The Journey: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller) Read Free

wash your eyes with this.’  
    Holmes did as asked and I kneeled down next to him, my skirt soaking rain off the grass.  
    ‘Eyes are extremely temperature-sensitive,’ I cautioned. ‘Tell me how this feels.’ I spilled some liquid on his cheek.
    ‘Good.’
    With my one hand holding his lids apart, I poured the infusion into the one eye, then the other, until the cup was empty. I wiped his face with my palms, flicking the green droplets out of the four-day stubble. ‘We’ll have to repeat this.’
    ‘Thank you,’ he said, avoiding my gaze.

    It hadn’t rained the entire day and — according to Holmes — we made good headway. Good headway to where, precisely, I didn’t ask. I could see the plans brewing in his head, his half-here, half-there expression, his working jaws. Once in a while, my lack of interest surprised me, but the void of energy and willpower muffled all thoughts. The days consisted of rising in the morning, walking from A to B, and going to sleep to be woken by terror. The why’s and when’s and how-far’s no longer mattered to me.
    Twice, we spotted a farm and gave it a wide berth. While passing a shepherd and his dogs, Holmes spoke in a thick accent I didn’t understand. I kept my head low and greeted the man with a nod.
    When we set up the tent for the night, Holmes opened his mouth, then shut it again. He said, ‘Hum,’ narrowed his eyes, and shook his head.
    ‘You often talk to yourself when you are alone,’ I observed.
    ‘It usually helps to listen to someone with an intellect.’
    ‘You are a lonely and arrogant man.’
    He froze for a moment, then ignored me and settled down for his first watch.
    Surprised at myself, I wondered where that acidic remark had come from. It might have been the truth, but thinking it and slapping it in his face were two very different things. After barely a week, we were already annoying one another.
    I wrapped the blanket around me and asked, ‘What would you do if I weren’t here?’
    ‘Don’t waste your time with what ifs , Anna.’
    ‘Would you hunt Moran? Or would you first go back to London and see your friend Watson and your brother?’  
    He was silent for a long moment, perhaps hoping I would fall asleep.
    ‘Colonel Moran escaped, and I know of two more men who eluded capture.’
    ‘What would you do if I weren’t here?’ I repeated.
    ‘Find them,’ he said.
    ‘I agree, it would be the best thing to do.’ Saying it felt like brushing a weight off my shoulders. Being so close to him hurt, and the last thing I wished was to be a deadweight. ‘We will part when we reach the next city.’
    ‘We will do no such thing.’ He turned his back to me with finality, cutting off all protest.
    ‘You are being sentimental,’ I said.
    ‘Go for a walk. Your foul mood is unbearable.’
    ‘No, thank you. I’ll climb a tree instead. Good night.’ And off I went, wondering what was wrong with me. One moment I could lie down and weep, the next I felt the urge to kick his crotch.

    Lewes Castle, Sussex Downs, 1822. (3)

— three —

    S unlight drew the moisture from our clothes and the tiredness from our limbs. Holmes’s eye had healed and his interest in plants that had uses other than poisoning people grew.  
    With all our provisions eaten, we had to rely on what we found on our journey. During the day, we picked dandelion and chickweed leaves, chewing them while we walked. The dandelion roots were dug up to be cooked at night, together with a rabbit or pheasant either Holmes or I had shot. Now with the rain gone, he was more concerned about watchful eyes than protection from the elements. The spots he picked for the nights were in a depression, often close to a stream. A fire wouldn’t be visible from afar.
    With cold and hunger at bay, dark thoughts slammed back into my mind at full force. I longed for solitude. Perhaps when we arrived wherever he planned to go, I would disappear.  
    My brain felt numb; planning how best to escape