Chapter 23 Lucy
Lucy
How to survive travel with nobles: don’t.
“Finally!” Lucy shouted, her voice echoing through the empty streets, likely disturbing some poor resident’s sleep.
Lucy had tried. Truly. She had prepared snacks, rehearsed patience, and even entertained the thought that maybe—just maybe—this trip would not make her consider a life of crime. She had been wrong on all counts.
“Mind your manners, child,” the Baroness hissed. “Even the roosters have yet to crow.”
Lucy didn’t care. She had been stuck in a carriage with the two most stagnant people she had ever had the dismay of traveling with for five days.
Five whole agonizing days. It might as well have been a newly discovered torture technique, tested on her firsthand.
Basil had attempted a conversation on day two. By day three, he had stopped speaking unless spoken to. By day four, Lucy was sure the Baroness was doing it on purpose.
Lucy had a newfound sympathy for Esther. Sympathy, and something sharper beneath it. Lucy didn’t like how easily people decided what was best for Esther. She liked even less that Esther had been trained to accept it.
When they returned to the castle, she vowed to do her best to sabotage all of her horrid lessons, consequences be damned.
They would have arrived before sunset if the carriage wheel hadn’t broken off—thanks to a sentient pinecone of all things.
The driver had gotten too close to Ashvale, insisting it was a shortcut to Stonehaven. Story had it that a very antisocial mage once lived in the forest and had cast a spell to keep others from disturbing them. Apparently, even riding along a side road near it was too much of a disturbance.
Lucy made a mental note never to return. Places that enforced boundaries aggressively, either protected privacy or hid something worth protecting.
Lucy turned around and flipped off the forest in the distance. The Baroness gasped at the rude gesture.
The sun had started to rise behind the trees, casting the forest in a dusty rose hue that made it look like a famous painting.
But Lucy knew better. The more attractive something looked, the higher the risk.
Lucy considered this one of her more reliable survival rules.
It had yet to fail her. Including where she herself was concerned.
She felt that law in her bones—since she herself was one of the most attractive people she knew.
And she was very dangerous in quiet ways.
A rooster crowed in the background, signaling that life was soon to awaken. Lucy pointed toward the sound.
“Happy now? The roosters are awake.”
The Baroness made a sound that reminded Lucy of an asthmatic pug. Lucy had once met a pug with more fortitude. And better breathing.
Lucy smiled cheekily before twirling around and entering Moonpetal Inn, leaving Basil and the idiotic coachman to unload the cargo. She was not made for heavy lifting.
“Greetings,” a compact elderly woman said. “Are you in need of a room today?”
“Good morning,” Lucy replied. “Actually, I need three.”
“Oh dear. I’m sad to say we only have one available. We’re currently repairing two of our rooms after some rowdy guests.”
And just like that, Lucy’s torture continued. She briefly considered arson. Decided against it. Too early in the morning, and she hadn’t had breakfast yet.
She cursed the travelers who had destroyed the rooms. “May everything they eat turn to ash,” she whispered to whatever deity would hear her prayers—good or evil, she did not care.
Suddenly, the strict castle walls and regulations about coming and going didn’t seem so bad. After this journey, she would never travel again.
“Fine,” Lucy groaned. “But you’ll have to inform the overly dressed pug out there.” She jerked her thumb toward the window, where the edge of the Baroness’s enormous hat was visible. Lucy would never understand the point of such large, gaudy hats nobles loved so much.
Lucy barely had time to enjoy the old woman’s horrified expression before the inn door jingled again and the Baroness stormed in, hat feathers first.
“Lucy,” she squawked, “why does the innkeeper claim there is only one room? Surely she can relocate the peasants.”
“Sure,” Lucy said brightly. “If you want to go outside and physically drag a family of six out of their beds at dawn, be my guest.”
The Baroness paled. “Absolutely not. Commoners bite.”
Lucy opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again. Some arguments were not worth winning aloud.
“Exactly.” Lucy clapped her hands together. “Great news, Basil. We’re about to experience horrors no man has ever walked through before.”
Basil—poor, sweet Basil—already had the look of a man questioning all of his life decisions. Lucy liked Basil. He was competent, tired, and did not mistake authority for intelligence. It was a rare combination.
“We haven’t slept in two days…”
“Perfect,” Lucy chirped. “Then you’ll be too tired to complain.”
