By the wrought-iron gates, my carriage was already waiting. The footmen were loading the last trunkb — Philipp had carefully packed it with correspondence and the necessary receipts for the purchase of the manor. Two other trunks, shoved beneath the seat, held linen and spare clothes: a few shirts, a black cloak, three pairs of trousers, and a single pair of leather boots with spurs.
Bastian stood tethered nearby — his midnight-black coat gleamed like a polished coin, and his nostrils flared wide as he watched me approach, like a butcher assessing livestock.
"Careful," Oberon muttered as the stallion clicked his teeth wetly just inches from my face.
Biscuit's temperament — he'd thrown me off the saddle more than once — now seemed a charming quirk compared to this clearly rabid beast.
I stepped back from the horse and, wincing, pressed a hand under my ribs.
The herring and bread hadn't even begun to digest. I'd thought a second breakfast was a fine idea earlier, which had clearly been a mistake. My stomach was a bit swollen, and with every step, that whole greasy mix sloshed around inside me like someone had poured a liter of well water in. Nausea was starting to crawl up my throat.
Absolutely splendid.
"You look… pale," Oberon remarked. His tone suggested he'd much rather be discussing the weather than my complexion.
"I'm fine," I gritted out through clenched teeth.
He stepped closer and froze, stiff as a tin soldier.
"Shall I help you up?"
A pause.
My head turned slowly in his direction. I stared at him, lips pressed into a dry line.
If I had the chance, I'd draw the revolver from the holster sewn onto my belt and punch a hole right between his eyes.
"Captain," I said pleasantly, "if you touch my waist, I'll demote you to watch duty until sundown."
The corner of his mouth twitched, and his shamelessly cold eyes narrowed a little.
"Understood."
The stable boy wisely busied himself with checking the harness. Bastian gave a damp snort into my hair, grabbing at my cloak's fabric with his yellowish teeth. My first attempt to mount was cut short when the food promised to come up again. Oberon's glove hovered under my elbow, but didn't make contact.
By the time I straightened — slightly flushedn — a bright voice rang out from behind.
"Brother! You're already leaving?"
Margarita rushed toward the procession, lifting her front skirts with sticky, clay-smeared hands.
Today she wore a light blue dress and thin silver ballet shoes. The sleeves ended at her elbows in lacy puffs, and a white ribbon tied in a bow cinched her waist.
Margarita stopped in front of me, her pale face glowing. Then she looked at the captain and dipped into a slight curtsy, to which he responded with a curt nod.
"Why didn't you come to say goodbye?" she asked with a hint of hurt, bouncing slightly on her heels with impatience. "Were you just going to leave like that?"
"You were busy, I didn't want to disturb you. Besides, I'll be back tomorrow evening."
"So what?" She raised an eyebrow. "You always said goodbye to me before you left anywhere."
I blushed again. My eyes flicked to the captain, standing still beside me like a broken vacuum in the corner of a room.
"Alright," I sighed, extending my arms and giving her shoulders a light hug. "Goodbye."
Margarita's eye twitched. She shrugged off my hands, raised her own, and then yanked me into such a tight embrace even my double breakfast curled up in protest.
Wheezing, I barely managed to peel her grip from my shoulders.
"God, you're acting like I'm gone for a week!"
She smiled again. The same way she always did — wide, showing all her front teeth.
I melted. It was impossible not to smile back.
God, I was going to miss her.
A breeze caught her voluminous curls and tossed them into the air.
"Good hunting, brother."
Yeah. A real relaxing trip.
With a nod, I turned away and finally managed to get on the horse. The second jump landed me on Bastian's back with the grace of an overloaded sack of turnips. The stallion lunged sideways, nearly crushing the stable boy's foot. Oberon mounted his own horse in one smooth motion, shooting a glance at my death grip on the reins.
"Shall we?" the captain asked.
I turned the reins toward the eastern trail and silently let the unruly horse take the lead.
***
About half an hour passed in silence. We rode past apple orchards bordering other estates, past a pine grove where the path grew too narrow, forcing the carriages to take a detour. We veered smoothly onto a wide track covered in brittle, yellowing grass. A dense forest stretched along to the right. Bastian's unsteady gait rocked my spine like dice in a cup. The carriages followed at a distance, baggage clattering with steady rhythm.
The smell of melted snow and greenery was so strong here that halfway through, my nose suddenly began to itch.
The crunch of gravel under Bastian's hooves filled the quiet, until I finally broke it.
"So what exactly happened with the papers? What fire?"
Oberon didn't take his eyes off the road; his shoulders were tense.
"Arson. The archives were attacked during the raid on the magistrate's office last month. A faction opposed to the crown's land reforms."
"The official documents made at the time of the purchase — burned?"
The captain nodded.
"Yes. The originals had wax seals. Copies remain, but they need to be re-signed by the owners, along with receipts. Without them, ownership of the estate automatically reverts to the crown, per the laws of forced property forfeiture."
I grimaced. Bastian slowed, biting at a raspberry bush, but I jerked the reins, restoring our previous pace.
We passed a crumbling stone chapel, its bell tower wound with dark green ivy. Oberon's voice lowered.
"You'll sign a new affidavit during the hunt, in front of witnesses. It will remain valid until the autumn session."
"Affidavits are usually signed with a notary."
"I am a notary."
Christ. How many jobs does this guy have?
I raised a brow and pulled up level with him.
"And if I refuse?"
His stallion stepped around a gopher hole, kicking up soft dirt.
"Then tomorrow, I'll have to seize the property."
I nodded, scratching my cheek. Fair, if infuriating.
A dragonfly zipped past with a shrill buzz, its wings fluttering madly. I glanced back at the carriages bumbling along behind us and gave a shrug.
"Nervous?" the captain asked, gripping the reins tightly in his black gloves. I turned, catching the nettle-sharp scent of leather oil.
His eyes had gone dim, shaded by the arching limb of an evergreen tree overhead. My throat burned as he suddenly leaned in my direction.
"No."
Digging my heels into Bastian's sides, I pushed ahead, spotting the fluttering flags of pitched tents in the distance. Oberon von Havisham was left behind, and I didn't look back until the unruly horse carried me past the wooden fence.