The wind off the river whipped through the gaps in the mill’s rotting timber siding, carrying spray that hissed against the cold iron of the waterwheel gears. Inside the lower chamber, Iven did not leave immediately after all. She had stepped to the threshold, her body poised to slip out into the darkness, but the sound of an imperial cavalry patrol clattering across the stone bridge downstream brought her back into the shelter of the upright beams.
She leaned her back against the weathered pine post, her breath coming in slow, disciplined measures. Across the floor, Jon Hale remained by the flour bin, his tin lantern resting dark upon the wood, his hands resting in the deep pockets of his frieze coat.
“The bridge patrol is early tonight,” she said, her voice dropping into a barely audible rasp beneath the drone of the rain. “Ors must be tightening the river watch. If they have stationed outriders along the willow bottoms, I cannot cross back through the ditch until the fourth watch.”
“Then wait here until the river clears,” Jon said. He did not move toward the door. “The mill has been abandoned since the spring flood three years ago. The town guards do not patrol this side of the race because the pilings are rotted through, and Cael’s men will not search an empty grain house while the rain is coming down.”