Lucy led the group down the creaky hall toward a door labeled BATHHOUSE in peeling paint. The Baroness recoiled as if the wood itself were contagious.
“Communal,” she whispered, trembling. “As in… people… bathe… together?”
“Relax,” Lucy said. “It’s early. We’ll be alone.”
She pushed open the door.
Steam drifted lazily through the air, glimmering faintly in the morning light. Large stone tubs, full and heated, waited. Empty.
Lucy inhaled deeply. Hot water solved more problems than diplomacy ever had.
“See?” Lucy gestured. “Fresh hot water, no other humans. Your worst nightmare defeated.”
The Baroness minced inside like her shoes were allergic to public flooring. “I suppose… it could be worse.”
Lucy bit her tongue to avoid saying It usually is.
The Baroness tested the water with one gloved finger, then recoiled. “It’s so hot I may perish.”
“Good,” Lucy muttered. “Boil off the attitude.”
“What was that?”
“I said bold of you to test the water yourself.”
They bathed quickly. Lucy fully immersed herself, sighing dramatically with relief, while the Baroness clung to the edge of her tub like it might swallow her whole.
When they finished, the Baroness sniffed, “I miss the lemon scent of my bath.”
Lucy shrugged. “I miss my will to live.”
Back in their room, Lucy grabbed the stack of blankets and pillows she’d charmed from the innkeeper and plopped them in the far corner.
“What,” the Baroness demanded, “are you doing?”
“Building a nest.”
Lucy had never slept well in a bed that wasn't hers. Too soft meant vulnerable. Too big meant watched. Floors, corners, and piles of blankets were honest.
“A… nest?”
“Yes. I don’t fight my enemies on an empty stomach, and I don’t sleep in the only bed in the room when the elderly need it more.”
The Baroness’s eye twitched. “Absolutely not. You will take the bed.”
Lucy snorted. “No. You need it more. Your bones sound like branches breaking in a weak breeze.”
“How dare—my bones are youthful and sturdy!”
“I think the only youthful and sturdy thing in the room right now is me.”
“Enough of your sass, child! You will take the bed, and that is final!”
“Make me—”
Basil dropped his pack with a thud that rattled the window.
“Enough!”
Both Lucy and the Baroness froze mid-glare. Lucy respected raised voices only when they were earned. Basil’s was.
Basil pointed at the bed. “Both of you. Bed. Now.”
“We are not—” the Baroness began.
“I am not—” Lucy tried.
“It is big enough for two,” he said, somehow whispering and yelling at the same time. “I have slept in trenches and snowstorms, with a dislocated shoulder and a goblin chewing my boots. But I cannot sleep through you two bickering like alley cats. Get in the bed, and be quiet.”
Lucy and the Baroness exchanged a long, horrified look.
“Fine,” they muttered in unison, climbing onto opposite sides of the bed like cats forced to share a sunbeam.
Lucy stared at the ceiling and considered all the choices that had led her here. She regretted none of them. That felt suspicious.
Lucy wrapped the blanket around herself like a burrito of suffering. The Baroness lay stiffly, hands folded atop her chest, as if preparing for her own burial.
Basil blew out the candle and took a seat on the rickety chair across the room.
They slept.
Lucy awoke to the delightful sensation of being crushed. She accepted this as penance for some unspecified sin.
The Baroness had, at some point, rolled over and latched onto Lucy like an emotional barnacle. Basil snored softly in the chair, tilted at a forty-five-degree angle that suggested spinal betrayal.
Lucy pried herself free and sat up.
“Right,” she announced, stretching. “Time to meet the Brass Sparrow.” Lucy had heard enough about the guild to know two things: they respected results, and they despised hesitation. She had plenty of the first and none of the second.
Basil jolted awake with a gasp. “Are we under attack?”
“No,” Lucy said, wondering why men always assumed they were under attack. “Worse. We have to socialize.”
The Baroness adjusted her hat. “Lead the way, child,” she said, even though Lucy was not the one with connections.
And together, one stubborn maid, one cranky knight, and one perpetually disgruntled noblewoman set off toward the most notorious guild in Valedara.
Lucy felt eyes on her back as they walked—familiar, steady, and deliberately distant. She didn’t turn around. Whoever it was didn’t close the space either. The awareness lingered anyway, quiet and unclaimed, like something patient enough to wait.