Nin mimicked them, keeping her hands deep in her pockets as she strode toward a cramped alleyway filled with discarded crates and garbage. A slanted sign hung by one hook at the door, its writing faded by time, and she pushed her way inside. The sounds of a baby wailing and a shouting couple greeted her as she entered the muggy hall. Instead of rosemary, the scent of boiling onions permeated the air.
Nin climbed the rickety stairs, counting each step as she went. At the end of the hall, on her right, wasthe place she had called home for nearly a decade. The door had become sticky to open after being jammed too many times. She unlocked it, rattled it twice, then pushed her shoulder into it as she twisted the handle. Cold, stale air filled the room hardly big enough for a single stove, a window, two cupboards, and a mattress. A faint yellow light flickered weakly in the corner. Wax dripped from the candle beside the bed, its flame trembling. Several wooden figurines lined the floating shelf against the wall, some depicting animals, while others portrayed soldiers with intricate swords at their belts.
A shock of messy, blond hair peeked from a bundle of moth-eaten blankets. Her brother, Alain, gasped, his breath shuddering with a rasping sound. Nin tiptoed across the wide, uneven floorboards in three steps and knelt beside the mattress, pressing the back of her hand against his forehead. Heat burned against her skin.
The fever had worsened while she was away. Four months in, and the flare-ups continued to come and go like an unpredictable tide. Nin reached for the tin of water she had boiled that morning and gently lifted his head to place a damp cloth on his forehead. His lashes fluttered as she coaxed a small sip of water past his chapped lips. After a moment, his eyes cracked open, and found hers.
“Nin,” Alain huffed with a faint smile. “You’re home.”
“Of course I am. I can’t leave you lonely for too long. Who knows the kind of trouble you’ll get into?” she said, teasing him. “Look what I got for you!”
Pulling the cracked macaron from her pocket, his breath shuddered as he looked between the treat and her face.
“You should have it,” he said.
“Don’t be silly. I saved this for you,” she explained, placing it in his hand. Something flashed in his expression—reluctance to take the offering, but she continued to gesture to the macaron. With a grateful smile, he brought it to his lips and closed his eyes to savor it.
“Thank you,” he murmured. “It’s delicious.”
“I figured it would be,” she said, poking his shoulder. “Did you make a new figurine today?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. He looked toward the lone drawer in the nightstand where his wood-carving tools were tucked away. “I think we both know I’m too weak for that today.”
“I’m not so sure,” she said, dabbing his forehead. “You’re still breathing, aren’t you?”
Alain laughed in a frail, thin sound before it dissolved into coughing. Nin propped him up, steadying him until the fit passed, her jaw clenched. As he settled back against the lumpy pillow, she brushed a damp strand of hair from his forehead.
For a seventeen-year-old boy, the Frostlung whittled the round contours of his face and hollowed his blue eyes. He’d once been a gangly but limber teen who towered over her, teasing her about their height differences. Now, the illness began to deteriorate the brother she once knew.
Nin reached for the medicine she bought at the apothecary that afternoon. Alain’s eyes narrowed on it as she uncorked the green glass bottle.
“Whatis that?” he asked.
“Medicine,” she said, raising it to his lips. “The doctor said to take it once every four hours until your symptoms improve.”
Alain complied, swallowing the thick, molasses-like liquid without complaint. “Where did you get this? It’s different from the others.”
Nin hesitated, and his brows furrowed in suspicion. She expelled a sigh. “From Sylvette…” she mumbled.
Alain’s mouth parted. “Like Sylvette Marcelline… from Maison Marcelline Apothecary? How did you afford to do that?”
Nin frowned. She could never hide anything from Alain, even when she tried. He was too observant for his own good. She set the medicine aside and replayed the events of her day, including the insane nobleman who let her keep the stolen francs if she listened to his mad plan. A chuckle escaped her lips at the absurdity of it.
“Look,” she said, digging through her pockets to retrieve the card. “He gave me this, too. It must be a hoax.”
Alain took it with shaky fingers and brought it closer to the candlelight. One of his eyes squinted as his mouth parted, seemingly inspecting the card’s fine print.
“This isn’t cheap paper,” he murmured. “This is made of finer linen. See the gold embellishment? It doesn’t flake off. It’s the real deal.” He brushed his thumb over the corner.
Her breath caught. “Are you sure?”
Before Alain fell ill, he had temporarily worked at a paper mill to help put food on the table. He studied the card again, flipping it around to assess it from every angle, before nodding.
“Yes. They supplied special pulp for the royals. They made sure I knew the orders by heart so I wouldn’t mix anything up. It’s made with linen rag, the good stuff. See how smooth it is?” He handed her the card. “It’s real. That nobleman… Captain Cedric Duval, it says right there, wasn’t lying.”
Nin swallowed thickly as uneasy flutters bounced in her stomach. The implications settled over her like an icy blanket. She had stolen from a royal captain? And he let her go?
“Even if he is who he says he is… this is a bad idea. I don’t even know half the things he’ll expect of me. And can you imagine?” she scoffed. “Me? A princess? Who does he think I am?”
