“If we get asked about tonight, we should have our story straight,” I say.
“Right.” Emeric thinks a moment. “How’s this? I spent most of the day in pursuit of thePfennigeist, but you and I met up after dinner.” He pauses as we pass the guardhouse, then continues once we’re out of their earshot. “We went to the Küpperplat to seeMäestrinJoniza perform,youhad a little too muchglohwein—”
“Why me?” I demand indignantly.
“—and we walked it off around the Göttermarkt, listening to the carol-bands.” His voice shifts in the slightest way, like this is more than just an alibi. “I asked you to dance, and you said yes. When we were ready to go, we left, and now here we are. How does that sound?”
“It sounds like a nice night,” I admit. I leave out the rest: It sounds too nice for a girl like me to hope for.
We’re almost to the grand front doors. The castle guard won’t drag them open for us, but there’s a smaller door nearby for commoners and servants. I untangle my arm from Emeric’s and pull the bell, shivering a little.
“How does it end?” Emeric asks suddenly.
I turn to blink up at him. “What?”
“It’s your story too.” That shift in his voice has lingered, honed itself; a soft, hungry sort of curiosity crackles like lightning in the falling snow, sweeping prickles down my arms. His eyes are locked on me, as if we are the only people in Minkja tonight. “How do you want it to end?”
I don’t know if he’s asking what I think he’s asking. I know what Iwanthim to be asking. The story. The night. The game between us. I tell myself I don’t know how I want them to end, but I do, I do.
It might be the same for all three: with him.
The oak door gives a surly rattle, creaking open with absolutely no regard for the heart attack I’m having.
“You’re coming in,ja?” croaks the withered turnip of a doorman before muttering something about frisky teenagers.
We scuttle into a torchlit hall, stamping snow off our boots. I can’t think of anything to say to Emeric that isn’t a variation on the theme ofkiss me like the world is ending.
“Marthe!” Barthl’s voice sails down the hall. He’s striding toward us, looking harried as a mother hen. “I’ve been looking for you. I have fabric samples your lady mistressmustreview as soon as possible.”
Ugh.I drop a quick curtsy to Emeric. “Good night to you,MeisterConrad.”
He flicks his gaze at Barthl in a silent question, and I give a tiny nod. Barthl may have had me deliver a letter to the Wolfhünden, but he’s also supposed to be on duty as the understeward in the entrance hall, with guests constantly passing through. Whether or not he has
motive to do me harm, he doesn’t havetime.
Emeric bows. “Good night to you,FrohleinMarthe.”
Barthl clears his throat. I barely resist rolling my eyes and trot over. “Yes, sir?”
“Follow me,” he snaps, and turns on a heel. We march down the corridor.
After the third turn, I realize we’re headed the way of the wine cellar, nowhere near where any fabric samples could be scrounged up. Something’s wrong.
Barthl may not have time for murder, but maybe he’s making time.
“My mistress will be expecting me, sir,” I say, warning in my tone.
Barthl stops in the empty hall. He looks around, holds his breath a moment as he strains to catch any noise, then whips around to face me again. This time I mark deep shadows under his sunken eyes, darker than I’ve ever seen on him.
“I think you’ll be the judge of that,” he hisses. “Won’t you,Princess Gisele?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
TheCopperKnife
This is where I must make a confession. I have dedicated a lot of time in the last year to thinking up excuses for if I got caught. If someone spotted me in one of Gisele’s fine gowns before I could don the pearls, I would tearfully claim to have just wanted to try it on once like areallady and that I did no harm. If someone witnessed the transformation as I put the pearls on, I would tearfully claim to be cursed with red hair as a child becausePrinzvon Falbirg was rude to the Low God of Rust or the like. (You may notice a pattern here: a lot of tearful claims.)
I have not, however, spent a single moment preparing for someone thinkingGiseleis real and her maid is the disguise.
