Her gaze fell on the empty worktable where she kept her herbs and supplies.
Her satchel.
Ada's stomach dropped. "Oh, nay."
She'd left it in the kitchens, where she had brought it to make a calming tea or milk, when she and Magnus had been cooking. Had set it down on the worktable and forgotten to bring it back, too distracted by the warmth of the moment, by the way he'd looked at her in the firelight. By the feeling that maybe—just maybe—they were becoming something real.
"Foolish," Ada muttered, moving toward her cloak. "What kind of healer forgets her supplies?"
She needed that satchel. Her healing supplies, her herbs, the needle and thread for stitching wounds. If something happened—if Magnus's emergency meeting turned into something worse—she'd be useless without it.
Ada grabbed her cloak from the peg by the door, threw it around her shoulders. Her hand hesitated on the bolt.
Magnus had told her to stay. To lock the door. To wait for him.
But he'd been gone for an hour. And the kitchens were just down two flights of stairs. Five minutes there and back. He'd never even know she'd left.
"Just down and back," she whispered, lifting the bolt as quietly as she could. "Quick as a ghost."
The corridor stretched dark and silent before her. Ada slipped out, pulling the door shut behind her. Her bare feet made no sound on the cold stone.
She moved quickly toward the stairs, her cloak pulled tight against the night chill. A few torches burned in their sconces, casting dancing shadows on the walls. The keep felt different at that hour. Emptier somehow, despite her knowing many people slept behind closed doors.
Ada descended the first flight of stairs, her hand trailing along the rough stone wall for balance. Halfway down the second flight, a sound made her freeze.
Metal scraping on stone. Close. Too close.
Her heart jumped into her throat. "Who's there?"
Silence pressed back, heavy and waiting.
Then, after a long moment that stretched her nerves taut, a familiar voice drifted from somewhere down the corridor. "Just checkin' the locks, me lady. All's well."
One of Magnus's guards. She recognized the voice—older man, graying beard, always polite when she passed him in the halls.
Ada released the breath she'd been holding. "Thank ye. Sorry tae startle ye."
"Nay worry, me lady. Ye should be abed though. 'Tis late."
"I ken. Just fetchin' somethin' I forgot. I'll be quick."
She continued down, more cautious now. Every shadow seemed deeper, every sound magnified in the quiet. Ada told herself she was being foolish. It was Magnus's keep. His men guarded every entrance. She was safe there.
But that prickling awareness wouldn't leave her. That same instinct that had kept her alive during her year on the run.
The kitchens were darker still when she reached them, the fire reduced to dying embers that cast barely enough light to see. The massive hearth loomed like a great mouth, breathing faint orange heat into the shadows.
Ada moved carefully toward the worktable, her eyes adjusting to the gloom. There. Her satchel sat exactly where she'd left it, the worn leather familiar and reassuring in the dimness.
"Found ye," she said with relief, grabbing it and slinging the strap over her shoulder. The weight of it settled against her hip, comforting. "Now back tae?—"
A scraping sound. Behind her. Close.
Ada spun around. "Hello? Is someone there?"
The shadows near the storage room door shifted. Moved.
Two figures detached from the darkness, their forms large and menacing in the faint firelight.
