She suppressed the urge to cackle madly at her delight over getting to stay. Remaining in disguise meant no dresses or side saddle, but at least she no longer had to lurk alone in the woods.
“Second,” he said, “you can’t say anything to anyone about the king sending us here. As far as everyone knows, Lord Livna included, Kurtz and I have decided to leave the king’s service and go our own way. Kurtz had a falling out with the king—nothing you know the particulars of—and after the war, I just want a simple life making music. We’re all going to try and make a go of it as musicians in Tsaftown, where Kurtz is from.”
She knew it. They were spies. Spies! A thrill coursed through her, too wild to fully contain. She bounced on her toes, pressing her lips together to stifle a squeal, and clapped lightly, the sound merely a whisper.
Cole’s lips twitched, and she could see him fighting the urge to smile. Oh, she would weasel right back into his heart in no time. Just wait.
“Third, once we reach Tsaftown, you will have a female companion of Prince Oren’s choosing.”
“Prince Oren?” Mistel clapped again. The king’s uncle had made plans for her. How thrilling. But what had he said? A companion? She sobered at the realization that the men had discussed her in relation to propriety. She had never once considered how following Cole might tarnish her reputation.
“Good idea,” she said. “Thank you.” Cole’s arms were still crossed, like he was a bowstring ready to snap. Any hint of laughter long gone. “You seem upset.”
He swallowed and looked off across the snowy prairie. “I saw you watching Jeffrey. He’s a far better musician than me, and I’ve been worried we might not be hired to play anywhere with him in town.”
The tightness faded from Mistel’s stomach. Thank Arman. Cole wasn’t angry with her. He was jealous of Jeffrey. That she could handle. “We don’t have to be the best to play at some seedy alehouse,” she said. “I doubt Jeffrey would even want to play at such a place.”
Cole’s brows shot up his forehead. “Because he’s too good?”
“Oh, Cole.” She sidled up, pried apart his crossed arms, then took hold of his hands. “You’re a brilliant musician. We’ll get plenty of work, I promise you.”
Cole swallowed as his hazel eyes searched hers. “As long as you don’t leave us and start singing with Jeffrey.”
“I would never.” She slid her hand over his cheek, and the feel of his scruffy face sent a thrill through her stomach. She raised onto her tiptoes and had barely brushed her lips against his when his hand clamped around her wrist and he pushed her back, scowling.
“None of that, cousin,” he said. “Kissing me won’t help you keep your disguise.”
“Hmm, I suppose not.” She walked away, then winked at him over her shoulder. “Until Tsaftown, then.”
Chapter 7
Cole
A steady hand wavers when beauty walks by.
Cole could never help but pen lyrics in his head when it came to Mistel Wepp.
After sword fighting practice the next morning, she invited herself into their tent, humming “I Don’t Belong Here,” one of his favorite songs that she had written. She settled onto Kurtz’s bedroll, removed her farmer’s hat, and let her orange curls fall loose. Even when humming, her perfect pitch rang clear, and the beautiful, haunting melody soothed him.
He missed moments like these with her. He still couldn’t believe she was here—that she’d kissed him, or tried to, at least. No denying he would have enjoyed that a great deal. Hiding his feelings for her would not be easy. Yet he could find no reason to refuse a visit from his cousin, and so he’d let her stay.
For now.
She wouldn’t be here long. Kurtz had gone to fetch Jol Quimby, the lone member of the Mârad amongst the Five Hundred. The three of them had plans to discuss the mission, and since Prince Oren had not yet given permission for Mistel to know all their Mârad business, once Kurtz and Jol returned, Mistel would have to go.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
Lantern light flickered off Cole’s short sword as he scrubbed it with a tallow-soaked cloth, then dipped the rag into the jar for more. “Oiling the blade to keep it from rusting in all this snow,” he said.
“Did you practice swordplay again this morning, my knightling?”
He glanced at her, amused by the little name she’d given him, liking it more than he should. “I’m surprised you didn’t come watch.” He was grateful too.
“I cannot wake as early as you.” Mistel stretched out her legs and sighed. “Oh, this is nice. I didn’t think to bring a tent. Or a bedroll.”
Concern for her swelled in his chest. “Mistel…Where have you been sleeping?”
“Mostly under trees.”
