She cast a resigned eye over the food spread out on the table. There was no way she could take any of it with her without rousing immediate suspicion, and she had no idea when she was going to get any more.
She pushed her chair back and dipped her chin. “You are all excused.”
No one even blinked. These days, when she wasn’t out riding Penelope, she stayed in her room. It felt like she spent more time lying on her bed looking out through the bars on her window than anything else.
She climbed the stairs, listening to the whispers starting up again, desperately straining to hear what they were saying. It was impossible, just a vague murmur beneath the clatter of dishes being cleared.
Lucilla closed her bedroom door, glad to finally be alone.
Thank the gods she’d already rid herself of having a personal maid months ago—the one and only good idea that Cerdic had ever had. He’d had an entirely different benefit in mind, but the maids had been only too glad to lessen their workload, and now it meant that no one was coming to check on her.
And that was the last time she was going to think about the sergeant. Cerdic had already taken too much from her. Even worse, she had given it to him freely. Never again. Now he was merely one of her jailors once more.
She opened her wardrobe and pulled out the leather satchel she had hidden at the back. Moving quickly, she filled it with two spare shirts, thick socks, an empty waterskin she’d taken from the kitchen, a pile of monthly rags, and her tiny hoard of treasure: a ring, a sapphire that had fallen from an ornate buckle, a few pearls, and several coins that she had stolen from Ballanor and Geraint—Grendel too, when her brother brought him. It was all she had. All her mother’s jewelry was kept in the treasury at the Palace of Kaerlud, and no one had ever thought to give her any of her own.
She was already dressed for riding in knee-high boots over fitted breeches and a closely tailored, button-up jacket in deep forest green, her thick hair pulled back into a tight knot. She slung the satchel over her head, its strap lying sideways across her body, and slipped a heavy dark gray wool cloak over the top of everything. Finally, she added her only weapon, the jeweled letter opener glittering as she shoved it into her belt. It was too small and too blunt to do much good, but it was all she had.
She shoved a pile of clothes under her blankets in the hopes that the lumpy shape might pass as her in the darkness and then carefully tidied her room, hoping to avoid any suspicion if someone should check on her.
Was there anything else she should take? She cast her eye slowly over the room she had lived in all her life. It was beautiful and elegant, decorated in purple, cream, and silver. Luxurious and comfortable. She hated it.
Time to go. Before the house was too quiet. Before the guards settled in. While they were all still distracted.
She opened her door a crack and peered out into the corridor. Last time she’d gone out the window; now there were bars. Hopefully, they didn’t expect her to simply walk out the door.
Her heart thudded heavily, her breath shallow and tight as she forced herself to stay still and focus. What was the worst that could happen? Someone could see her and bring her back. Punish her. Report her to Ballanor. Again.
And what would the punishment be if she stayed? Even if Ballanor miraculously forgot that she existed, how much longer could she live this hideous life of nothingness?
No family other than Ballanor, and he didn’t count. No friends. No experiences. Never leaving. Nothing ever changing. Every day identical to the one before. She might as well have died already.
Lucilla forced herself to take a deep breath and then crept into the corridor, every cell in her body alert to the sounds of the staff moving around on the floor below. She clung to the wall, avoiding the squeaky central floorboards, placing her feet carefully, one after the other.
Her hands were damp where her palms pressed to the wall, and more than once she had to dry them on her cloak, working hard to keep her breaths even and slow.
She hovered at the top of the stairs, listening.
Cook shouted at someone in the distant kitchens. A guard called his rounds outside. Somewhere in the house a door closed heavily, and she flinched. Gods.
She couldn’t stay on the landing. She had to move. Back or forward.
She had to decide who she was. The kind of woman who waited in her room for salvation that would never come, or the kind of woman who took her own life into her hands. The kind of woman who walked down the stairs and out the door. Who moved. Right. Now.
Yes. She was that woman. She was already halfway down the stairs when her fear came back. The last time she had tried to escape, they beat the skin off her palms, then locked her in her room with her bleeding hands and no food, only water, for days. They hadn’t even changed the pot or given her candles. They’d barred the windows and left her in the dark. What would they do this time?
She wasn’t going to think like that. This time she was getting out.
Her hands were shaking by the time she reached the door, and it took her several tries to turn the key.
There was another clatter from the dining room, startling her just as she pulled open the door. She snuck a quick look behind her, letting out a shaky breath when she saw she was still alone, and then slipped through, still carrying the key, and shut the door behind her with a quiet click. The first thing she did was lock the door and push the key back through the gap under the wood. With luck, the guards would assume it had simply fallen out.
It was already dark, the air cold and damp as she sped away from the front of the house and darted onto the side path. Dead leaves, wet with autumn rain, littered the gravel, muffling her steps. Wispy clouds scudded across the crescent moon as she flitted into the darkest shadows; making her way into the small orchard that flanked the kitchen garden.
She paused for a moment, pressing herself against the hard trunk of a sprawling apple tree. Despite all the hours she’d spent imagining this moment, she still hadn’t decided whether to run alone or to take Penelope. She would be found out much sooner if they realized the mare was gone. But she could travel further and faster on horseback.
In the end, it was an easy decision; she couldn’t bear to leave her only friend behind.
When Penelope was born, the groom had taken one look at the foal’s rich red-copper coloring and told her that a bay mare would be difficult. Quick-tempered and hard to handle. Perhaps that was why Lucilla had fallen instantly in love with the gangly-legged filly—because everyone said the same things about her. But she had never had a problem with the mare; she gave Penelope all her love, and Penelope gave it back.
