Erin Bowman - Frozen

WHILE THERE IS NO BACON,breakfast does end up including some luxuries. September has decided that if we are leaving the town and Aiden is coming with us, there is no need to let a stocked chicken coop go to waste. I have to admit: Grits taste far better when paired with eggs.

Emma wants to bury the deceased, or at the very least make a pyre, but my father says it would take far too much time to gather all the remains, not to mention the fact that a giant plume of smoke puts us at risk of being spotted. So Sammy retrieves a small, black book from the building where we found Aiden, and we stand around the well while he reads about giving rest to the labored. It’s odd to hear Sammy’s voice so serious, to have it stir up feelings like remorse and compassion when until now it’s drawn out only laughter.

As soon as Sammy closes the book, Blaine escorts Jackson from the woodshop. He’s conscious now, but still bound and gagged. Blaine wrestles him to the ground and Clipper pulls the clipping device from his pack. The entire thing is over in a matter of seconds, but Jackson screams and writhes for far longer.

Watching from beyond the well, Emma is cringing. Like the rest of us, she knows the pain. She underwent a precautionary clipping when I brought her from Taem to Crevice Valley after securing the vaccine. I was surprised when Clipper found a tracker in her, but the boy pointed out that while Emma never served as a soldier in Frank’s Order, she did work in his hospitals, and Frank has never been one to take his security lightly.

When the clipping procedure is over, we pack our bags and ready ourselves for another day of travel. Xavier rounds up the healthiest two horses from the stables. Aiden is set to ride a dapple gray named Merlin while the second steed, a white mare called Snow, is loaded up with hay and grain for the both of them.

Sammy bursts from the woodshop, Rusty in tow. The dog is bounding playfully—at least until he spots Jackson, at which point his ears fold back, and he starts growling.

“This dog,” Sammy grunts, tugging to restrain him. “I thought the kid said he was good.”

“He is,” I say, looking between Jackson and the dog. “He doesn’t like the spy. It’s like he can sense he’s up to something.”

“I haf a name,” Jackson grunts through the handkerchief in his mouth.

“Your name’s Jackson,” Aiden says from Merlin’s back. “I heard everyone talking about you during breakfast.”

Jackson starts, staring at the small boy. “Yeah. It is.”

“Whatever,” Sammy says. “The dog hates him and I’m going to have to keep this thing leashed, and at a distance, or even a deaf man will hear us coming.” Rusty lunges, snapping, and Blaine and Jackson skirt out of the way to protect their heels.

“Great,” Blaine says. “I stand too close to the scum and the dog doesn’t trust me either.”

“Jackson,” the spy says through the gag.

“Right,” Blaine says. “Sorry.” But he doesn’t look it.

We start walking, our growing team again on the move. I glance back only once. The crows are already diving, anxious to return to their feast.

At midday we pause to give Owen, Bo, and Clipper a few minutes to discuss our route. There is a small town ahead according to Clipper’s location device, and after the fiasco Stonewall became, my father is desperate to avoid it.

From the back of his horse, Aiden has taken to playing a hand game he calls Rock, Paper, Scissors with, of all people, the Order spy. Jackson still has his mouth gagged and his arms tied behind his back, so he has to shout his selection as Aiden pushes his hand out to reveal his choice. The spy looks pretty miserable about the entire affair.

Aiden counts, bobbing a fist up and down to the numbers. “One . . . two . . . three!”

“Pahpur,” Jackson says, and at the same time, Aiden’s fist opens to form scissors. He snips them at Jackson, beaming.

“Again. One . . . two . . . three!”

“Roch!”

Aiden’s fist is now flat.

“You’re chea’in’,” Jackson mumbles through the gag.

“Nuh-uh.”

The spy frowns. “Den you’re rea’ing my mind.”

They get in one last round, Jackson again losing, before Emma pulls the boy from Merlin’s back.

“Let’s not get too fond of the prisoner, Aiden,” she says.

“But he plays with me. No one else does.”

Sammy bursts through the snow, being dragged by Rusty, who is barking at Jackson yet again. “I’d play if it wasn’t for this crazed animal. I think my forearms are going to give out.”

Emma laughs at this and Aiden relieves Sammy of the dog; the boy’s touch seems to be the only thing to calm the animal. Rusty curls up at Aiden’s feet, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the spy.

Sammy links his fingers together and pushes them into a stretch. “Who’d have thought I’d spend my twenty-first birthday like this: cold, frozen, and being tugged through the forest by a manic dog.”

“Today’s your birthday?” I ask.

“It’s the eleventh, isn’t it?”

I try to count back to when we left. The date sounds right, but I’m not positive.

“Clipper!” Sammy calls across camp. “What’s the date, genius?”

The boy doesn’t turn around to face us—he’s too deep in conversation with my father and Bo—but he holds his hands overhead, each with a pointer finger raised to the sky.

“The eleventh,” Sammy says. “Yup. Twenty-one today.”

“Another December birthday,” Bree chimes in. “I’m the twenty-third.”

I’m shocked to discover that until now, I didn’t know Bree’s birthday. How has such a basic detail never come up?

“We should do something,” Emma says. “You know, to celebrate.”

“Find a pub and I’m in,” Bree deadpans.

Sammy snorts. “Me, too, Nox. Me, too.” He jerks his head at Emma. “Have any backup plans, Link? You know, since there are no drinks in sight?”

Sammy has a habit of calling people by their last name, but for some reason, it bothers me when he refers to Emma this way. Emma and Bree both have harsh-sounding last names, but only Bree’s suits her.

“Yeah, actually. I do.” Emma grabs a small sack of grain from Snow’s back and sets it on the stump of a fallen tree about twenty paces away. “Archery match,” she says, pointing at the target. “Right now.”

Sammy’s eyes liven. “Oh, you’re on. Who else is in?”

I raise a hand. Xavier and September come join us.

“Hey, Blaine? You playing?” I call out.

He shakes a thumb at Jackson. “Have to hold this rat so he doesn’t run off.”

“I’ll watch him,” Bree says.

“You’re passing up an archery match?” I ask, shocked.

She shrugs. “A bow and arrow is not my preferred weapon of choice.”

“So you’re saying you can only fire that thing,” Emma says, eyeing the rifle in Bree’s hands.

“Is that a challenge?”

“Maybe.”

September and Xavier let out a series of oooh s, and Sammy starts whistling.

“Fine,” Bree snaps. “I’ll play.”

Xavier and I are the only two in the group who opted for a bow when we left Crevice Valley, so ours are passed around as the match progresses. There are six of us playing and we agree to knock off two people with each round. The first round is shot from twenty paces. To my surprise, September, who is deadly with a firearm, doesn’t even come close to hitting the target. Everyone else strikes true, including Emma. I’m proud to think that I trained her months ago in Claysoot, and I compliment her form. Sammy’s arrow ends up being the farthest from the sack’s center, so he joins September off to the side.