Chapter 12 #2
I tilt my head to look up at him. “Oh? And what is this ‘real’ gift?”
He fishes another small box from his pocket and hands it to me.
“You know, you don’t need to give me presents.”
“I promise you’ll like this one.”
The box is white with a thick, red ribbon tied around the middle. I remove the lid and my breath catches when I see what’s inside: a silver moth on a thin chain.
“Hunter …” I’m at a loss for words. The necklace looks so familiar, but it takes a moment to sink in.
“It was your grandmother’s.”
My eyes shoot up to his. “How did you get this?”
The boyish humor is gone from his eyes, replaced by genuine sincerity. “While you were gone, I found it and kept it close. It was … how I stayed near to you, even though you were so far away.” He rubs the back of his neck and a very real blush colors his cheeks. “I know that may sound silly.”
I shake my head. “That’s not silly at all.” With one finger, I trace the delicate silver curves of a wing. It’s the same moth that’s carved into the stone around my mother’s mausoleum. The same one that decorates Grandmother’s knife.
He nods. “I recognized the moth the second I found it.”
“But where?”
His eyes dart around to see who’s listening. A smile brightens his face as if we’re not discussing the belongings of a dead woman. I look up and spot two of my father’s guards nearby.
“I’ll bring you there,” he says.
“When?”
He takes the necklace gently into his hands, then waits.
I lift my hair off my shoulders and turn away from him.
When he reaches to clasp the necklace around my throat, I close my eyes.
The metal is cool against my skin and Hunter’s scent is all around me, fresh and bright like a citrus grove after a rainfall.
His fingers linger on the skin at the nape of my neck.
“Tonight,” he whispers, his warm breath on my ear.
He steps away and holds out his arm for me to take. I do and we continue walking down the garden path.
We sneak away from the palace after supper, our red court clothes left behind. I pull the hood of my brown cloak up to hide my auburn hair, lest anyone recognize me. An autumn breeze blows, making me shiver. Soon, this cloak won’t be warm enough for the impending winter.
Hunter leads me down the darkened city streets.
Dim lamplight reaches through shuttered windows and onto the cobblestones below our feet.
Most shops are closed now, except for the odd tavern and house of ill-repute.
The myriad of smells from market day are long gone, replaced by cool stone and garbage left out to rot.
“Where are we?” I ask. I’ve never been to this part of the city before. It’s a long way from the main roads that lead straight to the palace.
“White’s End,” he says. “It’s …” he pauses, thinking. “One of the less desirable neighborhoods in the city.” A rat squeaks by, getting underfoot.
“What were you doing here?”
Hunter pulls me closer, lowering his voice as we walk. “The King’s Guard often has … special assignments. Out of uniform.” He pauses as a drunken man stumbles by, swearing loudly about being booted from his favorite drinking hole.
“Such as?”
“I can’t say, Sienna. I’m sorry.” His mouth is a grim line, ever the loyal knight.
“I understand.” But I don’t. Why would Commander Malen send his men into the city in disguise? They’re sworn to protect the king, not masquerade with the city’s unsavory nightlife.
“So, you were on a different mission when you found my grandmother’s necklace?”
“More or less.” He nods noncommittally. “Here.” He points toward a shop with filthy windows half covered in old, molding newspaper. Lamplight still glows from the interior.
“Why would that shop be open at this time of night?” I ask, suspicious.
“Exactly my question when I went inside last year.” Hunter puts his hand on the oxidized doorhandle and pushes it open.
Inside, the shop is a mess of overflowing shelves with dusty odds and ends, everything from books and children’s toys to rusty tools and antiques.
Along one wall runs a scratched, glass cabinet displaying some of the shop’s more precious items. Old coins, knives with dulled edges, and broaches shine under the dull lamplight.
“What do you want?” a gruff man’s voice calls from behind a black curtain covering a doorway in the back of the shop.
Hunter clears his throat. “Hello, sir. We’re here to inquire about a necklace.”
“Unless you’re here to buy one, I don’t want anything to do with yous,” the voice says. “I’m done giving out charity for other people’s trash.”
Hunter and I share a look.
“I think you misunderstand—” Hunter begins.
The curtain behind the counter is thrown aside as a small, old man with a ruddy face appears. “I don’t misunderstand nothin’. Now go!” When he sees us, he pauses, considering. “You lot don’t have the look of White’s Enders.”
“No,” Hunter says. “We’re not.”
The old man eyes us with suspicion from underneath bushy gray eyebrows. “What is it you said you want?”
“Information,” Hunter says.
I step forward. “What do you know of this?” I take the silver moth out from beneath the neckline of my dress.
The man freezes, holding his breath.
“You know it?” I ask.
His eyes remain on the moth for longer than necessary. Then he makes a decision. He grabs a filthy rag from behind the counter and begins dusting the shelves. He kicks up a veritable cloud in his wake.
“No.” He spits on the ground. “Can’t say that I know it.”
Hunter leans forward across the counter. “I purchased this necklace from your shop last year.”
The shop keeper shrugs, avoiding our eyes as he wipes around a ceramic dog figurine with a chipped nose. “I get a lot of baubles in here. I can’t be expected to remember every single one of ‘em.”
“Do you remember the woman who might have given it to you?” I ask. “Her name was áine.”
He shakes his head, but the tension in his neck muscles gives him away. He’s nervous, but trying not to show it. “I don’t know nothing about no one. Now, best be on your way.”
Hunter puts a hand on my arm and turns me back toward the exit. “Come on. He isn’t going to tell us anything.”
But I’m not ready to give in so quickly. It’s been years since I had any leads about Grandmother and I’m not about to walk away. Suddenly, something catches my eye near the door. A few inches above the scratched floor, there’s a small carving in the dingy baseboard.
A moth.
We’ve been asking all the wrong questions, I realize. I turn back to the old shopkeeper, who cringes.
Hunter pauses in the doorway. “Sienna, what are you—”
I stomp back up to the counter and look the wrinkly old man straight in the eye. “Then what about moths?”
The silence that follows tells me one important piece of information: the shopkeeper is afraid.
Eventually, he swallows. “Are you implying somethin’?”
I hold his gaze. “Only if moths mean something to you.”
He sucks his teeth, then leans forward over the counter toward me. He smells of tobacco and old paper. “I think you’d best leave my shop before I call the king’s men for shoplifting.”
“We didn’t steal anything,” Hunter says, indignant.
The shopkeeper points his chin toward the silver moth around my neck. “Says who?”
I glower at him. “Fine.” I turn to leave. For now.
After we leave the filthy shop, I pause to peer through the newspaper-cluttered windows just in time to see the old man dart toward the door and lock it behind us.