Page 17 of Harnessed in Gold

And now, as I trudge past the stadium to the practice fields to meet Rime, I’m consumed, for the millionth time, by misgivings. I’m a baby psychic who can’t even crawl, much less walk. How do I tame the chaos that is my ability and bend it to my will?

Sure, Leo could guide me, but he’s not going to be here. And trust me, I’m fine with that. His instruction these past few months may’ve been helpful, but considering the motive behind it, I’m better off without him.

I wrap my arms around myself, even though it’s not terribly cold outside. Cloudy and damp, but not cold. Rain has darkened the tree branches, but a few of them are starting to bud, foretelling spring. AsI circumnavigate the baseball and lacrosse fields, I’m relieved to find it’s the women’s lacrosse team that’s practicing this afternoon, not the men’s. Now is seriously not the time to cross paths with my ex.

I spot Rime in the small crowd along the tennis court fence, enjoying what appears to be a men’s match. With elbows on the top rail, he watches, rapt, as the players send the ball back and forth over the net. I hope he doesn’t ask me any questions about how the game is played, because I’m not much of a sports person. I know a little about football and, because of Zander and Jamie, lacrosse. But tennis? All I know is that you don’t want to miss when you swing.

I come up beside him and grab hold of the fence. “Having fun?”

“Betts. Hello.” He gives me a smile that has the girls behind me tittering. “I’m watching this… this tennis. It’s interesting.”

“Sure.”

“I’m going to come back here one day and watch the other sports. What’s that one?”

“Lacrosse. The Indigenous Americans invented it.”

“Ah. We have something similar in Nàdar, but our sticks have paddles instead of nets.”

I can’t even begin to picture that.

“And what’s that one?” he asks.

“Baseball.”

“Hmm. Base and ball.” His endearing ignorance makes him sound like some sort of alien.

Nervously, I peek over my shoulder at the giggling girls. They’re too far away to pick up the details of our conversation, but it probably wouldn’t matter anyway. The way they’re looking at him, he could be talking about the mother-ship and they wouldn’t care.

“Shall we?” I gesture in the direction of the river.

As we make our way, I tell him what I know about baseball—which is next to nothing—and he tells me about some of the Stag Clan’s favorite games: one that sounds like rugby and another that closely resembles capture the flag. Dressed as he is, all in black,he looks more like a biker than an athlete, but with that physique, I’m sure he’s chosen first for every team.

He slows when the river comes into view. “Alright, so I’m supposed to take you to the area where Aaron heard the musket fire.” He points to our right.

“Do you know where that is? Were you with him?”

“No. He and Avery came with Leo. But they put a red circle on the spot.”

Literally? Oh, wait. “You mean on your phone?”

“Yeah.”

He goes to take it out of his pocket, but I hold up a hand to stop him. “Don’t show me. I don’t want to know where it is.” The power of suggestion might influence what I sense.

Rime nods. “I’ll keep my poker face on.”

I smile and give him a thumbs-up. Ten points for the proper use of an idiom.

The path from the practice fields comes to an end at a concrete retaining wall that’s almost as high as my shoulders. I stand on my tiptoes to look over it. There’s not much of a bank here, just an abrupt drop into the river. To our left, a poorly maintained path disappears into the woods. Fortunately, Rime leads me to the right, where a more inviting grass verge stretches before us.

It’s not as slippery or muddy as I expected it to be, and I’m able to relax and focus on the natural beauty around me. Thanks to a warm, wet winter, the river’s current is strong enough to serenade us with a steady, humming rush. Across the water, only about thirty yards away, is pure wilderness—no buildings, practice fields, paths, or streets—just a steep, forest-covered hillside.

As we walk along, my eyes snag on some bright green new growth beneath the trees lining our path. Curious, I stop walking and bend low to get a better look. Little white flowers push their way up among the roots and dead leaves. “What are those?”

“Snowdrops.” Rime crouches beside me and nudges their thickleaves aside, showing me how the flowers hang like teardrops from their shepherd’s hook stems.

“Isn’t this early for flowers?” I’d hate for these beauties to get nipped by a good mountain freeze.