But clearly, it mattered to the woman fleeing from her as if the Arathian horde itself were nipping at her heels.
“Your Majesty,” Olivia called after her friend, moving to follow as best she could with her bad leg. But that single step was all ittook to see fresh waves of Pain coursing through her left side, sharp enough to nearly buckle her knees.
Like clockwork, the Pain reminded her of the hour. It was getting late.
Her medicinal herbs were wearing thin.
Bracing her shoulder against the wall, she scrabbled for the flask at her hip and cast a narrow-eyed look at the Queensguard lingering nearby in the corridor. They stared back at her, uncertain, until she barked at Sir Arkwright, “Well, get after her! I’ll be along shortly.”
The armored men flowed around her like water, racing off down the corridor with their heavy steps, leaving her blissfully alone. Alone with the last of her cordial.
Uncorking the flask, she drained what scant droplets were left in one go. The wine burned her tongue and throat. The bitter root puckered her cheeks. But the dream petal painted the world in a pleasant rosy haze again, making everything a little brighter.
A little easier. Something that was swiftly becoming too easy.
Her Pain ebbed away. The throbbing in her left leg dulled.
Eyelashes fluttering, she breathed a little easier. Until she heard a shout echoing through the walls.
Percy.
“Olivia?” he called for her again from where he still waited back within the queen’s quarters, his voice muffled through layers of stone and wood. He probably thought she was still hiding out in Seraphina’s bedroom. “Olivia, how in the world—”
Snickering to herself, she limped back the way she had just come, back to the faded tapestry depicting the Sundering—the day all of Avirel had nearly ended. When the dragons all turned evil, or some such nonsense, and tried to turn the world to ash. Before abruptly dying out when the Lord on High smote them or something.
Fairy tales meant to keep all the good little boys and girls of the Lord’s Church in check.
Ducking behind the wall hanging, she pressed her hand against the right panel and shouldered the secret door open. It would be quicker for her to catch up with Seraphina this way—scuttling through the walls like a rat—rather than trying to outrun Percy through the halls.
In between the Lord Chancellor’s bum knee and her withered left leg, there was no telling who might win that particular race: the racing of the gimps! They could start a new sport. Seraphina’s courtiers could surely use a spot of entertainment to distract them from the war and their own disgruntled murmurings.
There was only one problem, of course.
Very few people knew about her disability.
Stale air was all that should have greeted her the moment she slunk into the hidden passageway and let the door swing shut behind her. Stale air and cold. But instead, a whiff of something nice greeted her senses.
Something warm and male, freshly washed and wearing a hint of cologne. Something vaguely spicy.
Her good humor snuffed itself out in the very next second.
One of her many hidden daggers was in her right hand before she could think to draw it. When she whirled to face her stalker, though, his strong fingers caught her wrist before she could threaten him, as if he had been expecting the blade.
But of course, he would have.
It certainly wouldn’t have been the first time she had drawn one on him.
“Dacre,” she drawled in greeting, trying to remain calm. Casual. “What are you doing?”
She couldn’t see the pretty man in the darkness, but she didn’t need to see him to know what his face was probably doing right at that moment. His perfect lips would no doubt be turned down into a frown. His golden eyebrows would knit together. His sea-green eyes would shine with concern.
Concern. The knight was always looking concerned these days.
“I was waiting on you,” he confessed on a soft rumble that made the hairs on her arms stand on end. She didn’t like his tone. It was too warm, too intimate, too familiar. “You always travel through the walls at this time of night, so no one sees you limp.”
Peeling back her lips in a sneer she wished he could see, she jerked her wrist out of his hold and tucked her dagger away again. “If only you watched the Baron of Crestley and the Duke of Coreto half as well as you watch me.”
She could almost feel the man flinch. “I watch them,” he whispered, sounding wounded—like a dog that had just been kicked. That was Sir Tristan Dacre, though.
