Sir. Wilkinson kept his eyes on the road.
He did not look back.
But he counted.
Seven miles from the clearing to Dillaclor. Six and three-quarters now, perhaps. Less, if the road held straight. More, if it did not.
He adjusted his stride accordingly.
Roald walked beside him with considerably less calculation.
"It isn't so bad," the boy said after a while.
Sir. Wilkinson did not glance over. "Walking?"
"Yes."
"It is precisely as bad as it sounds."
Roald considered that.
"We could jog."
"We will not jog."
"We could take turns carrying each other."
Sir. Wilkinson finally looked at him. "You are thirteen."
"And you are not as heavy as the cart."
Sir. Wilkinson exhaled through his nose, but there was no edge to it.
They walked on.
The spruce thinned gradually behind them, though the forest still pressed close enough to cast long shadows across the road. The world had resumed its ordinary sounds — wind in branches, distant birds, the faint scrape of boots against packed earth.
It should have felt simple.
It did not.
Roald kicked a stone idly ahead of him.
"We could build something," he offered.
"Out of what?"
"Branches."
Sir. Wilkinson raised an eyebrow.
"A sled, perhaps."
"There is no snow."
"A wheeled sled."
"That would be a cart."
Roald brightened. "Exactly."
Sir. Wilkinson did not dignify that with an answer.
They rounded a shallow bend in the road.
Something caught the light.
Sir. Wilkinson stopped.
There, in the middle of the packed earth, lay a small iron bracket.
Bent slightly at one corner.
Recognizable.
He stepped forward slowly.
Roald leaned in. "Is that—?"
"Yes."
Sir. Wilkinson crouched and picked it up.
The metal was cool. Recently placed.
He turned it in his fingers.
One of the lower frame supports. Not essential on its own. But not decorative either.
He glanced toward the tree line.
Nothing moved.
Roald smiled faintly. "She has good aim."
"She has poor boundaries," Sir. Wilkinson replied, rising.
He slipped the bracket into his coat pocket.
They resumed walking.
Roald did not speak for nearly a minute.
Then—
"If she meant to keep it," he said thoughtfully, "she wouldn't have left it."
Sir. Wilkinson kept his gaze forward. "If she meant not to interfere, she would not have taken it."
"That's not the same thing."
"It is precisely the same thing."
Roald did not argue further.
They walked another hundred paces.
Something else lay ahead.
This time it was leather.
A narrow strap, one end still fitted with a brass buckle.
Sir. Wilkinson stopped again.
He did not sigh.
But he considered it.
The buckle had been polished. He had done that himself the night before they left home.
It was not bent.
Not torn.
The leather showed no sign of being chewed or dragged.
It had been removed.
Deliberately.
Roald crouched and picked it up before Sir. Wilkinson could.
"She keeps the interesting parts," the boy observed.
"She stole the entire apparatus."
"But she returned this."
Sir. Wilkinson extended his hand.
Roald hesitated.
Then passed it over.
Sir. Wilkinson examined the strap more closely.
There were faint marks near the punched holes.
Not teeth.
Not random abrasion.
Tools.
Small ones.
He said nothing.
They walked again.
The third piece lay half a mile later.
A brass fitting from the forward brace — one he had modified himself to distribute weight more evenly over uneven terrain.
He had not shown anyone that design.
Roald spotted it first.
"Another one."
Sir. Wilkinson approached more slowly this time.
He picked it up.
It had been cleaned.
Not polished to shine — but wiped free of dirt.
Handled carefully.
He turned it over in his palm.
It was intact.
Entirely intact.
A strange sensation threaded through his irritation.
Not relief.
Not quite.
Recognition.
"She is mocking you," he muttered.
Roald shook his head. "I don't think she knows how."
Sir. Wilkinson looked at him sharply.
"What?"
"If she wanted to make you angry, she would break them first."
Sir. Wilkinson opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Roald reached into his small pouch and began tucking the pieces inside.
"You cannot possibly intend to rebuild it," Sir. Wilkinson said.
"No."
"Then why collect them?"
Roald adjusted the pouch string. "If she keeps giving them back, it seems rude not to take them."
Sir. Wilkinson stared at him.
"That is not how theft works."
"Maybe it is here."
They walked on.
The road curved slightly, rising over a gentle incline.
Sir. Wilkinson found himself scanning ahead.
Not for danger.
For metal.
For glint.
For pattern.
He told himself it was annoyance that sharpened his vision.
Nothing more.
They crested the rise.
There, set carefully atop a flat stone beside the road, rested something smaller than the others.
Sir. Wilkinson stopped before Roald could reach it.
It was a narrow cylindrical casing of his own making.
Part of a compact ignition device.
Delicate.
Temperamental.
He had assumed it shattered when the cart overturned.
He bent and lifted it with more care than he intended to show.
The internal chamber was undamaged.
The firing pin remained aligned.
He tested it lightly with his thumb.
It responded.
Perfectly.
Roald watched his face.
"She didn't break that," the boy said quietly.
"No," Sir. Wilkinson replied.
He did not add that she had also not misaligned it.
Which required understanding.
He looked toward the forest again.
Still nothing.
Not even a branch stirred.
"She's giving them back in pieces," Roald said. "Maybe she thinks we only needed parts."
Sir. Wilkinson let out a short breath.
"If she intends to return the entire cart in installments, we shall be here until winter."
Roald grinned.
"Well," he said thoughtfully, adjusting the weight of the pouch at his side, "it was balanced to the ounce."
Sir. Wilkinson almost smiled.
Almost.
He slipped the ignition casing into his inner pocket.
They resumed walking.
Behind them, somewhere beyond the road's bend and beyond the reach of ordinary sight, a figure remained still among the trees.
She did not step forward.
She did not retreat.
She watched the taller one examine each piece.
Watched the boy gather them.
She tilted her head slightly.
Not mocking.
Not triumphant.
Curious.
Then, silent as breath against bark, she moved ahead of them once more.