6
Bloody hell.
Ambrose was standing in a cow-covered field.
The sloping hill he stood upon was filled with cows, a breed he recognized from his father’s talk of livestock whenever he came back from school for weekends in the country. White Park cows had curved horns and rich white hides speckled with faint black dots. They were fairly docile beasts, but being in the midst of them was unsettling.
Lifting the scrap of parchment again, Ambrose stared at the directions the footman had provided him. He hadn’t been foolish enough to trust Alex’s word, so he’d asked the footman to confirm the directions.
South down the lane, past the wooden gatehouse, turn right onto the garden path, and straight into the forest for a quarter of a mile…then climb the hill…
He muttered the last few words alo
