After spending all afternoon at The Bowl, then spewing my guts all over the floor there, I was really looking forward to a nice, hot meal. Now I’m committed to sifting througheverymeal, avoiding soups and teas, watching the people who handle my food like a hawk until I find the culprit and understand the motive.
As Izel leaves, I catch a glimpse of Kolden through the open doorway, still standing in the same spot.
As usual, no chance of getting past him.
I look back down at the sentries, watching them traipse back and forth, back and forth …
Castle Noir was my city. It held my sanity in its cold, black-stone fist.
That city over there—glittering against the bruised, evening sky—it’s a brand-new canvas with real shops. Real houses. Real streets to explore.
A new Tangle to lose myself in.
There are nosafety lines.
Movement drags my gaze down the line of the bridge to a horse and cart clopping forth at the far end, and my heart skips a beat. The evening produce delivery—the cart heaped with so much fruit and vegetables, it draws the attention ofeverysentry.
I’ve been timing the nightly ritual, breaking it down into segments and factoring each into my burgeoning plan.
It takes around thirteen minutes for that horse to clop across the bridge, giving me thirteen minutes to climb seven stories to the grounds below. I’ll then have thesixminutes it takes them to check through the cart’s produce to sprint past the sentries unseen and make it to the midway rise in the bridge.
My blood races.
I leap off the railing, dash inside, tuck the utensils beneath my pillow, then knot my hair and tug on the cap Gun stole for me at the Inn. Snatching my prepacked knapsack from where I’d stashed it in a dresser drawer, I slam to a stop inches from the balcony.
My gaze drops to my cupla …
If I get caught without it, I could get in a lot of trouble. But if anyone catches sight of it, my cover will be blown.
You can have whatever you please, whenever you please. My people respect that ...
I undo the latch, remove the cupla, and stuff it in the back of a drawer in my bedside table before heading to the far corner of the balcony outside. Stretching my shoulder, I do another quick scan, recounting the route I’ve been mapping out over the past five nights while practicing my scrapes.
To make it to the bottom, I’ll have to climb from balcony to balcony, across a thin window ledge. There’s a section where I’ll need to rely entirely on the little grooves between the buffered bricks before the final descent down a drainpipe.
I search my insides for a spike of fear, apprehension, anything ...
Nothing.
Just that noxious, exhilarating excitement.
I leap onto the rail and crouch, cold air brushing against the back of my neck as I spin and lower off the edge. A frosty trail drags down my spine, up again, then hovers upon my nape, turning my blood icy.
Heart in my throat, I pause, waiting for the feeling to pass, but it just sits there like a soft “Hello. Yes, you’re fucking crazy.”
I grit my teeth so hard they ache, glancing over my shoulder toward the illuminated city … down to the approaching cart …
I’m running out of time.
Doing my best to ignore the intrusion, I shift my grip to the bottom edge and let my weight hang, toes pointed toward the balustrade below.
The wind goes eerily still.
I wait until I stop swinging, then drop, landing in a crouch on the rail and wearing a smile that’s almost feline.
I repeat the motion until there are no more balconies—just a four-story climb to the ground below. My landing spot is only a few conveniently placed shrubs away from where two sentries are taking a smoking break while waiting for the cart to reach the gate.
Thankfully, they don’t usually look up.
