“Come,” she whispers. “Before anyone notices.”
The guard—Rowan, I recall now—falls into step ahead of us, moving with the casual confidence of someone who knows precisely where every pair of eyes is turned. He leads us toward the kitchen tents, then slows, glancing over his shoulder.
“I’ll keep them busy,” he murmurs. “You’ll have a minute. No more.”
He stops near the path and raises his voice, calling out to two passing guards with an easy grin. I catch only fragments, complaints about the cold, a jest about burned porridge, but it is enough. Their attention shifts fully to him.
Aileen squeezes my hand and pulls me forward.
We duck into the kitchen tent. From a shadowed corner, hidden behind a basket of onions, Aileen retrieves a small satchel and presses it into my hands.
“Close your eyes.”
I do as she says. There is a soft rustle, then a gentle weight settles into my palm.
“Open.”
Dried plums.
A laugh bubbles out of me, half-delighted, half-disbelieving.
“Aileen,” I whisper, “how—”
“Trade secret,” she says, already tugging me back toward theflap of the tent. “Now hurry.”
Rowan is still there when we emerge, posture relaxed, one boot propped against a crate as the other guards drift away, none the wiser. He straightens at once when he sees us, the corner of his mouth twitching as Aileen darts past him.
“My thanks,” I murmur as we pass.
He bows, but when he looks up, his eyes find Aileen again, warm and unmistakably fond.
We run, skirts clutched, and laughter muffled, until we are safely hidden away in Aileen’s tent. There, crouched together like girls again, we eat our stolen sweets in peace, a small rebellion against the cold, the crown, and everything waiting for us in Acheron.
Outside, a guard’s laughter rings out, Rowan’s, unmistakable even at a distance.
“Now, Aileen,” I murmur, leaning closer, “how exactly does one come to know a guard well enough to steal plums under his protection?”
* * *
The camp is restless as preparations are made for the final leg of the journey. Horses stamp and snort in the cold, leather creaks, servants hurry with clipped voices. I linger at the edge of the clearing, wrapped in my cloak, watching frost curl along the grass.
The camp is already stirring, though dawn is still a long way off. I step away from the tent, meaning only to clear my head, when I hear raised voices carried across the clearing.
“I warned you this would happen,” Aynhard says. His voice is sharp, stripped of courtesy. “You were meant tousethismarriage, not disappear into it.”
Charles answers more quietly, but there is iron beneath his calm. “Mind your words.”
“You spend every hour at her side,” Aynhard presses. “You keep her close, you indulge her, you let her distract you from matters that cannot wait. Hilde understood restraint. She knew when to step aside.”
The name hits me like a direct blow, even at a distance.
“This is not about Hilde,” Charles says.
“It is precisely about her,” Aynhard snaps. “And about what you forget when you surround yourself with softness. She is beautiful, willing, eager to please—you think I do not see what holds your attention?”
There is a pause, long enough that I hold my breath without realizing it.
“You mistake desire for weakness,” Charles says at last. “And happiness for negligence.”
