Behind me, the bed creaked.
Emrys sat upright, tousled and scowling. “Is it dawn already?” He ran a hand through his hair, eyes scanning the window. “Damn. We’ll miss the ferry.”
He was on his feet already, shirtless, reaching for his coat. I grabbed my boots.
“Nibb—Shadow was just here,” I said, fumbling with a button. “He said the port’s clear. No Eclipse agents. No Hollowborn.”
Emrys paused, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “Excellent. Then let’s not tempt fate by lingering.”
We dressed in haste. I barely had time to braid my hair before he opened the door.
In the lobby, he suddenly veered left.
“Emrys!” I hissed, nearly colliding with him.
Without hesitation, he swiped two coats, a top hat, and a travel case from a stand near the lobby entrance.
“What are you doing?” I asked, eyeing the well-dressed couple chatting with the clerk.
He tossed me a coat. “Borrowing. They’ll be fine.”
“We’ll be arrested.”
“Not if we’re quick. Come on, Miss Daphne. Freedom awaits.”
He took my hand, and I tried not to look like I was being abducted as we swept out into the fog.
Freedom. The word itself made my heart beat louder. I could already see it—my dream of a tiny home on the outskirts of Milan. Lemon trees in bloom. The warm breeze through linen curtains. My dream had never been closer. No Arthur. No Vexley. No Hollowborn or Renegade. All we had to do wasbreak the bond—the chain that pulsed between us—and I’d have my shot.
The port of Dover was a cauldron of noise and biting wind. Chains clanged, sailors shouted, and gulls wheeled above like restless spirits. The air reeked of brine and coal smoke. Carts thudded over cobblestones as porters darted between crates, shouting over whistles and waves. Without a warning, Emrys took my arm and hooked it into his. I opened my mouth to protest but closed it when we walked by the cross-channel ticket office. The mail and passenger ferry to Calais was preparing for boarding just behind the wooden kiosk. The ship was an iron-hulled, squat vessel, its decks already crowded. Horses whinnied as handlers loaded them by the ramp.
A uniformed clerk stood inside the booth at the foot of the gangplank, inspecting tickets and travel documents. My stomach lurched when I saw the two police officers behind him.
Emrys stepped forward, presenting our papers and a parchment slip. My blood ran cold. The documents had to be forged. If the clerk looked too closely—
He flipped one booklet open, eyes darting to Emrys’s face.
“Henry Whitmore and wife, bound for Calais,” Emrys said smoothly. Then, under his breath, he murmured in a language I didn’t recognize—not English, not Latin, but something older. The clerk blinked, and his expression went slack.
He stamped the papers without another word and waved us through.
Without saying a word, the police officers headed to two travelers who were having a loud argument.
I exhaled, my muscles relaxing. But when I walked up the gangplank, my unease didn’t fade. The sea stretched out before me, gray and endless, the ferry rocking gently against its moorings. And somewhere there, the Unbidden was waiting.
The deep thrum of the engines vibrated through the soles of my boots. Around us, sailors shouted orders, ropes creaked, and gulls wheeled overhead. And, perched on a railing, a furry black silhouette was locked in some odd duel with a seabird.
“Is that—” I murmured in disbelief.
Emrys smirked. “Nibble? Yes. You know he gets cranky when he doesn’t get his daily sleep.”
“First-class salon is just this way, sir,” a porter chirped and pushed a polished door open.
Inside, it was like stepping into another world. Mahogany-paneled walls gleamed in the soft light of oil lamps, their brass fixtures casting long shadows. My feet sank into a plush carpet as we crossed into the private salon. Other passengers already sat on cushioned benches and buttoned armchairs. A woman in laced gloves talked softly to an older man in a suit with golden buttons, her sugar spoon clinking softly against the teacup. A child pressed his nose to the misted window. Everything was quiet, refined. Peaceful. The porter led us to a round table, where a silver tea tray awaited—porcelain cups, sugar cubes, biscuits and fresh sandwiches stacked in neat rows.
I sank into the cushions with all the grace I could manage, but my spine remained stiff. My eyes darted to the waves outside, to the dark corners of the cabin.
My stomach clenched. This was going too well.
