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I looked at Guy.

"He used to tell me that was where our family was rooted."

Guy stopped turning the compass.

"Robin."

"Don't."

"There's something beside this hinge."

He held the compass closer to the fire.

I leaned forward.

A tiny mark had been engraved into the brass near the hinge pin. I'd seen it thousands of times and always assumed it was a scratch left by whoever made the compass.

Looking closely, I realized it had been carved deliberately.

A small compass rose.

Four points, with one cut slightly deeper than the others.

"That mark," Guy said slowly. "I've seen it before."

"Where?"

"On the chapel inventory. There was a drawing in the margin beside one of the entries. I assumed it was something the clerk had added."

He examined the mark again.

"I didn't copy it, and I couldn't swear in court that they're identical, but they look remarkably similar."

I stared at the compass.

For six years, I'd carried it without giving that tiny mark a second thought.

"It could be nothing," I said.

"It could."

"I've had this in my pocket for six years."

"I know."

I turned it over in my hand.

I wanted so badly for it to mean something.

But wanting something didn't make it true, and I'd spent too many years chasing rumors about my father's death to get carried away now.

We needed more information.

Little John arrived just before dawn.

He came on foot, covered in mud, with an expression that told me the news wasn't good.

"Nottingham's declared him a traitor," he announced.