We ducked through the servants’ entrance and into the shadowed hallways. As we crept down the hall, the velvet-draped windows slashed the moonlight across the floor. We climbed three flights of stairs before stopping at a wooden door. I twisted the handle and nudged it open.
Dust filtered through a round window in the attic. Crates and old trunks filled the room. Rheya had tucked little treasures inside them—sculptures, bottle caps, scraps of ribbon, a porcelain doll’s head. A thin mattress was shoved in the corner while Rheya’s hammock swung lazily near the rafters—she’d insisted on hanging it there because sleeping high up made her feel safer.
My fingers trembled, the ache from the rune still lingering like splinters beneath my skin. I folded my hands under my arms before Rheya noticed. If she caught me wincing, she’d fuss over me and probably dig out one of her ridiculous teas.
Rheya kicked the door shut and slumped against it.
I stood in the middle of the room, still holding thesatchel, and looked down. My hands were trembling violently.
“Sit.” Rheya took my arm, guiding me to the mattress. “Breathe.”
I tried. Air caught in my throat like broken glass. “He could have killed me. He was right there and I couldn’t move and he could have just?—”
“But he didn’t.” Rheya knelt in front of me, gripping my shoulders. “You’re safe.”
Safe. What a lie.
“Gods, we’re so fucking stupid. They weren’t supposed to be home. The runes, Aelie! They’ll know they failed months before they should have, that a human broke them, and that light—” She pressed her palms against her eyes. “Once what happened gets out, they’ll look for humans who can manipulate magic.”
I slumped onto my mattress, bile rising in my throat. Years of caution, and we’d blown it all in one theft.
“And the executioner saw your face,” she whispered feverishly. “It’s only a matter of time before he tracks us down.”
“He has to find us first.”
“They’ll test everyone. Every human will be lined up and forced to touch a rune, and when we can’t fake it…” She dragged her hands through her hair. “What have we done?”
My hands kept shaking. “We’ll leave the city as soon as possible.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow night. We need supplies. Food, winter clothes, money.”
“That might be too late.”
“Even if we could get out now, we’d freeze to death before dawn.”
“Fine. Tomorrow.”
Silence settled between us.
“I hate this,” she muttered, flopping in her hammock. “Feels like we’re waiting to die.”
I slumped on the floor. My hands found my hair, unweaving the strands just to braid them tighter. The executioner’s brutal expression flashed in my vision. The way he’d reached for me and almost touched my cheek.
I shuddered.
Maybe this was our last quiet night.
2
KNEEL AND SMILE
My burning palm throbbed as Lord Henrik sliced through his poached eggs. I stood at the wall, holding a steaming kettle. Platters crowded the table: smoked fish, candied violets, fresh berries that cost more than a week’s wages.
I’d slept maybe an hour. Every time I closed my eyes, I was back in the snow with the executioner looming over me. I’d jolt awake, certain I heard boots thundering up the stairs. But morning came without anyone dragging us from our beds.
“Tea,” Henrik said without looking up.
