Page 37 of Crown of the Courtesan

Down the length of the ledge, a large oak branch overhangs, its limbs mingling with the canopy of another tree on the opposite bank of the moat.

Klara is right; this is stupid, but there’s no turning back.

I carefully step toward the broad limb and test its strength by giving it a few good shakes.

It’ll have to do.

Thankful that I’m wearing plain workmen’s trousers instead of a gown, I crawl on all fours onto it. The pressure of my weight dips the branch low, but I manage to hold on. A powerful gust hits my face, and I gulp. I failed to plan for how strong the wind would be up here. I glance at the long distance down to the moat—another mistake.

Splinters scrape into my palms and under my fingernails as I inch along, ruining my manicure with each shimmy. The closer I get to the end, the more the tree branch wobbles.

I crawl faster.

A loud crack splits the air like a whip.

I leap forward, grabbing onto the other tree limb. It buckles, and I swing low until my knees meet the moist bank with a hard thud. My boots barely miss the rippling water. I curse in relief, brushing the wet soil from my legs.

Maybe it’s the trousers, the late hour, or the rum everywhere, but not a single person notices me as I walk the familiar city streets to the Pickled Pixie, a place famous for its excellent brew.

Once I arrive, I stare at the entry. The open door lets out a wave of noise: shouts, laughter, and jests rumbling together. The smells that escape are savory and delicious, beckoning those from the street to the warmth of the tavern’s interior.

Next to the swinging tavern sign, Rett’s oversized form leans on the wall, waiting outside. “Almost didn’t think you’d come,” he remarks casually. He’s dressed as a commoner in leather trousers and a matching vest over a loose cotton shirt, his sleeves rolled to his elbows.

I smile—a knot of worry tying in my stomach. “It seemed important.”

“Come then. I have somewhere private where we can talk. I don’t want anyone to overhear us.” He gestures toward the alley, where an outer staircase leads to the second floor above the tavern.

I hesitate. This isn’t as public as I expected.

Rett appears as though he might become impatient, but thinks better of it. “Look, I can’t prove I mean no harm. In fact, I respect you for not trusting me. That’s smart, but loitering in the street will attract attention.”

As I watch the patrons enter and leave the tavern, I falter again.

“Take this.” Rett unsheathes the dagger at his waist and holds it out, its emerald and silver reflecting the moonlight.

I eye it warily without moving. “And what exactly am I to do with that?”

He steps closer, his voice low. “It’s purely for your peace of mind. Do you see that green line going down the center of the blade? It marks it as an Achlys Dagger. When this blade punctures flesh, a person dies within two seconds from poison. Put it to my back, put it to my neck—I don’t care. I’ll prove to you I’m no threat.”

He presses the handle into my palm so that the blade points at him. Suddenly remembering, I whisper, “I read about these in an adventure novel years ago. I thought they were only a myth.”

“Not a myth. So you’ll believe me when I say I don’t want to be on the pointy end.” I grip the hilt tightly, the metal cold under my fingers. “Satisfied?” Rett’s eyes glow so orange in the darkness that I can see flecks of crimson. “Now, please—follow.”

Rett leads me into the narrow alley. I pause, peering at the dark staircase ahead and then back at the boisterous street.

“After you,” he says with an exaggerated bow. The smell of stale ale and pipe smoke wafts through the air from nearby. Sensing my continued fear, Rett gently adds, “I promise no harm will come to you while you are with me.”

I give him a slight nod before we climb. When we reach the top, he pushes open the heavy door to reveal a cramped room. It’s drafty and cold, but a meager fire casts short shadows over the stained walls, while a narrow, straw-filled mattress lies on the wooden bedstead, covered with a few patchy wool blankets.

It looks—itchy.

The tavern’s muffled but clamorous noise drifts through the floorboards’ cracks.

My breath catches. “You… stay here?”

“For the time being.” Rett busies himself, adding another log to the struggling embers. “My status draws attention, and stopping for your coronation wasn’t exactly part of my itinerary, contrary to what the papers said.” He sees me observing the space. “It’s not much, but I can avoid the nobles here. And that peace is worth more than any comfort.”

I want to say I understand his sentiment, but luxury has always been my escape—and still is.