whistle. Nothing was left of the house but a pile of rubble beside a triumphant maple tree.
A whimper escaped Briar’s lips. She had worked so hard to set up a new life there, a fresh start peddling quiet, nonlethal curses. Yes, her work was illegal, but she tried not to hurt anyone. She’d even dared hope she might make amends for the things she’d done before. This would destroy her efforts, drawing attention she couldn’t afford, maybe enough to attract the notice of the people she’d left behind.
No. She refused to contemplate that possibility. She would run again. She would start over as many times as it took to keep them from catching up with her.
Trying not to rub her paint-covered clothes on anything, she pulled her satchel to her chest and fled into the woods.
Archer emerged from the shadows of the stable and admired the splintered ruin.
He had never seen a curse painter work so meticulously—especially from fifteen feet in the air—nor produce such dramatic results. Not a single whitewashed board or pane of glass remained intact. Willem Winton’s fine house looked much better bashed into tiny pieces. Archer wondered what the old charlatan had done to make that slip of a girl want to curse the place into oblivion.
“Who cares why she did it?” He slung his bow onto his back at a jaunty angle. “It was brilliant work.”
Archer had heard a curse painter lived in those parts, but he hadn’t expected to meet her there. He’d just wanted to engage in a little casual burglary while he was in the neighborhood. Instead, he’d stumbled upon a better prize than gold candlesticks and Mistress Winton’s jewels. That girl could be the answer to all his problems.
He turned toward the woods and whistled a high, piercing note. A large dog loped through the trees, shadows dappling its short gray fur. Archer knelt beside the dog and scratched the folds on its neck.
“What do you think, Sheriff? Can you follow her for me?”
The dog whined and rubbed his wrinkly head against Archer’s knee, smearing slobber on his breeches, then he trotted over to the maple tree to sniff out the girl’s scent among the broken paint jars.
Archer picked up a large glass shard covered in green paint and pocketed it. The curse painter had worked with impressive stealth, at least until the end. He only noticed her perched in the tree when her luminous eyes caught the light, and she stared at him like a large, frizzy-haired owl. She had such power.
The dog looked up, ears pointed like arrowheads, awaiting his master’s word.
“Ready, Sheriff? Let’s go get her.”
Sheriff howled and set off into the trees. Archer jogged after him, slipping into the woods before anyone could investigate the commotion at the finest ruin in Sparrow Village.