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leaf-covered doorway, which would blend with the forest from a distance.
    Counting heads for a second time, Allen hoped from the core of his being to discover he had been mistaken. But once again he came up short. Twenty-two. One missing.
    His stomach clenched tight. “Gilbert!”

    Timothy, riding upon his faithful mount, Spartacus, broke through the dense trees into a wash of sunlight at the top of a rise. He pulled to a stop. Though the earl had been gone three days already, Timothy had been overcome with castle business until this afternoon. He had less than two weeks left to catch the thieves before his lordship returned.
    With a crackle of branches, his retinue of three castle guards—Hadley, Bradbury, and White—joined him upon the hilltop and reined in beside him. They were some of the earl’s best men—men trusted to maintain the secretive nature of this mission. Timothy did not wish for word to get out that they searched for the ghosts, lest they scare them away. The guards wore surcoats emblazoned with the earl’s gold-and-red coat of arms, but at least they’d left their chain mail at the castle, else the ghosts would be frightened off by its noisy jangling for certain.
    He took a moment to survey the terrain. A valley with a stream flowing through the center, surrounded by more hills and more trees. To most, the forest looked much the same, yet he recognized this precise location. Frederick had once shoved him to the ground near yon boulder as they fought over who would take credit for the day’s kill of a feisty hare. And he had splashed in that very stream on a warm summer’s day with Derek and Randolph.
    Hadley leaned over his warhorse and sighed. “Which way now, Grey?”
    Grey. Not Sir Grey, nor Lord Grey, nor even a polite Mister Grey, as one might expect from a guard of lowly birth. But surely the parish priest would call such prideful thoughts a sin. Once upon a time Timothy had troubled himself with thoughts of love and family, not of power and fame.
    He would petition God for forgiveness later, but for now he answered, “Let us continue straight north, as we have been heading. That direction is full of these vales, any one of which could provide an excellent lair for our thieves.”
    “Any of which might be, or might have been, this exact same valley, for all we know.” Hadley snorted back a laugh.
    Bradbury managed to remain stoic, but White covered his mouth with his gloved hand to hide a smile.
    Hadley continued, “I would swear we’ve been going in circles for well nigh an hour.”
    Timothy hardened his gaze and clenched his jaw. He must not waver. He must not let these men undermine his newfound authority for even a moment. “Do you question my good judgment, man? For I feel obligated to mention that, in doing so, you question the good judgment of the Earl of Wyndemere, who entrusted me with this mission.”
    Hadley cleared his throat. “I apologize. I meant only to jest, as we do amongst ourselves.” He jerked his head in the direction of his fellow guards.
    Timothy’s jaw unclenched. Perhaps he had been too harsh. Soldiers did joke so. Perhaps he should be honored that they treated him as one of their own. “No, I apologize. I misunderstood.”
    “I must confess.” White swept his hand in the direction of the valley. “The terrain all looks much the same to me. But if anyone knows this land, it would be you and your brothers.”
    “Ah yes.” Hadley rubbed his dark-bearded chin. “I had forgotten. Your father is the Baron of Greyham, is he not?”
    “Yes, these are our family lands. Our Manor adjoins the forest to the west.”
    “This all seems rather pointless, though,” said Hadley. “If indeed the Ghosts of Farthingale Forest have come here to roost, I suspect they would not be easily spied by a group of noisy soldiers on horseback.”
    “I have been thinking the same.” Before he left, Lord Wyndemere had insisted Timothy bring a contingent of guards on his