I’d sooner take my chances with them than this cruel jerk. But it’s not my floof on the line.
Gwyneth links my arm again and ushers me up the stone steps and into the grand entrance. My eyes spring open as I stare up and up at the domed stained glass ceiling. “Wow,” I breathe. There’s a scent of freshly roasting capon floating through the air, making my mouth water. Capon wings might be useless in life, but in death, they make an excellent treat. I wish I had wings so I could fly up to that ceiling and touch the colored glass.
“Help me,” a weak pathetic whiny voice says.
I spin and find a woman pressed against a wooden post. A roar splits the air and before I have a tempo to talk my feet out of their stupid plan, they are running toward the distressed female. I find myself waving my hands around in the air, because they are in cahoots with my feet—neither of which bother to share their intentions with me. I reach the woman and find her hands loosely bound behind the post. I tug on the bow and the binding falls away. Damn, she wasn’t exactly trying hard. Perhaps the Hallows folks are softer than us Burghers.
“What are you doing?” she snaps as she turns on me with fisted hands.
I blink. “You shouted for help.”
“I didn’t want it from you.”
“What does it matter? You required assistance, I assisted. Where I am from, Burghers can’t be choosers.”
“I wanted to be rescued by my destiny.”
I fold my arms and raise a brow. “I want a decent sausage every day and glorious foot massages every night. But we can’t all have what we want.”
Her gaze darts over my shoulder and a smug smile tilts her lips. A hand wraps around my throat and my back is slammed into the wooden post. An ax raises and I squeeze my eyes closed as I make peace with the Idols.
A dull thud reverberates down the post and my eyes fly back open. A muscular arm appears over my shoulder and a giant hand pries the ax from the post, snatching a lock of my hair with it. My hands fall to my hips and brows lower into a scowl. He grins, and it’s striking how alike the twins he is. Same green eyes, cheeky grin, and golden skin. Plus the muscles and lack of shirt. He has similar dark hair, but with streaks of auburn shooting through the sides. Maybe they are brothers? He sniffs my hair. Freaking weirdo.
“You could have killed me.”
“But I didn’t,” he says as he eyeballs me from head to toe.
“Hallowed or not, being shiny does not excuse poor behavior.”
The corner of his eyes crinkle with mirth. “Doesn’t it, though?”
My gaze snaps to my hair, still clutched in his hand. “Give it back.”
“No.”
I huff. “It’s my hair and I want it back.”
“No.”
“What possible use is it to you?” He grins, revealing pearly white teeth. A shiver of warning runs down my spine as I fold my arms. “Don’t answer that. Keep it.”
He winks, then spins and walks away with my hair clutched in his hand.
“Congratulations,” Charming drawls. “You’ve garnered the attention of three of the Stirling brothers, not exactly a great start to what is likely to be a very short life in the Hallows.”
He leaves the implication to sink in as he whistles a cheerful tune while walking away. I dart a panicked look at Gwyneth. “I didn’t mean to be interesting,” I whisper as I peer over my shoulder at the dent in the post, one of hundreds. I swallow the knot of anxiety lodged in my throat and scurry after the prince.
“It was just to scare me, he’s likely as dangerous as a newborn kitten,” I try.
Charming casts a glance over his shoulder as we start up the stairs. “If he wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”
“Glorious Debbie, are you well? The lumbering oath needs to learn a lesson in manners.”
I wave a hand at the mirror man. “What he said.”
“Never fear, my dear, you shall be the one to set him straight,” the mirror man declares. “I can see it now.”
Gwyneth meets my eyes and we both chuckle. Oh, the mirror man is good for a laugh, but he’s no fortune teller. Wonderful thing too, because I’m avoiding the Stirling brothers like they are the bringer of the pink plague of boils.
