Chapter 23
23
I hope horses sleep in.
The possibility consoles me on my walk out to the stables at six in the morning, clutching my dining hall coffee for fortitude.
Honestly, I hardly need the caffeine. I’m plenty awake from the combination of nervousness and admiration of how stunning the campus is early in the morning. In the crisper temperature, the cicadas have gone quiet. Slick with dew, the lawns fill my lungs with their clean, sharp scent. Of course, no postdocs or curious families cross my path in the young day.
With the Gothic towers lit by the rising sun, I feel like Keira Knightley at the end of Pride & Prejudice , walking across the grassy slopes leading to Mr. Darcy.
Unfortunately, in my case, no good-fortune-possessing single landowner awaits. Only the temporary stables on the edge of campus. When the pasture enters my view, however, I don’t see horses.
Instead, I see a man.
I recognize him from just the shape of his back in the soft morning glare. Quiet and unhurried, I descend the gentle incline down to where he gazes over the stables, waiting.
“Do you press your ear against your door and listen for me to leave my room to shower or something?” I ask.
The question comes out with more warmth than irritation, undoubtedly the result of my finding a familiar silhouette instead of a four-hoofed monster.
Scott turns his head, smiling faintly and unsurprised. “Good morning, Jennifer,” he replies.
I come up next to him, where I lean on the pasture railing. Steam rises from the small opening in my plastic coffee lid. I sip, looking out across the grass, where fog is still coating the ground. Scott stands with me in what feels like contented silence—I’d find his easy manner suspicious if I weren’t finding it comforting instead—until finally, I have to ask the obvious question. “Where are all the horses?”
“The stablemaster isn’t here yet,” Scott replies. “I imagine he brings them out from wherever they sleep.”
I wonder how long he’s been waiting out here, watching the fog in silence. What has he spent the morning contemplating?
He doesn’t leave me alone with my speculation. His gaze shifts to me. “You prepared?” he asks.
Rivalry doesn’t reach his voice. His competitiveness is playful.
Whether I’m enjoying the distraction of our conversation or mornings just make me soft, I don’t know. Whatever it is, I do something I haven’t yet in response to Scott’s interference with my week. I play along. Narrowing my eyes, I turn and lean back on the fence, arms wide on the railing. “What led you to the stables?” I redirect. “I assume you’re here for the clue.”
Scott shrugs.
“Maybe I’m just here for the pleasure of your company,” he says.
I roll my eyes, hoping I’m not blushing. Goddess willing, the chill of the morning fog will cool my cheeks enough to hide whatever pinkness Scott’s words have put there. When I meet his gaze impatiently, indicating his flimsy pickup line is no substitute for real intel, Scott smiles in concession.
“Fine. Yes,” he says. “I’m here for my next clue. When you beat me to the one from Kethryn’s speech—West College—I realized the first letters of temerity, aptitude, secrecy, and loyalty don’t just spell out last ,” he explains. “They also spell salt . It led me to the kitchens, where I found the chef.”
Silently, I’m struck by the cleverness of the clue. I know I shouldn’t be. Of course Amelia working with Heather Winters would yield impressive riddles.
“Let me guess,” I preempt him. “She gave you a scroll.”
Scott nods.
“ The Lord of Night cherishes me ,” he repeats. “ Mounted with Glory. Watching over all .”
It’s very easy to picture Scott pacing in his room, repeating the words long past memorization. Analyzing every angle like the Friday we were forced to reconfigure countless plans when we got unexpected budget reallocation news. Hours spent in the conference room, grudgingly cooperating, editing file-shared spreadsheets. Scott removing his glasses to rub his eyes from laptop strain, then replacing them. His hair springing up where he rested his head in his hand while he concentrated.
Not that I noticed.
Remembering the Scott of my workdays, my impulse is to one-up him, prove I figured out the clue first or have some other hidden advantage.
Instead I decide to just…give myself a rest. Give us a rest. Maybe, like our exhausting Friday in the conference room, I could just…spend time with him.
I’m either overtired or undercaffeinated, because it feels wonderfully, unexpectedly easy. “Did you check the sword?” I ask.
“I did,” Scott confirms.
“Middle of the night?”
“During the Val picnic, actually. Everyone was gone.”
