The carriage jolted over a rut in the road, and Jocelynn woke with a start.
She'd been dozing. The rhythm of the wheels always did that to her on long journeys. She rubbed her eyes, pushed back the leather curtain over the window, and let the smell come flooding in: brine and tar, wet timber, woodsmoke and fish.
Overhead, the sound of gulls wheeling and squawking blended with the clarion ring of ships' bells to produce a symphony she hadn't heard in years.
Blackwell.
Her heart swelled in her chest, and her whole body felt lighter. Below the ridge road, the city tumbled down the cliffs toward the great circular harbor, its slate roofs gleaming wet in the grey afternoon light. Ships crowded the quays. Beacon Island stood guard at the harbor mouth, its lighthouse already lit against the coming dusk.
She hadn't been home in… how long? Six years? Seven? Owain disliked her traveling. He disliked a great many things.
