Chapter 6
The boat drifted downstream for three days and three nights.
During that time, we rarely docked, surviving entirely on the dry provisions and fresh water stored aboard.
The boatman was a man of few words. He focused solely on rowing and would hand us a few flatbreads when it was time to eat.
Rose, Daisy, and I were on edge at first. We frequently peeked through the canvas curtains to check for any sign of pursuers.
Helen, whom I had decided to call by her given name from now on, remained as unmovable as a mountain. She spent most of her time resting with her eyes closed, occasionally teaching me the hidden skills she had kept tucked away for years.
"By observing the ripples, you could determine the depth of the water. By examining footprints on the banks, you could tell if anyone had passed through. By watching the birds in the sky, you could sense if human settlements were nearby," she said.
These were things I could have never learned within the deep walls of a grand manor.
I acted like a parched sponge, desperately absorbing every drop of knowledge.
On the morning of the fourth day, the boat slowed.
The boatman informed us, "Harbor Point was up ahead. Beyond that lay the Grand Canal, teeming with ships and prying eyes."
Helen nodded and handed him a heavy pouch of coins.
"Thanks. Bring us in at that secluded crossing up ahead. We'll go ashore ourselves," she said.
The boatman weighed the pouch in his hand and complied without a single unnecessary word.
We disembarked at a desolate stretch of land. Our entire livelihood was contained within those massive bundles.
The boatman turned his vessel around and vanished quickly into the morning mist.
We were four women standing in the middle of nowhere with a pile of luggage.
"Aunt Helen, what do we do now?" I asked.
"Wait," Helen replied briefly.
She led us to drag our belongings into a nearby thicket, finding a hidden spot to sit and rest.
We waited for about two hours before the sound of carriage wheels echoed in the distance.
Soon, a modest mule-drawn carriage, quite similar to the one we had taken from the Capital City, appeared on the dirt path. The driver, a lean and sinewy man, hopped down and approached Helen with a respectful bow.
"The carriage is ready according to your orders, Ms. Carter," he said.
Helen nodded, asking, "What about the supplies?"
"Everything's loaded in the cart," the man replied. "Sacks of grain, flour, salt, a wheel of cheese, and a change of linens."
We moved our luggage into the carriage. The interior was larger and considerably more comfortable.
Once we were inside, the driver snapped his whip in total silence, and we set off.
As the carriage rocked, Helen explained, "The driver is Sam Day, a former mercenary I had funded years ago. He is reliable and knows how to keep his mouth shut.
"Taking the main roads to Riverside will require a month and attract far too much attention. Traveling the hidden backroads will be arduous, but it will only take two weeks."
It was then I realized she had calculated every single step.
We spent the following fortnight trapped inside that endlessly jolting carriage.
The roads were treacherous, and there were days we didn't see a single soul.
We slept in the cabin at night and chewed on hardtack washed down with water during the day. We were covered in layers of dust, our hair entirely tangled, resembling fleeing refugees.
My maids and I were nearly pushed to our limits. Helen, however, maintained excellent spirits.
Remarkably, she had the energy to instruct us on the flora by the roadside, showing us which were safe to forage and which could bind our bleeding.
"Learning more skills is never a bad thing," she said. "If we run out of coin, we will at least not starve to death."
Looking at her calm profile, I suddenly felt that this escape was not a flight from danger but a true rebirth for her.