I nod in impressed acknowledgment. “Nice.”
In the midst of a fantasy experience, I’m surprised how much I enjoy the unadorned pleasure, the comfort in casual conversation. Especially with someone I unironically called my sworn enemy earlier this week.
“Like you, I couldn’t crack the clue for days,” he admits.
All pleasantry of casual conversation aside, this confession nourishes me. Puff pancakes for the soul. “Until your observation about Erik and Val,” I finish, realizing.
Scott smiles. “I should have known saying it out loud would bring you here, too,” he remarks.
The note of pride in his voice warms me in a way I’m not prepared for. The cooling fog doesn’t stand a chance. I’m definitely pink cheeked from the flattery now. I cock my head, curiosity vanquishing the last of my competitiveness. “What do you really think of the books?” I inquire. “Now that you’ve read them.”
I expect more playfulness from him. Instead, his smile slips. Something serious and unguarded enters his eyes, like there’s something he wants to say but he’s hesitating or warring with himself or afraid of my reaction. It only makes me more desperate to know his answer. He’s opening his mouth to reply—
The clopping sound I’ve spent the morning dreading interrupts him. Facing away from the pasture, I hadn’t noticed the stablemaster coming closer until now.
I turn to the sound, finding the squinting stablemaster looking like he didn’t expect spectators at six in the morning. He holds the reins of two very large horses, leading them with him. The horses’ eyes rove over us with gentle dispassion, inky marbles in the animals’ enormous heads.
Sweat springs to my hands. I press them to my leggings. I hope Scott doesn’t notice—I know he does.
“You’re here early,” the gravel-voiced stablemaster comments. “Must be for the clue.”
Yes. The clue. I straighten, grasping onto the distraction. Or the motivation. Or some of each, I guess. “So you have it,” I confirm urgently.
The stablemaster nods. “Hold on,” he says. He notches the horses’ reins to one of the fenceposts, then scrounges in his pocket. While Scott and I watch intently, he produces a crumpled piece of paper. “ The path is long to where knowledge continues ,” he reads. His narration leaves a little to be desired, although I know I’m spoiled from Val and Kethryn’s sonorous performances. “ Yet only four feet separate you from your destination .”
Four feet . “Feet,” I say, unable to help my excitement, even under the revelation’s circumstances. “Four feet. Hooves. It’s not distance. Four feet separate you from your destination. We need to ride the horses somewhere.”
Scott chews his lip contemplatively. “We need to ride them to where knowledge continues ,” he ventures, not to be outdone. “What if it’s not referring to the clue itself? There’s a graduate college outside the main Hollisboro campus. I noticed it while looking for West College on the campus map. Where knowledge continues .”
I nod, heart racing no longer with just horse-related panic. If we were, say, errant knights in the countryside, or courtly inquisitors hunting deadly invaders, or a fae lord and an imperiled queen—instead of Jennifer Worth and Scott Daniels, from marketing—I would say we make powerful allies.
The unceremonious stablemaster crumples up his assignment and returns it to his coat pocket. “The grad college, yeah,” he confirms. “It’s just across the field. The horses will walk the path on their own. They love it,” he says with his first real enthusiasm of the morning. “Lots of clover in the grass.”
His ministration accomplished, he unhitches the horses’ reins.
I know what comes next. While I’m very happy for our clover-hungry, four-footed friends, I find I can’t move. Part of me was harboring hope we would only have to see the horses. Perhaps pet the horses.
No. We have to ride the horses. It’s very unnecessary, I console myself in vain. Many courtly ladies of Elytheum don’t ride horses.
Heroines do, though , a whisper from within reminds me.
Scott eyes me. While I may feel like we could make a great team, the truth is we’re not a team. We came down here under the compulsion of rivalry. He’s not going to help me. Certainly not. No, he’s gauging me. Wondering why I seem like I’m chickening out.
Oh, I dearly want to. I feel the powerful pull of chickening.
If I do, though, I know I’ll essentially hand the clue over to Scott. He’s figured out the riddle. He’s got no problem with riding horses, I assume. Nothing stands in his way.
I can’t do it. I won’t do it.
The stablemaster jingles the reins impatiently. “So you both want to mount up, then?”
Scott’s eyes haven’t left me.
“Yes,” I say, feeling brave.