“What…this?” Quinn recovered, then started to laugh, a little hoarser than usual. “No, this was from practicing swordplay. They say women like men with scars. This is the sort they like. So far, no one’s appreciated the view of my leg.”
My lips pursed with amusement.
Something touched my hand. I turned to find a crow perched right atop my finger, its little black eyes looking expectantly upwards.
Quinn leaned forward. “Gods, is that…?”
I fed Robert a few chunks of persimmon. He’d never come so close, and as he ate from my hand, I thought I could feel a certain connection with the corvid, almost as if our spirits were connected by a fine thread. A strange tingling ran up my arm and for a moment, I almost sensed his thoughts. Images of shiny objects, high perches, the taste of carrion, all rang through my head like thrilling, unsettling dreams.
Strange happenings were becoming frequent enough that I was barely fazed. Whatever it meant, I was sure it had something to do with the Lord of Night.
Quinn’s gaze flickered from me to Robert, back and forth until he drew some conclusion. His eyes narrowed as he rested his elbows against his knees.
“It’s a shame, what happened to poor Percy Montfort,” Quinn said quietly, out of nowhere. “At least the bastard went in his sleep.”
Snapping my attention to the viscount, I startled the crow enough that he flapped his way up to perch in the nearest fruit tree. I glared, searching Quinn for hints of what he knew.
He touched my arm. “Your secrets are safe with me, Nightingale.”
My brow raised. I wasn’t sure whether to question the nickname, or the strange weight that lingered in his promise. Quinn merely shrugged.
“There’s a story about a nightingale, a bird known for its beautiful song, who loses its voice when caged by an emperor.” He rolled his head to the side, smiling to himself. “Reminds me of you. Besides, it seems wrong to call youmy ladyandYour Highnesswhen we’re stealing persimmons like common thieves. This garden is technically private property, after all.”
I stiffened with alarm, taking measure of all the discarded fruit cores. My lips creased, suppressing a laugh. Gods, I wished that I could laugh aloud, or at least reply without the damned wax tablet. It was running out of room, and there was no fire nearby to smooth it. If only Quinn were a woman, I might have some clever replies to match his endless stream of self-sustained banter.
Gods, I wanted to talk to him.
I averted my eyes and slouched.
Quinn reached for me, perhaps to comfort my unspoken frustration, but his hand paused midair. His fingers flexed, conflict playing across his features as propriety warred with instinct. The space between his hand and my cheek was charged with static. Quinn drew a slow breath.
“We should return to Castle Altaigne before it gets dark,” he suggested, lowering his hand at last. “I believe we can get to the Hart’s Content without crossing back into the lower district. There’s another bridge just north of here.”
I nodded and stood, waving good-bye to Robert the crow. We started walking, returning through the markets, which were just a bit noisier than they had been on the way in.
A crowd gathered around a raised wooden platform. The forefront of it consisted largely of women, their expressions contorted in outrage as they shouted at a guarded man atop the stage. He was dressed officially, his red coat lined with golden trim and trailed by a flowing cape of the same royal colors. Tucked into his arm was a ledger book, pressed tightly against a large purse.
The women screamed at him, their fists pumping into the air as they decried the rising costs of food. Those chants drew more people into the crowd. As we passed by the scene, Quinn put himself between the protesters and me.
“…I’ll take care of them,” Quinn whispered. “We shouldn’t flash our gold again, but I’ll talk to the queen about relief efforts as soon as we return.”
The women’s desperate voices echoed in my ears as we hurried away. These were my future subjects, starving while I’d just given away a fortune in gold to street performers. There was no muting the shame that coursed through me.
We continued through the thinning crowds until we reached quieter streets. Those angry voices faded behind us, but I couldn’t relax. Not until we’d mounted Niro and put a fair distance between ourselves and reality.
“Well, would you look at that?”
I tilted my head upwards, following the invisible line from Quinn’s fingertip. Robert soared overhead, accompanying us on the journey home. His body cast a shadow over the road, blinking with every beat of his wings. I felt him up there, so long as I kept my eyes on him; for a moment, I knew what it was to fly, to feel the wind graze along my feathers and see the world shrinking below.
“You have a way with animals,” Quinn pointed out. “Doesn’t she, Niro?”
I reached forward to stroke Niro’s mane. A brief spark of connection flickered between us, nowhere near as intense as what I shared with the crow, but undeniably present for one fleeting moment.
We rode through rolling meadows that gradually gave way to dense woodland, the path winding between oak and ash trees whose leaves rustled vocally in the evening breeze. Above, Robert’s flight pattern began to change. Instead of his usual lazy circles, he started darting back and forth, making sharp, insistent caws. He dove low over our heads before wheeling away to a cluster of trees ahead, then returned to repeat the motion.
I frowned, watching the agitated display. Something was wrong. Robert cawed again, the sound harsh and urgent, before disappearing into the canopy.
The peaceful rhythm of Niro’s hooves was broken by a sudden, sharp whinny echoing from the woods. Quinn pulled the reins, moving his hand to his sword hilt. His features stiffened as the cry came again, desperate and panicked. Through the trees, I could see flashes of movement, the dark shape of a horse rearing and thrashing. Quinn swiftly dismounted, then helped me down before approaching with caution.
