He’d fallen asleep slumped against the wall and for a moment he didn’t move, listening. Somewhere outside, a shutter creaked open. Footsteps echoed on stone. A distant voice called out the hour, thin and sharp in the dark. Edinburgh never truly slept but there was a particular sound to it at this hour, a restless shifting as the city drew breath.
On the other side of the room, Ruby still slept. She lay on her side, hair tumbled loose across the pillow, one hand curled near her face. Her breathing was slow and even, the faintest crease between her brows. She looked softer. More vulnerable than she ever allowed herself to appear when she was awake.
With a soft groan for his aching muscles, Evan climbed slowly to his feet and pulled on his boots, his cloak, his weapons, careful not to make a sound. He glanced at Ruby as he fastened his belt.
He should wake her. Tell her where he was going. But she would only insist on accompanying him and the streets were dangerous. No. She was safer here.
He found a stub of charcoal in the fire and scrawled a short note on the wall beneath the window.
Back soon. Stay inside. Bolt the door.
He hesitated, then added:
—E.
It wasn’t much. But it would have to do.
Evan crossed the room and eased the door open. He paused, listening for movement beyond, then stepped out and pulledit shut behind him, stealing through the quiet inn, through kitchens where the cooks were baking the morning’s bread, and out the back door.
The wynd outside was still dark and silent. The air smelled of damp stone and the smoke from cooking fires. Edinburgh scents. Old ones. Familiar ones.
He pulled his hood low and set off. As he moved through the city, he saw vendors hauling carts into position near the market square, calling greetings to one another in low voices. Women with baskets hurried past, shawls drawn tight against the chill. Somewhere nearby, a blacksmith’s hammer rang out, the sound sharp and bright in the gloom.
And soldiers. Too many soldiers.
They stood at the corners of wynds and at the mouths of closes, muskets slung over shoulders, swords at their hips. Some looked barely more than boys whilst others had the hard eyes of men who’d seen too much action. They watched the passersby with open suspicion, hands never far from their weapons.
Evan could feel it in the air—the tension, the unease, the way conversations died when they passed too close to the soldiers. Scotland stood on a knife’s edge, and Edinburgh was the point of it.
He moved through the streets like a shadow, keeping to the edges, avoiding the wider thoroughfares. He didn’t want to be seen lingering anywhere too long. Didn’t want to be noticed.
Still, the pull of familiarity tugged at him whether he liked it or not. He passed the corner where a baker used to slip him warm rolls when he was a boy, all elbows and scraped knees and too much curiosity for his own good. The shop was gone now, its windows boarded over, but the memory rose unbidden: the smell of fresh bread, the gruff old baker slipping him treats when no one was looking.
Evan clenched his jaw and kept walking.
He reached the market just as it was fully coming alive. Stalls were being set up in earnest now, canvas awnings stretched and tied, crates of produce unloaded. The noise level rose—shouts, laughter, the low murmur of haggling already underway. This was where news flowed fastest. If anyone knew what was happening in the city, it would be the traders.
He drifted closer, pretending to examine a basket of apples while he listened.
“...telling ye, it’s true. French ships, right off the coast—”
“Bollocks. That’s just scare talk.”
“Say that to the Earl of Newborough. He’s the one who rooted the whole thing out.”
Another voice chimed in, eager. “I heard it was his brother, Niall Campbell, who actually exposed it all. Who would have thought? Two pampered nobles actually doing some work for a change!”
Evan’s hand gripped the edge of the stall. So. The rumors were true.
He moved on, keeping his face carefully blank, letting the fragments of conversation wash over him as he passed from stall to stall. It seemed there was one topic of conversation on everyone’s minds.
“...the Articles will ruin us, mark my words.”
“...King’s men everywhere now.”
“...French gold, they say. Whole conspiracy.”
“...foiled just in time, thank God.”
