When Shiralee entered Whiteoak, she headed straight for the temple. The priests would know where Upper Ashville was. She arrived just in time for Sext. She’d never attended that service before, so she silently watched from the back of the nave.

After the service, Shiralee approached the elder priest. “Afternoon, holy sir. Have you heard of a village called Upper Ashville?”

The priest stopped gathering the hymn books to stare at her. “I do, actually. I was born in Silverdale, which is half a day east. How odd you should ask.”

Shiralee tilted her head. She’d never heard of Silverdale either. “Silverdale?”

The priest resumed his duties. “In Linwick.”

“Linwick?!” Shiralee drooped. That was halfway across Calatini. ‘Twould take her years to get there.

His eyes concerned, the priest smiled at her. “Are you traveling there?”

Shiralee blew a sigh. “I wanted to, but I’m not sure I can. Yet there’s a man I must meet in Upper Ashville.”

The priest’s brows rose, but he merely said, “If you don’t mind cooking or washing dishes, there’s a merchant caravan traveling to Silverdale that needs another cook.”

Shiralee brightened. “I don’t mind that at all.” Although she’d not cooked over a campfire since before she became the tower witch.

So the priest took Shiralee to the merchant caravan, and they hired her at once. They set out for Silverdale the following morning, and although the jostling wagons could be uncomfortable, they were faster than walking, especially at Shiralee’s pace.

The merchant caravan arrived in Silverdale as summer began to wane. After thanking the merchants, Shiralee headed west for Upper Ashville. Again, she had to barter her way, so the journey took her two days.

When Shiralee arrived at last, she found the village priest and asked, “Do you know a tall man of middle years with sandy-blond hair and brown eyes?”

The elderly priest eyed her. “That description matches a third of the village men.”

Shiralee grimaced with a sigh. The most memorable thing about the fateless man had been his unreadable fate, but she couldn’t use that to describe him.

The priest added, “But try visiting the King’s Arms. It’s before noon, but most villagers stop by for an ale during the day, so maybe you’ll spot your man.”

Brightening, Shiralee asked for directions then strode across the village. She’d not traveled halfway across Calatini to be foiled now. She bustled into the dark tavern.

Shiralee halted when her vision adjusted. “You!”

“You!” the man behind the bar echoed, his gray eyes wide.

As Shiralee stomped to the bar, she probed the man with her magical sight, but she still couldn’t read his fate. How infuriating. She glared up at him. “Why can’t I read your fate?”

“My fate?” The man glared back. “What are you talking about, woman? And why have I been having visions of you? I thought I was going mad.”

To be continued…