“I’m not angry,” Death says in the seat across from me, “just disappointed.”
I stare out the coach window at the passing trees, mouth pinched shut. The coach jolted back into motion once I’d settled inside, my escort carrying on as if we hadn’t taken a short break for me to be struck with a deadly curse.
Death waits a moment, then says exactly what I know she’ll say. “It doesn’t have to be like this. You know I can help.”
And that is when Fortune arrives in a jingle of coins and bones, manifesting into the seat beside Death with a flourish of dust and gold. To me, she looks a little like Joniza, the bard from Castle Falbirg, with skin of deep bronze and glossy, tight black curls.
“We agreed,” she says indignantly. “If we’re going to discuss her servitude, we do so together. It’s only fair.” Then she reaches over and pats my knee. “Hello, Vanja dear.”
“I didn’t come to speak to her of servitude,” Death protests, as annoyed as she ever gets. At least, she sounds like it. I get seasick if I look at her face too long. It’s already hard to see beneath her hood, and her features constantly shift, taking on the visage of people about to perish at that precise moment. “I came because she’s going to die.”
Fortune scowls. “Every human dies. That’s no excuse to break our agreement.”
“She’s going to die in two weeks,” Death clarifies. “On the full moon. It was a matter of business, not family.”
Fortune relaxes a bit more than I like, given that we’re discussing my imminent demise. “Oh, I see. Well then. How did it happen? Your luck’s shifted around quite a bit tonight, but I didn’t realize it wasthisdire.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I grumble into my fur wrap. “I have it under control.”
Considering I now have two weeks to amass a fortune, escape one of the most powerful men in the Blessed Empire of Almandy, and evade the highly trained criminal hunter headed my way,all the while slowly turning into precious stones, I absolutely do not have it under control. But I’m not going to tell my godmothers that.
Besides, I have a bad feeling about what breaking the curse might entail. And if I have to make up foreverythingI’ve taken . . . well, timing is going to be key.
“She stole a token of Eiswald’s protection from a countess,” Death says flatly.
“Vanja,” Fortune chides, shaking her head. Her wreath of coins lets out a shimmery ring. “You should know better. It’s much safer to steal from the helpless.”
(If you have been wondering why I am the way I am, perhaps you are learning now. But I will give Fortune and Death their due: They treat the poor and the powerful with equal disregard.)
Death continues. “Eiswald has cursed Vanja in retaliation. If she doesn’t lift it by the full moon, Vanja dies.”
“A killing curse over a little token? Isn’t that a bit extreme?” Fortune folds her arms. “Thenerveof some gods.”
There’s a muted croak from the empty corner of the coach, and then I remember it’s not empty after all. Ragne is huddled on the seat, feathers blending into the dark.
“Of course not, dear, I’m sure your mother has her reasons,” Fortune says quickly. Then she catches my bewildered look and adds, “I’m afraid Vanja can’t understand you like that.”
Ragne blinks a sleepy red eye at me and caws, then rolls over. Suddenly a black cat is hunching in the raven’s place. She shakes her head, then says in a strangled, guttural voice, “Better?”
“I hate it,” I say vehemently. “No. No talking animals.”
“The Vanja understands now. Better.” She curls up tight, tucking her nose into the end of her tail. “Good night.”
I bury my face in my hands. I amnotgoing to spend what may be my last two weeks alive monitored by a talking feral shape-shifter.
Fortune’s voice carries through my fingers. “Will you be able to break the curse?”
“IsaidI have it handled.”
There’s an awkward silence. Then Fortune ventures, “Well, since we’re both here . . . thereisa way to get out of it—”
“No.” I drop my hands to glare at her and Death. “I don’t need your help.”
“Eiswald would have no claim to you,” Fortune insists. “You’ll have to choose someday. It’s been what, two years? Seven?”
“Four,” says Death, for she always knows, “in two weeks.”
“I don’t need your help,” I practically spit, seething.
