The Isis Knot Read Online Free Page B

his wide-brimmed hat. “Another one of you. Jesus.”
    His scratchy voice whistled a little on the S . His accent was unfamiliar and it took her a few moments to comprehend what he said.
    “Where did you come from, girl?”
    His red-rimmed eyes widened as they set on her body. She realized that even though she was clothed—in black pants and a long-sleeved shirt that she didn’t recognize and didn’t remember putting on—she still felt completely naked. Vulnerable.
    The rock dug sharp and dangerous in her hand. If he touched her, he’d soon limp on the other leg, too.
    He waved a gnarled hand and blinked. “No matter. I think I know.” He tsk ed. “You’re in poor shape. Must’ve been terrible. What were you thinking, heading off into the bush alone?”
    It had been terrible, only she couldn’t remember why.
    With a grunt and a mighty creaking and popping of joints, he knelt beside her. “Let’s get you away before they come a-looking. And they will, believe me, for a pretty one like you.”
    He shoved one bony arm under her shoulders and wedged the other under her knees, enveloping her in his body stink—layers of sweat and old man and the sour tang of stale alcohol. She wasn’t going anywhere with him.
    Fight. Get away.
    What little strength she owned she channeled into the hand that held the rock. Panic swung her arm into action, making a great arc out and away from her body. She brought it down upon him, all ferocity and power. She’d knock him senseless, this man who thought to pick her up like a doll and take her who knows where. She’d knock him out and run. Just watch me.
    The old man’s hairy-knuckled hand caught hers with terrible ease. He stared down at her, brow furrowed. Behind the sunburn and underneath his hat, she didn’t know how to read his expression, whether or not retaliation would come. Then some of the wrinkles in his face unfolded and his gray eyes softened. Taking her wrist, he lowered the hand holding the rock back to her chest and gave it a patronizing pat.
    “Good girl. Good girl.” He chuckled low in his throat. “You won’t need that with me. But if it makes you feel better, I’ll let you hold on to it.”
    Frustration and confusion filled her eyes with tears.
    “It’s all right,” he cooed, taking his hands off her. “I want to help you.”
    She noted that he trilled his R s, and that the ends of each word faded before the next one came out.
    He sat back on his haunches and frowned at her clothing. Random facts popped into her head—her pants and shirt were made of linen, and that hard point gouging into the side of her ribs was the underwire to her bra. Why did that seem to matter now?
    The man swept off his hat and scratched his sweaty head, making a shock of pure white hair stand straight up. “Been a long time since I was in England, but I never thought I’d see a woman dressed as a man. I’m not sure that was the smartest thing to do, lassie. The soldiers won’t shoot a woman bolter, but they’ll shoot a man. Only after they came to inspect your body would they know what you really were.”
    Soldiers? Bolter?
    “Do you have papers?” he asked.
    “P-papers?” she managed to whisper.
    “Ah, so you can talk. And the King’s English at that. Good.” As he slipped his hat back on, his loose shirt went askew and a mat of opaque white chest hair peeked out from the V. “Papers. Ticket of leave. Did you lose yours out there in the bush or did you never have one to begin with?”
    Ticket of leave? The bush? His terminology was as alien as this place. Nothing he said seemed remotely familiar. Triggered no memories. Everything about his words felt…off.
    And yet, something deep inside reassured her that this was, in fact, exactly where she was supposed to be. Why? She wanted to scream the question to the sky but couldn’t draw out the ability or the sound.
    The man waited for her response, bushy eyebrows pushed upward. Never say more than you have to . It