A horse whinnied. My eyes blinked open. His pack was slumped heavy behind the saddle.
The shift of fabric as I pushed aside my blanket.
The horse stirred. Shh, I whispered. Shh, now. I untied and unclipped the pack and hefted it onto the grass. It took a little while to urge the embers of the campsite alight, but soon I had enough to see by.
The pack was filled with travelling supplies. I laid it all out in front of me. Dried fruit, some sun-dried meat. Camping stakes, an old dagger, flint. Blank parchment crumpled from travel. An ornate little box containing a pen and a few bottles of ink.
I did find a book that looked indistinguishable from the one I’d left outside the archives door. No leaf had been folded between its pages, though. I didn’t know what that meant. I didn’t know what any of it meant. For a little while I tried to compare the notes in the margins with those I remembered, but I couldn’t be sure whether it was the notes or my memory that had changed. I repacked the bag. I saddled it. I wept quietly.
Rain woke me. It battered the canvas and grass whispered with a cool wet wind. I burrowed deeper into my blanket. In the morning I would ride. It didn’t matter where to. Somewhere I could do some good, I suppose. It seemed hard to fathom after all this.
This thought was still turning in my head when that familiar feeling shivered down my spine.
As I lay there, exhausted but now icily awake, I expected upon opening my eyes to see him staring down at me, moonlight running in rivulets through his hair and distant constellations winking behind his eyes, and lips spread wide over pale teeth he would open his mouth and say, Follow me, Canica. But Canica’s not my name. That’s just what he called me.
My eyes opened. Clouds like ink spills crept across the stars.
We always imagine ourselves watched.
