She set her shoulders and let her head rest back on the cushion. But she should remain more alert. And remember the knocks. Two knocks—down to the floor. Three—out the far door and follow Knight’s voice. Or was it Saint? If nothing...
Argh.
Something.
Well, it appeared everything might be going according to plan. No knocks were good knocks.
She lifted the hand that his had brushed earlier.
He wore his gloves again. He really never took them off. Well, not in public. Also not in front of his brothers. But that obstinate man hadn’t covered his hands when she’d unexpectedly caught him without a part of his armor, and that made her feel things she ought not feel.
Maxen Fury . . .
Somewhere above and ahead, he sat, reins in his hands, the world in his keeping. The thought that this was supposed to end things—this day, this plan—flared sharp in her chest. Would she stay in Brighton? Start over somewhere new? But even as the questions came, so came the unbidden image of her dark landlord.
Maxen, up there on the box, not looking back.
She burrowed deeper into the seat. Leaning into the plush cushion might bring his voice through the wood and leather between them. Nothing came, of course. Only the pulse of hooves, the clatter of wheels.
It was almost worse than danger—the waiting.
A crack split the air. Distant, muffled.
Calliope shot upright. What on earth was that?
Another. Louder. Close enough to feel it.
Her spine went rigid, ears straining. No knocks.
Her pulse hammered. Was that good? Bad? Wasnothingthe signal to stay put or to move? What were the rules again? The team surged and the carriage rocked. She grabbed for anything, swallowing the cry that leaped to her mouth before it escaped.
Still no knocks.
Argh! What did that mean again? His voice filled her head.
Stay where you are. Let me work.
The roof gave a brutal thud. A man dropping his weight where noman should be. A second blow followed. Deeper, duller. The carriage shuddered as if the sky itself had stumbled. Then another sickening thud as something heavy struck soil beside the road.
Her mouth went dry.
No knocks.
Do not think, Calliope. Remember. Two means down. Three means out. None means stay.
The carriage lurched again.
Oh, lord. Was it over?
A blur streaked past the window—black, swift, unmistakably a horse. She jerked to the other side. Another rider there. Masks. Dark coats. Their movements were too smooth, too precise. Men drilled to breathe as one.
No.
No. No. No.
Itwasn’tover.
“Maxen?” she called, small and fierce, to the roof. No answer.
