Page 29 of The Princess Tied

The world swam. His hand fell from the locket, and a tear of remorse and perhaps ire dribbled down the side of his face.

“Tell me why you lie.” You asshole. Tell me why.

“I tell no lies, I tell stories. I spread great, infectious illusions.” His arms spread wide, raven-like, and shadows multiplied. “Your brother was given one. He believes he has been thrown into Hell.”

The smile lingered above. Teeth and red lips.

“No.” It was the most infinitesimal whisper. “No.”

The world blurred as the glass-and-timber coffin lid lowered.

At the boom of the lid shutting, his eyes also shut.

The lights went out.

CHAPTER SEVEN

white fur pricked up at the top, about where Po guessed he had ears. He stiffened in her hands and leaped from the mare, galloping off into the corrugated landscape of dirt, rocks, pieces of faded pink linen on poles, and scraggly trees. The kicked-up dust remained, a faint trail in the still air.

A day ago they’d left the shadow of the mountain, and John was no longer sure they were following the Storyteller’s route. If Ruff had been following him by scent, that scent had decayed. The critter had been looking unhappy and sniffing at the air in all directions.

At times, Po carried him before her, on Pearbottom’s saddle—for John had relented and was letting her ride by herself, though at first he’d retained a lead rein connecting the two horses. Pearbottom was the name she’d settled on for this placid horse with the large rump, and a day of negotiating terrible terrain had been exhausting.

It was why, she assumed, John had left her alone. She’d thought he would drag her into his sleeping roll, but he had not. To her chagrin, she’d almost wanted him to. Until her morals coughed and pointed out that was not princess-like.

She raised herself in the stirrups to peer after Ruff. He had vanished.

“I do hope he’s okay.”

“Oh, he will be.” Ruth paused beside the mare to also peer outward. “He’s a floof machine, and those are tough.”

“That is a breed?” she asked. “Of something?”

“Yes.” Ruth swung and bestowed a smile. “It’s a breed of rabbit. They are one-owner-only types. Fiercely loyal. I’d say he likes you, but something is pulling him onward.”

“He seeks this Storyteller, John thinks.”

“Hmmm. A kidnapper isn’t the sort a floof bonds with. Perhaps he killed Ruff’s owner?”

“Oh?” She followed the logic and ran into a wall. “Then why does he chase him?”

“To gnaw out his throat? Nibble on his heart? Use his entrails for a burrow? Never annoy a floof Machine. They are ornery. They are teeth, fur, and attitude.”

Po’s eyebrows were still up in an expression of extreme astonishment, when a cry of what sounded like joy climbed into the dry, blue sky.

“Yesss! Yes, yes, yes! I have it!”

Along with Ruth and then John, who pulled Rocky’s head around, she scanned the horizon.

Ahead the countryside was undulating, with added rocks and mounds. Some combination of dryness, temperature, and poorness of the soil had created a land where no one bothered to farm or to graze livestock.

Fifty yards away, a dirty, pink parasol popped up, like a flower blooming out of season, or a surreal eruption.

A startling development, Po decided.

What did yelling and Ruff running off have to do with a pink parasol?

The parasol began to journey toward them, bobbing and swaying, then a large, scarred man appeared beneath it. She lowered herself to the saddle again, gathering the reins. Was this something to worry about?