Chapter 3
I slip out the door and into the hallway, locking it behind me. It’s a long shot, but maybe the guards will hear the cries of the woman I trapped inside and assume there’s a continuing struggle between us.
I race down the hall, agitated by how the armored legs rattle against each other. The guard was shorter than I am, which means the armor’s a tight squeeze, but I’m not exactly in a position to complain.
I round the corner just as I hear a male guard echo down the hall. “Marsa is gone!”
I keep going, turning down a set of stairs. In the distance, I hear wood splintering and a crash. The guards must have broken down the door to the room where I trapped Marsa. It won’t give me much time, but I have to hope it’s enough.
Another pair of guards race past me, heading up the stairs, and I’m shocked they can’t hear my heart rattling against this stupid armor. I do my best to look hurried, like I’m following orders. They must assume I am, because neither of them stops me.
When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I hear someone shout from above, “She’ll be dressed in guard’s clothing! She stole it off Marsa!”
Excellent.
I peek into the corridor, glancing both ways. It’s not what I see that decides my direction, but what I smell—the strong scent of blackened fish wafting from the right. Right it is.
When the smell grows stronger, I find the door it’s coming from and take a steadying breath before throwing it open. The clanging of pots in the kitchen comes to an abrupt stop as the staff freezes, wide-eyed. One woman is even holding a dish halfway in the oven.
This would be one of those times it would be nice to have my voice.
Mercifully, the head cook is chatty enough for both of us. “One of the maids heard a commotion out there,” she says. “Says the prisoner’s on the loose. She ain’t come down here. And if she had, you can bet we’d have turned her in to the master. Got no use for runaways.”
I expect fear in her statement, anxiety over what might become of her and her staff if I escape and someone thinks they helped. But her voice is firm, loyal. Proud, even.
I guess even the servants on this ship can’t put themselves in the shoes of a prisoner.
Since all I have to work with is body language, I square my shoulders and move quietly through the kitchen, throwing open pantry doors with as much authority as I can muster.
“Won’t find her in any of those,” the cook insists.
A moment later, another guard bursts into the kitchen. He takes one look at me, and I’m sure I’m done for. But then he says, “Good. This area’s already covered. I’ll check the starboard annex.”
I make a mental note not to go anywhere near the starboard annex.
Before leaving, he barks at the kitchen staff, “Well, get back to work! We don’t stop being hungry just because there’s a prisoner loose!”
The staff scrambles to obey, pots and pans clattering once more.
“I’ll tell you one last time,” the head cook says. “The prisoner’s not down here. But if you’re just going to get in the way, check the wine cellar and see for yourself.”
She gestures toward a door, and I step inside. I’m scrambling for a way to get her out of here, but then she grumbles something about my presence distracting her staff and leaves.
Complaints aside, at least she’s left me alone.
The wine cellar seems to double as a storage room for extra supplies, including uniforms. I glance toward the still-ajar door to make sure no one’s watching, then coax the door closed before I snatch a servant’s uniform from a hook on the wall.
It’s even harder getting the armor off than it was getting it on. Why anyone would design clothing that fastens between the shoulder blades is beyond me. I like to think of myself as fairly flexible, but it takes far longer than I’d like before the breastplate finally comes free.
By the time I’m dressed in the server’s attire, I’ve practically sweated through it. I can only hope that anyone who notices will assume it’s nerves about the escaped prisoner. Or condensation from standing over a pot all day. That would work too.
I smooth the apron, which is also too small for my frame, then tug the server’s bonnet over my head. Thankfully, my hair is cropped short, so I don’t have to worry about tucking it up.
Once the pouch with John’s tiles is securely tucked away in a pocket at my hip, I ease the door open and survey the kitchen.
No one’s paying attention to the wine cellar.
The guard’s barked orders seem to have shifted everyone’s focus from me to the punishment they’ll face if dinner isn’t ready on time.
The bustle of clanging pots and sizzling pans lets me slip from the cellar unnoticed.
Even the cook is too busy scolding one of her underlings for burning the pheasant while everyone was distracted by, and I quote, “that stoic guard who couldn’t be bothered to speak to us. ”
Okay, that one stings a little.
On my way out, I snatch a tray with a covered dish off the counter.
I have no idea where it’s meant to go, but if I’ve learned anything in my years of staying unnoticed, it’s that people rarely question someone whose hands are busy.
Besides, if anyone notices my hurried pace, they’ll assume I’m in a rush to deliver the food.
I pace down the hall, restraining myself from slipping into the longer, heavier stride of the guards. My instincts itch to run, to get out as fast as possible, but I force myself to look brisk, not panicked.
Several guards pass me without a second glance. Maybe I’ll have to invest in some more of these bonnets. They’re almost as good as an invisibility potion.
Once I turn the corner and am out of sight, I pull the map I lifted from the wine cellar from my pocket. My eyes trace a path toward the deck, but only as a last resort. I’ve no intention of heading anywhere near there. Not when they’ll be expecting me to try to jump overboard or steal a lifeboat.
My relatively accurate internal clock, of which I am exceedingly (and likely irrationally) proud, informs me I’ve been free for about fifteen minutes. Plenty of time for the Nomad’s lackeys to swarm the deck.
Once I’ve memorized my intended path, I tuck the map back into my apron and set off.
There was a time when, trying to go unnoticed, I would keep my head down.
But I learned the hard way that nothing draws attention faster than someone clearly trying to evade attention.
So now, when I pass guards, I keep my posture straight and my movements purposeful.
If one glances my way, I offer a polite nod or a quick smile, though I keep it hurried, dismissive.
I’ve just reached the corridor leading to my destination when a passing guard holds out his hand to stop me.
