THIRTY-SEVEN #3
They reached the bottom of the stairs without incident.
The low, weather-worn door was barely visible, its greying wood blending into the stone wall.
They were on the north side of the city, where ships rarely ventured, but too far to the east for the ferries to the mainland, which meant that the door was unlikely to be seen from the sea.
Calum took one look at the door and stiffened, his jaw tightening. “In there?”
Aly peered at the small, salt-caked door.
“It’s not—” she broke off with another look at Calum’s pale face.
She’d been trying to reassure him that the tunnel was not as bad as it appeared from the outside, but clearly, for whatever reason, it was that bad for him.
“Why don’t you stay out here and stand guard?
” she said instead. “Distract anyone you see coming.”
Calum crammed his hands into his pockets, his shoulders curling towards his ears. “Are you sure?”
“Aye.” Her fingers ached to reach for him, to smooth the tension in his posture.
She curled them in a fist in her pocket instead.
“Besides, I know what I’m looking for, so I’ll probably be as fast on my own.
” She’d had a peek at Yvaani’s ledger that afternoon, and she thought she knew which crate the fae ointment was in.
Calum swallowed, the tendons sharp on his throat. “All right. If you’re certain.”
Aly nodded and, with a last backward glance at him standing alone, his kilt whipping around his knees in the wind, she headed into the tunnel.
Without the moonlight to guide her, she summoned a flame to light her way, moving slowly on the uneven ground.
Her breath was loud in her ears as she penetrated further into the tunnel and the sound of the surf petered out.
It was an age before she rounded the corner.
She floated her flame up the wall until she found a lantern, sending an effort of will into it to set all the lamps blazing.
She hesitated as she approached the tunnel.
Maybe there was another way, one that didn’t involve betraying Yvaani.
Her boots scuffed along the stone floor as she slowed, twisting back towards where Calum awaited.
Perhaps he’d have another suggestion, one that he hadn’t considered last night.
Or any of the weeks since he’d first tried to track Flora.
Aly exhaled slowly. There weren’t any other options. It was this or wait for another missing person report—and hope that it produced new leads.
She would pay Yvaani back. If it took fifty years, she’d make up for the loss of the fae ointment. With interest. It was the best she could do.
The storeroom at the back of the tunnel looked as it had the other night, after she and Yvaani had cleared the oilskins away. Every barrel and crate was still there, as far as Aly could tell. She was looking for the smallest crate, the last parcel they’d pulled into the boat.
Aly closed her eyes, trying to recall where the crate had been. It had been to the side, hidden from view to those entering the tunnel. She opened her eyes. There, in the back corner.
As she passed the other boxes and barrels, she tore lids off and riffled through straw, strewing goods over the edges of their containers.
She took care to make it look like the whole place had been ransacked without causing damage to any of the goods; she wanted Yvaani to be able to sell everything but the fae ointment, and to convince her buyer that the ointment was truly stolen.
Her stomach twinged as she spread a fine lace shawl over the edge of a box, careful not to snag the delicate fabric.
The air was full of straw dust from the crates she’d opened, and she sneezed as she reached the small crate in the back corner.
The lid came off easily; Yvaani had opened them all last night to check the contents.
The murky tones of grey-brown tweed greeted her.
Aly slid her hand into the crate, nudging the wool aside.
Her hand was soon hidden by the folds of fabric, but her fingers landed on something hard the size of a shilling.
She closed her fingers around it, realising her mistake a moment too late.
There was too much resistance as she began to pull the jar out, more than just that offered by the weight of the fabric, and as she lifted the jar she was thrown backwards.
Pain seared through her shoulder as she slammed into the wall, a popping sound echoing in her ears. Her head cracked against the stone, clouding her vision.
The bracket nearest her shuddered as she crashed into the wall, the force knocking the lantern off of it. It tumbled onto an errant oilskin, devouring it.
Flames blossomed at Aly’s feet, smoke searing at her throat.
She pressed the palm of her right hand against the wall, stumbling away from the fire.
The jar slipped from her fingers, thudding to the floor.
Her heart jumped to her throat. She hadn’t done all this to fail now.
Her head spun as she lurched towards the ointment, her legs buckling beneath her as her vision went dark.