Caterina Romano’s father had left, and the house’s door wasn’t locked.

That had never happened before. In the dozen years she’d lived with him, he’d never left the house without locking the door from the outside. She’d wait for it to click, then lock it from the inside, just like he’d taught her to. It was their little game; he couldn’t let her get lost in the woods, and she wouldn’t unlock the inside for anyone but him. Not that anyone ever came calling; she and her father lived a hermit’s life deep in the woods, in a brick-lined cave.

But if the outside lock wasn’t locked, she could follow him. She was sixteen now, long past the age when she’d get lost in the woods—practically an adult, in fact. If the door wasn’t locked, she could finally learn what he did.

It wasn’t that she didn’t trust her father, far from it. Caterina knew Antonio wasn’t her true father. He’d died, and Antonio had taken her in. He’d been nothing but kind to her—taught her to read the silly notes that said this noble or that noble owned this piece of land or that building, given her a dagger to keep herself safe when he was gone, and took her to the villages to spend the coins he brought back from his business. He’d been patient as she struggled to learn her numbers, and the stories he told about heroic bandits and scheming lords filled the long winter nights when they were snowed in and the Old King’s Road was impassible.

He hadn’t been gone ten minutes. The breakfast he’d cooked for her just before leaving still steamed on their table—porridge, charred lamb, and lemons- exactly how she liked it. Its rich yet sour scent lingered in the cave’s air. He doted on her, and she knew it. And really, Caterina thought, she should respect his wishes. Someone should stay home and tend to the fire and the animals.

She was just so darned curious. He did something, and she wanted to know what.

Besides, the horse pens were empty, the dogs were fed, and the papers, coins, and baubles he’d brought home last time were all sorted or spent. There was no reason she had to stay here, except that it was where Antonio expected her to be.

So, after some debate, Caterina put out the lanterns and made sure last night’s fire was out, walking the familiar cavern tunnels with a single candle for light. She put on the thick woolen dress her father called her ‘woods dress,’ complete with leather reinforcement at the elbows and shoulders, strapped her dagger—he’d insisted she know how to protect herself and do a hundred different jobs with it—to her waist, and slipped out the door.

It shut behind her, and she locked it with the larger of the two keys she carried on a loop around her neck. Then, skipping along the deep hoofprints in the muddy path, she disappeared into the woods.

She traveled all day, twice losing the track and three times having to hike her dress up past her knees and take off her boots to wade across streams her father’s horse had plunged through. Twigs and leaves littered her curly brown hair, the ribbon holding it in a loose tail long since pulled out by a branch that’d scraped across her scalp. She had no idea why he hadn’t followed the path to the Old King’s Road, but by evening, Caternia looked down on the overgrown track.

She and her father traveled the Old King’s Road whenever they visited the villages. She’d never had any reason to fear the old, moss-covered cobbles or the woods to either side. But as she stepped onto them, something felt wrong. A carriage had been by, and recently at that; the smashed-down bushes and torn weeds in the ruts proved it. And, here and there, a cobble had been knocked loose—perhaps by a galloping horse?

A faint crash rang out in the distance, and she saw a thin column of smoke. Was that her father? Had he gotten into trouble on the Old King’s Road? It seemed inconceivable to her, yet the smoke in the distance told her that someone had. It couldn’t be him!

Could it?

No. Antonio might be getting on in years—he was over fifty—but he knew his way around these parts. A wild animal might sneak up on him, but he knew the few bandits who frequented the Old King’s Road by name, with the exception of the Highwayman himself. Caterina had never met that ghost, and her father told her he was just a myth—a scary story to frighten noble children.

Still, something was happening up ahead, and Antonio Romano was the kind of man who’d jump into a river to save a drowning rat. He'd be there if there was trouble, trying to make things better. She gathered her skirts and hurried along the woods beside the road.

She stopped cold a few dozen yards away from the wrecked carriage. It was him! The Highwayman, just like in the stories! She ducked behind a bush as the myth-turned-real whirled and pointed a flintlock into the carriage. The gun went off with a deafening bang, and she screamed before she could stop herself.

As she clapped her hands over her mouth and peered through the bush’s branches and leaves, The Highwayman’s steel mask turned her way. He drew another pistol, tucking the first one away, and pointed it at the bush. “Come out or die,” he said.

Caterina was out from behind the bush before she could stop herself. She’d spent twelve years listening to that voice, after all. It was only after she stared at his icy blue eyes that it hit her. The Highwayman was her father!

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The pistol fired again, and Caterina jumped a little on the rock she was sitting on.

In the twelve years she’d lived with Antonio, he’d never once raised his voice with her. But when The Highwayman’s steel mask, marked with a sword stroke across its cheek, came off, and she saw his face, she saw him furious for the first time.

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“Sit,” was all he’d said, so quietly she could barely hear him. Sometimes, she’d argue with him or ask him why. He hated it when she asked him why; it was another of their little games. But this time, she’d done it without question.

Now, while she watched, he stood over a wounded man and pulled the trigger. She jumped again, but a little bit less.

Why wouldn’t she watch, after all? This was her father’s work. It provided the coins they paid to grateful farmers for the food on their table. It filled the stables with beautiful horses. And, if she was right, every last coin and trinket came from the kinds of man who’d claim to own an entire forest—or the kinds who’d protect them. Her father always said no one owned the forest, not even he and Caterina, who lived there.

The pistol shots stopped, and she braced herself for the storm coming her way.

Instead, her father, the Highwayman, squatted in the dirt before her. He couldn’t meet her eye, and that made two of them. As much as she wanted to look at him in his black cloak and cracked leather boots so worn they were almost silver, she couldn’t.

