Page 163 of Reign

“For now, you must prepare the witches for battle, and I must focus.” Turning back to his desk, he murmured, “You are all-consuming,” almost to himself, as I departed with a despondent Billy.

Outside, we crossed paths with Benedict and Bart.

“Your Highness.” Benedict greeted Fitzroy as I held the flap open for the old men, acting in the manner of a servant.

Bart hobbled behind him. “You asked to confer w-w-with us,” he stuttered.

As we walked away, I realized that Fitzroy was right—allegiances shifted frighteningly fast toward whoever appeared most powerful. It made me wonder if anyone could ever truly be trusted.

I rolled up the pieces of parchment and tucked them securely into the pocket of my breeches, determined not to lose them. Taking a brief detour to the smithy, I retrieved the blades I’d sharpened for the witches and arranged them neatly in a wicker basket. With that task done, Billy and I set off for the Anchor.

As we neared the forest’s edge, the sound of heavy footsteps caught my attention. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Bash and Fletcher approaching.

“Smith,” Bash called.

The sound of his voice stirred a flutter in my belly—I’d missed hearing him say my nickname. Fletcher tipped his cap in greeting, his eyes no longer burning with resentment.

“Where you headed?” Fletcher asked.

“Off to the Anchor,” I replied. “I’ve a few tasks to complete.”

“Would you like us to accompany you?” Bash offered, taking the heavy basket of blades from my hands.

I nodded, desiring nothing more than to spend time in his company.

The four of us set out toward the Anchor—a route so familiar I could have taken it blindfolded. Although night had fallen, the weather was dry and cool—a welcome change—which made the journey pleasant.

“Hurry up!” Fletcher called after a staggering Billy.

Casting a quick glance back, I realized we’d distanced ourselves from him. Billy clung to the trunk of a rowan tree, his labored breaths betraying his struggle. He then dragged himself forward, using the foliage as makeshift handrails.

Growing impatient with Billy’s sluggish pace, Fletcher hoisted the goblin onto his back. Billy tightened his grip, his short arms wrapped around Fletcher’s neck in a near-stranglehold.

“Thank you,” he panted, relief softening his pained expression as he rested his head against Fletcher’s shoulder.

Walking side by side with Bash, I longed to slip my arm through his or take his hand, yet nerves held me back. After our time apart—and despite our reconciliation—I wasn’t certain where I stood. Instead of holding him, I stayed close enough that our arms brushed occasionally as we curled up the cliff toward the Anchor.

As we approached the brothel, I noticed that the rushlights still flickered outside the doorway, and I wondered if any late-night patrons lingered within.

“Get inside my cloak,” I instructed Billy.

Fletcher set him back on solid ground before Billy obediently tucked himself inside its folds, clinging to my side as though he were my familiar.

Upon stepping over the threshold, it was clear the witches were closing up for the night.

Emma swept the straw-covered floor, Jane scrubbed dirty tankards, and Margaret meticulously counted coins scattered atop the bar.

As we entered, the three witches glanced our way.

“All right, loves? It’s been a while since you lot graced us with your company,” Margaret said with a smile that wrinkled the skin around her eyes.

She set down a handful of coins as Fletcher’s gaze caught on the pennies glinting in the firelight.

“Need any help counting?” he offered.

“Fletcher,” Bash muttered, placing the basket of blades onto the trestle table.

His disapproving gaze was enough to stop his cousin from stealing.