Chapter Ten #2
I look her up and down. There’s no blade in her hand, no vial of poison to be seen.
I see no hunting snare to wrap around my neck, or a necklace of thorns—the brutal, bladed garotte the Cymreans invented.
Just a long dress made of blue wool that matches her eyes, a pair of scuffed boots with a low heel, and the cloak with the purple edges.
“If you’re not here to hurt me, then there’s no reason for me to hurt you.” I step back, lowering my knife, but keep a careful eye on her.
She watches me with an eerie calm.
“My mother had a dog once,” she says, brushing off a fraying piece of fabric from the edges of her cloak. “She snapped if you came too close, and she’d get this look in her eye just before she snarled. You remind me of her.”
I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with that. “Thanks?”
“It wasn’t a compliment.” She studies my face, then sits at the edge of a thick root. The willow above us rustles. “Just an observation.”
“Okay.” I rub my face, exhaustion like a weight around my neck.
“You’re here for the Assay, aren’t you? You’re the girl they brought up from Seaside.”
“Quayside.”
“Whatever.” She waves a hand, delicate silver bands on each finger catching in the thin sunlight breaking through the mist. “That’s what I meant.”
Seaside is a trading post beyond the city walls, far to the northeast, between us and the old mage stronghold of Tara. “They’re pretty far from the same.”
“They’re not here.” Her blue eyes flash. “For everyone in this castle for the next month, that’s all that matters. You’re an outsider. Not one of us.” Her words hang between us. “You must be afraid.”
I bristle. “What makes you say that?”
The edges of her mouth tighten ever so slightly. It would barely be noticeable if Finn hadn’t taught me what to look for in a liar. “The servants were gossiping. Why were you running outside in the middle of the night?”
Damn it. I should’ve been more careful. Clearly, someone saw me—someone who could’ve attacked at any point.
A smile tugs at the corners of her eyes.
“You’re all anyone’s talking about. Especially now that all the noble families from across Eireann are here.
They’re eyeing up the competition. Making plans for who to go after first in the Assay.
” She tilts her head. “The Western Warden told the whole court that he saw the gardai bring you in two weeks ago, and said that you had a blond streak in your hair. Right here.” She gestures down the side of her head.
The same spot as the girl in the dungeon.
The one Talon killed to put me here in her place.
My pulse quickens. If anyone suspects I’m not really supposed to be here, it’s all the excuse the gardai would need to kill me.
“The Western Warden?” I skirt past the unspoken question in her tone and focus elsewhere. My lack of knowledge about court politics, about anything beyond Dyfflin—Quayside, really—is dangerous here. I need to know who my enemies are.
The girl shrugs. “He’s been here all month, waiting for the Assay to start.
I guess the unrest on the estates he took over five years ago is finally under control so he can risk a longer trip to court.
Usually he’s only here for meetings with…
” Her eyes drop to the gnarled roots beneath us. “Never mind.”
As if I care what some noble on the other side of the isle does in his spare time.
She smooths a hand along the front of her cloak, seeming to collect herself. “I’m Aoife, by the way,” the girl says, pronouncing her name like ee-fa.
“Maeve.” I look her up and down. “Tell me, Aoife. Why would anyone care about a peasant girl enough to gossip if I was in the garden in the middle of the night?”
“They might not,” she says. “What they do care about is who you were with.”
I still.
The prince.
“Normally, even by now, the heir in an Assay has hinted at a favorite. Most of the noble daughters competing are heiresses in their own right and—since only one ever survives—all the estates spend months getting their affairs in order, just in case. A lot of them place bets and cross-bets on who will win, and the money from those bets helps… blunt the worst of the anger at losing one of their own. But Cash—Prince Cashel—hasn’t given so much as a clue.
All the nobles are betting blind, and you know how twitchy people get about losing money. ”
I arch a brow. “You think I’ve ever had money to lose?”
“Right.” She blushes. “Well… then you can see why the idea of you in the garden with him in the middle of the night might make betting nobles tense.”
The last thing anyone in power likes is a wild card.
Suspicion sharpens my senses. “You know him well enough to call him Cash?”
Aoife pales. Her lips press into a thin line, and she looks away from me. “We’re related. Distantly,” she adds. “Second cousins, through our fathers.”
No wonder there’s so much purple in her robe. But her boots—the wear, and scuffing all over them… still, she should be eligible to compete in the Assay.
Why is she sitting here talking to me?
I level a hard glance at her. “You must have a busy day, getting ready for the Assay. You’re competing too, right?”
I may as well have asked if she plans on traipsing down to the Black Quay.
Aoife runs a hand along the hem of her cloak. Her little finger quivers, her eyes refusing to meet mine, but I see the way the pulse in her neck quickens. “No,” she murmurs faintly, the crease in her brow deepening. “I won’t be competing.”
Then she stands, turns away from me, and slips into the shadows beyond her door, drawing the curtains tighter across the window.
The entire encounter leaves me uneasy. Everything about Aoife feels like a snare just waiting to string me up. But was that fear in her eyes at my mention of the Assay?
I pick up the book from my side and thumb to the yellowing pages of chapter eleven… chapter twelve.
I need to know far more than the Whisperers are telling me about the Assay. And with the first test surely about to start any day now, I’m running out of time.