So, for almost a minute, she sat staring at the dirt, cobbles, and the black, worn tips of his boots while he fiddled with the flintlock in his hand, running a filthy, oil-soaked rag in and out of the barrel. Her heart pounded. His face had been a rictus of anger, frustration, and something she’d never seen before. What was it? She couldn’t tell.

“I’m sorry,” Antonio’s voice cut through the silence. It sounded dead, with none of the joy, patience, or passion it usually carried. He still wouldn’t meet Caterina’s eye, but the apology caught her off-guard, and she looked up. He was pale, she realized, and the dirt and smoke coating his cheeks was streaked with something.

“Are you hurt? How can I help?” She asked.

He laughed, but that felt empty, too. “No, I’m unhurt. The Highwayman hasn’t been injured in twenty years. Gather up the horses. I’ll handle the rest of it. I’ll explain on the way home.”

She opened her mouth to ask her favorite question—to ask why he’d apologized—but he’d already turned, cloak whirling, and strode toward the carriage.

There were only two horses, and neither had broken free from their yoke. She calmed them, carefully and slowly reassuring them that the shooting and stink of blood and burnt powder was done, and led them to her father’s mount. Then, leaving the three to graze under a tree, she returned to the carriage.

Six dead men lay outside of it. Caterina stared, fascinated. She’d never seen a dead man before. Other than their wounds—bullet holes or jagged-looking slashes, they didn’t look dead. For all she knew, they could be sleeping.

They weren’t, though. When she touched the noble’s face, it felt like warm putty, not like a person should. She shivered, then she poked him again. This man, dressed in all the finery he could muster, was the villain in every one of her father’s stories. He was one of those who thought he could own a forest. And her father had killed him. The thought struck her like a pistol shot, so hard she gasped and looked around to see if he’d pulled his trigger.

He hadn’t, though he was standing right behind her. “Check his pockets,” he said, pointing. He still wouldn’t look at Caterina, but she hurried to obey. That tension in his voice and the lack of energy left no room for argument.

But as she moved, she asked, “Why?”

He sighed and, for the first time, looked her in the eye. Then he looked down again. “Because rich bastards like him always carry something on their person, and because the Highwayman always checks their pockets.”

“No, why?” Why didn’t he understand what she wanted to ask? Why didn’t he tell her what she needed to know? Why?

Her father kept talking as she worked, ignoring her spoken and unspoken questions. He fidgeted with the pistol in his hand, running his finger along the trigger guard and scraping a nail against the worn, tarnished filigree. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way. I’ve been the Highwayman for a long, long time. It’s not an honorable job—“

“No,” she tried to interrupt him even as she pulled a folded letter from the dead man’s coat, but he kept talking.

“—but the Highwayman’s my life. I’ve worked so hard to keep him separated from you, and—“

Caterina stood, looking her father, Antonio Romano, the Highwayman, right in his icy blue eyes. She crossed her arms and stared him down. She couldn’t read him. He’d always been expressive, but now it felt like staring at a wall. When he finally sputtered to a stop, she asked again, an edge to her voice.

“Why? Why didn’t you tell me? Why would you say he’s a myth? I’ve been sorting through all this…loot my whole life, and I never once suspected anything like this! How many times have you done this? How long have you been a highwayman?”

“I couldn’t tell you.” Antonio’s eyes shimmered, and he looked away. “I’m not a highwayman. I’m the Highwayman. I’ve lost count of how many times the Highwayman’s struck, but he’s been a constant on the Old King’s Road for over a century. But I couldn’t tell you because…I couldn’t tell you. It’s not your life. You’re too innocent, too charming, too—“

“I’m your daughter!” Something was building inside of Caterina. Something red-hot and angry. He didn’t understand! She glared at her armored, black-cloaked father.

He shouted back, raising his voice for the first time in her life. “Yes! That’s right! You’re my daughter, and you were never supposed to know about this!”

“Well, now I do! Let me help you!”

Her voice echoed in the sudden silence as he stared at her, dumbfounded. She allowed herself to hope for a moment—to believe that he’d break. Then he shook his head and turned. “No. This isn’t for you. None of this is. Get the spare horses and load them. We’re going home.”

“No! Not until you tell me why not!”

“Because you’re my daughter!” He roared. She glared at him through it, tears running down her face. “And because you’re a woman, and no woman can ever be the Highwayman!”

She recoiled. The blow stung; though he’d only stuck her with his words, she felt the impact like a slap. In the twelve years that Antonio had been her father, he’d never made her feel lesser—not once—but the last sentence cut her deep, and her throat tightened. She turned toward the horses, her whole body shaking. It took her three steps to realize her hand was on her dagger’s hilt, and when she did, she whirled, pulling it back from the iron as if it’d burned her.

Her father had seen it. She could feel his eyes on her the whole time she loaded the horses, as they walked the three animals back through the woods and across the streams, and as she unlocked their house. They didn’t say another word to one another until every coin sat in a pile on the cave floor, the horses were stabled, and the dogs had been fed. And the whole time, her mind whirled as she plotted her next move.

She’d discovered something—something life-changing, and she had to know more. The man who’d shouted at her, who’d told her she couldn’t because of her sex? That wasn’t her father. That was the Highwayman. She couldn’t beat the Highwayman. But her father? As she painstakingly sorted silver coins into stacks of ten, she grinned. He, he could wear down.

Only once every coin was in its stack did Caterina Romano sit at the table across from her father. He looked every bit of his fifty years—exhausted, worn thin, and defeated—as she pressed her attack with three words.

“Teach me. Please.”