I spin my chair, stare raking across the top of Graves’s wooden desk. He let us use his office, which was kind—and only cost me three topaz beads. Gotta respect a man who’s willing to look a High Mistress in the eye and barter.
“I like Rowell,” Cindra says. “I think he’ll come through.”
“Can’t imagine why he wouldn’t.” I smile wryly. “Think he got the message loud and clear.”
She flashes me a grin. “Aim for the soft spot. Never fails.” Her smile fades, and she moves around the desk, settling in Rowell’s seat. She leans forward, hands clasped before her. “What are we doing about Orlaith?”
I think of the sprite that came zipping up to Cindra right before our meeting, chittering a rambled message that could have only come from one person’s mouth. I didn’t even bother to check her room to confirm.
I suck a breath, lips pursed. Blow it out slow.
“She wants the ships as much as I do, and there’s nothing we can do until we locate them. Once we have some coordinates we can devise a plan.” I shrug. “So long as she keeps in contact—and keeps her lips shut about Rhordyn—everything should be okay. We pour our focus into getting what we came for, then snag her on the way out. The rest we can figure out later.”
“So we’re just … leaving her to it?”
I raise a brow, looking at Cindra. “You’re thinking of her as the kid you’ve seen scuttling around the castle. A liability.”
“Hard not to after what she’s done.”
“There’s a strength in her that needs time to hatch, and she’s not going to do that with me breathing down her neck,” I say, toying with my braid.
Now that I really think about it, she was more of a danger to herself sitting in that room upstairs with nothing to do but think. Surrounded by Rhordyn’s things and clothes and smell.
No wonder she climbed out the window. I would have done the same.
“Then how are we going to find these ships?” Cindra asks, frowning. “Stow on a barge?”
I shake my head. “Too risky. I’ve planted a sprite on Cainon’s ship. With the escort of a sail, I figure the little thing should be able to track a path and make it back to relay it safely.”
“That’s—”
“Useless if he doesn’t set sail before the coupling ceremony,” I mutter, “I know.”
There’s no plan without a backup plan. You’re dune cat chow if you put all your boa eggs in one basket.
Cindra’s eyes harden as she nods. “Then we better devise a plan B.”
I flick a lopsided smile at her.
I like this woman.
Try.
Try.
Try.
I internally chant the word every time my chisel cleaves into the stone with the force of my savage determination, chipping off chunks that collect in the small hole I’ve dug into the wall.
My hair is still wet from spending most of the day trying to scramble out of The Bowl—getting fleeting sips of sunlight every time the clouds broke—my guts sore from violent bursts of vomiting between my failed attempts.
The tapestry is a heavy weight upon my back, the air thick and musty and drawn through my gritted teeth, residue of my exertion dripping down my temples.
The blisters on my palms have long since popped, sweat and dust and bits of stone aggravating the tender, weepy flesh of the deep cut in my palm as Istab.
Try.
Try.
