One hundred and forty hours after the well ambush, the cushions of the wicker sedan chair were stuffed with dried goose down and crushed lavender blossoms.
Ten yards from the arched marble bridge of Cold-Spring Grotto, Kaelen Vance leaned his head back against the silk headrest. A thick wool quilt covered his lap, tucking neatly around his embroidered slippers.
A slender bamboo fishing rod rested in the crook of his elbow.
The line dropped straight down into a cedar bucket filled with lukewarm well water. At the end of the silk thread, a smooth iron sinker swung gently two inches above the pine bottom.
No bait. No hook.
Over his eyes, Kaelen wore his wide black silk blindfold, tied in a firm double knot behind his head.
“Boy,” a ragged, trembling voice hissed behind him. “Boy, I am begging you. For the love of the ancestral founders, take that cursed rag off your face.”
Elder Sterling paced a furious circle around the sedan chair.
