I just know it’s my new favorite thing.
* * *
Rhordyn’s coming to Bahari to retrieve his ships.
I reposition the pillow and toss sideways—a failed attempt to disband my rampant thoughts in hopes they find somewhere to settle. It’s like I’m pumped full of Exothryl, but this is a natural charge that’s not burning off.
I press the flat of my palm against my rioting chest and sigh, staring at the dying embers in the hearth, thinking back to that clutch of bluebells I spotted earlier today.
My throat tightens.
The thought of leaving them there, alone in the dark, fills me with heavy dread.
I sit up so fast all the blood drains from my head, kicking it into a spin. Once upon a time, those bluebells would’ve felt so far away.Untouchable.
But now ...
I can get themmyself.
I leap out of bed and clamber into fresh, comfortable, better-fitting clothes the barmaid brought in with a supper tray. Digging my knapsack from the bottom of my sack, I knot my hair into a high bun, then scour my room for something small, hollow, able to stand upright—
The clay mug on my tray catches my eye.
Perfect.
I stash it in my knapsack, along with one of the lanterns plucked off a wall hook, before looking at the door.
Can’t take the obvious way out—who knows who I might run into on my way down the hall. I doubt Cainon would be very pleased to catch me sneaking out of mymaidensuite in the middle of the night, especially given the conversation we just had.
Grabbing my wooden sword, I head for the washroom, step onto the latrine directly below the window, and unlock the latch. I swing the pane wide, set my sword and knapsack on the sill, then climb through—slow and tentative to avoid agitating my shoulder.
I maneuver onto the window trim until I’m chest first against the cool rock, and excitement crackles through my veins, igniting me from the inside.
This is risky. Dangerous.Wrong.
So wrong.
But it feels so fucking good.
I look down on the empty alleyway sandwiched between this building and the one beside it, then edge along the window trim—peeking out over the courtyard alive with a lazy, midnight beat. The crowd’s changed, thinned out to clusters of pipe smokers, ambling men who can’t seem to see straight, and scantily clad women who hang off them like lusty shadows.
A slow drizzle lit from above lifts sweet, botanical smells off the stone, and I draw deep before I turn the other way, spotting a trellis bolted to the side of the building that supports a trailing vine.
That’ll do.
I stuff my sword in my knapsack and ease it over my shoulder, then edge down the wooden grid.
The cobbles are smooth against the bare soles of my feet as I dart toward the courtyard, nudging into the shadow of a tall, potted shrub. I use my hands to delve a peephole through the branches, checking the Inn’s bench is no longer burdened by an eagle-eyed Captain before picking a quiet path around the courtyard’s perimeter.
I pass sleepy households, sweet shops shuttered up for the night, and a large building that boasts a Sugar Mill sign.
Here, everything smells sweeter—like the stone beneath my feet is cast from blocks of sugar and the sprinkle of rain is treacle tears. A few wooden carts laden with empty sap chutes are parked at the front, and I weave between them, passing two more shops before finding the tight alley we entered the village through earlier this evening.
Wedging between the tall buildings, I dig the lantern from my knapsack and turn the dial, hands shaking with a surge of excitement. I’m about to step out of the illuminated safety net when gooseflesh bursts across the back of my neck.
I spin, shuffle back a step, and slam against the wall.
From here, I have a clear view of the Blue Hollow Inn on the opposite side of the courtyard and the neck of the alleyway just below my room.
