Chapter 18: Raven's Book

Raven rode out of Greywater at first light with his book inside his coat and three facts in his head.

He had written them on the last page the night before, in the order he trusted them.

One. Linda's hands had never touched a rope.

Two. Max's hands had.

Three. The only man alive who had stood at the mill post on the day of the flood could not write his own name.

Raven did not like conclusions.

He liked a column of things he had checked, and a column of things he had not, and a ruled line down the middle.

Everything he felt about Max went in the second column.

He rode hard, and the hills came up grey and wet around him.

At the top of the second ridge he let himself think about the hip.

The bite had healed to a ring of small silver crescents, and he had touched it twice that morning, in the dark, with the flat of his hand.

He put the thought away.

It went on a page of its own.

The cousin's house sat at the end of a track, a low stone farm with a smoking chimney.

A groom in Greywater livery was sitting on the gate, whittling a stick.

He stood up when he saw the horse.

"Sir," he said. "I'm to say the old man is resting, by Madam's wish. No visitors."

"Yes," said Raven.

He got down, tied the horse, and walked toward the door.

The groom stepped in front of him.

Raven stopped.

He was a head and a half taller than the groom, and he had never raised his voice in his life.

He looked down at him, and said nothing, and went on saying nothing for as long as it took.

The groom looked at the boots, and the green eyes, and the pack colors on the saddle.

He said, "I'd be out of work."

"Yes."

"Madam pays me."

"Yes."

The groom swallowed, and shifted aside.

"I didn't see you," he said.

"Good," said Raven.

The foreman sat by the fire in a chair too big for him, with a blanket over his knees and a cup going cold in his hand.

His cousin hovered at the stove, a large woman with red arms.

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