A few hours later.

When we finally stumbled into the northern safehouse, it felt, briefly and miraculously, like being swallowed by warmth. Not much—just a squat stone cottage with a chimney that coughed smoke and a single crooked door—but after hours of rain, mud, and the chorus of wolves on our heels, it was a palace.

My thighs literally ached from the ride. The horse had been kind enough, the saddle less so. I tried to sit like a lady when Leon’s hand offered me down from his ...