I notice the garden box out the front of it, positivelyspillinga waxy-looking plant that bares thick, soft, pink leaves. “No way …”
Vasil Alione—I’ve only ever seen it in botany books. I can’t believe it’s just roosting out in the open!
Digging through my bag, I snatch the tiny pair of gold nail snips I found in my washroom earlier and inject myself into the crowd’s messy current. I zigzag around carts and sticky-faced children, stopping right before the planter box, eyeing up a healthy-looking tendril.
I quickly scan my surroundings, then snip at its thick, wood-like stem, fold the clipping in a handkerchief, and tuck it in my bag.
Victory tingles at the tips of my fingers.
I shuffle from the scene of the crime and closer to the window, a smile splitting my face as I place my hands against the glass and peer into the darkness. Squinting through the gloom, I can tell just from the shadowy shapes that the shop is packed full of plants in various forms and sizes. Erupting with elation, I spin, leaning back, caught in a world of wonder.
An entire shop dedicated to plants.
Wait …
Gun mentioned something about a plant shop he and his partner owned while we were talking at the Inn.
I look over my shoulder, through the window …
Maybethisis it?
Guilt plummets into my gut like a dropped stone.
And I just snipped their Vasil Alione.
Oops.
Something cold sweeps across my face—a slow, tender traverse that almost knocks my knees out from under me.
My heart riots. Breath hitches.
I scan the crowd, gaze landing in the pocket of black by the edge of the bridge. The same place I was standing only moments ago—now heavy with something other than shadow.
A man.
Big, broad, hooded—
Watching me.
That brush of chill is unrelenting,unearthingme, eating me up in a way that’s impossible to shake. In a way that makes me feel raw, vulnerable, and exposed.
Something wild shudders and swells inside my chest, wrapping around my ribs …
Run—it screams.
Run!
My back is glued to the glass—a butterfly mounted on a corkboard with a pin straight through her insides as I hold that shadowed stare—chest heaving. Mind spinning.
Run!
A horse and carriage trundle past, snipping the view and the gravity of his crushing perusal. I burst onto the esplanade—dodging people, carts, fish stalls. Darting down side alleys riddled with wooden crates and barrels and puddles of filthy water that slop up my legs.
A scuffing sound scrapes across the ground behind me—too close—and a shiver attacks my nape, like someone’s breathing down it. A chill nips at my skin, stealing bites of my warmth.
Devouring me one small mouthful at a time.
Heart pumping a violent, thrilling beat, some unhinged part of me flares to life knowing danger’s snapping at my heels. I change direction again and again until my lungs are burning just as much as this toxic fire in my lower belly. Until I’ve twisted my lines into so many knots, I’ll no doubt struggle to find the palace again before dawn.