“Prisoner got free this afternoon,” he says. “She’s still disguised as one of our own. You seen any female guards pass this way?”
I let my eyes go wide, hoping he’ll perceive me as timid. I shake my head, grateful that his question only requires a yes or no.
“Very well. Alert someone if that changes, or if you see anything suspicious.”
I nod and move to scurry off, but his hand shoots out again, catching my shoulder. “I haven’t seen you around before,” he says, his voice dropping, suddenly deeper. “You new? What am I saying? Of course you are. I would’ve noticed you before otherwise.”
Scratch that comment I made earlier about buying more of these bonnets.
I pause just long enough for my flaring nostrils to settle back into their resting position, then turn back to him with what I hope is a shy smile.
He grins, and where I’d expect to see a few rotten teeth, given his profession’s reputation for scurvy, his set is full. His ears are pointed, which explains the nice teeth.
And also why I can’t simply knock him out cold.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
I anticipate this being the first of many moments I’ll wish I’d killed Peter instead of merely maiming him—if I make it out of this alive, that is.
Nothing snags attention quite like silence.
Answer simply, and you’ll be forgotten within the hour.
Neglect to answer, and you’ll raise all sorts of questions in the other person’s mind.
Why is she being rude? Is it because I smell funny?
Wait, no. Is something wrong with her? Surely something is wrong with her.
I’m certain I bathed today. Can she not hear me, or can she simply not speak back?
I wonder if she’s always been this way or if something happened to her.
The inability to answer had caused no small amount of trouble for Michael and me when we first returned to our realm, more than a few mishaps before Madame Whittaker found us and took us in.
Thankfully, the guard is arrogant enough to fill in the blanks himself. “Don’t be shy. I know I can be intimidating. But I’m not that scary.”
To my surprise, there’s something genuine about the way he says it. Once, I might have found a man like this charming. Okay, maybe not charming, but amusing at the very least.
But he’s standing between me and my path of escape.
I bite my lip and glance down, the rim of the bonnet offering me a chance to look at his belt. To my surprise, there’s no sword, only a set of shackles. That’s going to be inconvenient. If he were human, I could overpower him. But a fae male? Hand-to-hand, I’m going to come out weaker every time.
“Not much of a talker, are you?” he says, suspicion creeping into his tone. Here’s to hoping no one on this ship knows that the faerie the Nomad’s hunting can’t speak, including the Nomad himself.
I have no choice. I glance up, meet his eyes, and smile. Slowly, hesitantly, I take his arm and trace the first name that comes to mind onto his forearm, my finger looping each letter with what I hope is a feminine flourish.
“Aurora,” he says, grinning from ear to ear. His shoulders relax, suspicion draining from his face at my touch. “Well, Aurora—”
I tighten my grip on his arm and twist until I hear a crack. There’s a moment’s pause before the pain registers, which I use to my advantage, snatching the bonnet from my head and stuffing it into his mouth before he can scream.
Yet again, I have changed my mind. Definitely buying more bonnets.
The muffled cry comes seconds later, but by then he’s already off balance. I shove him forward, grab his good arm, and wrench both behind his back as I kick his knees out from under him. He collapses with a thud.
Before he can recover, I grab the shackles from his belt and snap them around his wrists. He thrashes, gagged and furious, and it won’t be long before someone below hears us struggle.
When I snatch the ring of keys from his belt, he glares, but it’s got the look of being more furious with himself than with me.
I leave the man with a pat on the head, to which he grimaces, then dart down the empty corridor until I reach the door I’m looking for.
It’s less ornate than I expected, though the carvings of panthers clawing at one another under a crescent moon are hard to miss.
But I don’t have time to wonder about the Nomad’s taste in décor.
I shove the first key into the lock and twist. Nothing. Then another. Still nothing.
By the time I reach the last key, I’ve nearly given up hope.
So far, my life has not been the type to infuse me with the kind of optimism that would lead me to suspect that the last key will be the correct one.
Besides, now that I consider it, it’s unlikely the Nomad would let some random guard keep a key to his chambers.
I’ve already halfway decided the deck might not be such a bad idea after all when the final key turns smoothly, and the lock clicks open.
I tamp down the surge of relief in my chest. This is still only a hunch. The last time I trusted my instincts, I lost my voice.
The Nomad’s room is decadent, to say the least. Every object possesses at least one unnecessarily expensive jewel or mineral, from the rubies decorating the bedposts to the golden thread shimmering in the tapestries hanging from the wall.
But I’ve no time to marvel. My first stop is the bookcase.
Everyone who fancies themselves a mastermind loves to hide a secret passage behind one.
This one happens to be crafted from the almost extinct redwoods of Kruschi.
As if I needed another reason to detest this man.
I run my hands along every spine and knob. Nothing.
Maybe the Nomad actually is clever. Or maybe my hunch is wrong, and I’ve just made it easier for him to kill me. He can do it at the same time he retires for his afternoon nap. I’m sure as the captain of this ship, he’ll appreciate the efficiency.
I glance toward the bed, noting the silk sheets, then drop to my hands and knees to check the floorboards. No trapdoor.
Hurried voices carry from outside in the hallway. They must have found the guard I bound. Stupid. Should have dragged him in here with me.
Heart pounding, I jump to my feet and go for my last hope—the tapestries on the wall. I’m sure they’re intricate and beautiful and tell marvelously vicious stories of the Nomad’s conquests, but I’ve no time to admire them.
So I start ripping.
Not the tapestries themselves. I have a modicum of appreciation for the fine arts. But off they come from the wall, nonetheless. Except for one. The tapestry closest to the bed only comes off one hinge, folding over itself like a curtain while it hangs from a single sconce.
A smile curves my lips.