He can hardly blame the mule for getting lost, as she’s never been to the cottage and doesn’t know the way. He can blame the rain a bit, at least for the current state of the path they’re on, although not knowing where it leads is the bigger issue.

The small cart gets stuck again, and the mule grunts at having her progress stopped short.

John swears mightily and goes to the back to push. He has his feet planted, shoulder against the edge, ready to shove, when the mule nickers and snorts, tries to back up, can’t.

“What the devil . . .” He stands to look.

The wolf pair stares at him, one brown, one grey, and John freezes. The mule skitters, tries to pull, and John can’t blame her--the predatory stillness of the two wolves in the road sends pricklings of fear along his nape, his shoulders. Though they only stand at attention, ears and tails neutral, John’s fingers stretch, slowly, slowly, towards the pistol at his hip.

A low whistle sounds, and the pair’s ears flick toward it in unison. They run immediately off to the side, bounding into the dripping trees. The mule calms. John pulls out his gun and steps forward.

“Hello, John Watson,” says a familiar voice. A bay mare comes out from the trees, a cloaked figure seated on her back. All John can see is the smile beneath the hood, but it’s enough. “Always at the ready.”

He holsters the pistol and reaches up a hand.

“Always,” he says, and he holds Sarah’s free hand as she dismounts.