“Too much!” Cal says. She pulls the spoon from my hand, then hastily pours it onto the juncture of parchment. It’s a wider splotch of wax than before, and only half bears the swirls of color, but I press the seal into it carefully.
Then we’re done. It’s resealed.
“Does it look close?” she whispers.
Yes. No. Maybe. “I don’t know how closely the nobility examines sealed letters,” I say.
She blows lightly on the wax to cool it, then nods at my scrawling. “What are you going to do withthat?”
I hold my breath for a moment. I remember when we first started doing this. We were only planning to pay our taxes. We had no love or hate for the royal family—just a need for silver.
But I’m not naïve enough that I don’t think this is a message plotting to kill the king. It’s a time. A moment of opportunity. This has gone far beyond a few messages that will never affect us.
There’s so much at risk. I have no proof.
But I have a bag of silver next to my bed. A hidden dagger. A good bow and a quiver of arrows.
What are you afraid of?
I look at Cal. “I’m going to take it to Tycho.”
I fill a sack with a few supplies, but I keep it light, because it’s a long way into town to hire passage. I don’t have a dagger belt, so I bury theweapon at the bottom of my bag. The archery bracer buckles onto my forearm like an old friend. The satchel and quiver crisscross my chest securely, followed by the bow across my back.
I remember Tycho buckling into his armor. The way he taught me to break his hold.
I told you the army could use you.
Warmth crawls up my cheeks even though I’m alone. This is a bit of gear. A shred of confidence. I’m no soldier. It shouldn’t matter.
But … it does.
I tuck the silver into my bag with the note, then take hold of my crutches to head into the main room of the house. I’ll need to leave a note beside the forge, though Callyn said she’d try to look out for any customers while I’m gone. I’ll wrap up the meat pies she brought so I can take them with—
My father is sitting at the table.
I choke on my breath and stumble to a stop. I’m so shocked that I nearly drop the crutches.
I can’t breathe. I can’t think.
“What are you doing here?” I scrape out.
“I told the magistrate that my boy was a cripple and he’d starve without me here.” He takes one of the meat pies Callyn brought, holds it up to his face, and inhales deeply. “I suppose I was wrong.”
My heart is pounding so hard that it hurts. “They—they just let you go?”
“Aren’t you glad to see me?”
He’s sober—which is a relief.
His tone is low and dangerous, which is not.
He rises from the table, and I shove myself back a step involuntarily.
He smiles. “What are you up to, Jax?”
“I’m not up to anything,” I growl.
“You look like you’re going somewhere.”
