Page 152 of The Thief and the Traitor Bride

“Are you ready?” Nore asked.

“As I’ll ever be,” he said. He picked the cat up again, making soothing noises as he put him in the box appointed for his transport. “You’ve got a plan, Finch?”

“Yes,” she said.

“At least one of us does,” he said, leaning close to kiss her temple.

By the time the alarms were raised in Nettlepool, Nore and Caspian were already on board a ship bound for the northern territories and well out of the harbor. They lay on the cramped bed in the tiny passenger compartment, Caspian’s head in Nore’s lap as his hand drowsily stroked the cat purring on his chest, as Nore’s fingers carded through his hair. She’d already dosed him with as much medicine as she could before they left, and he’d taught her a formulaic spell to work on bringing his fever down while they were still in range of Lindle magic. He needed to sleep off his sickness, which Nore figured would take at least half of the voyage.

“What will we do in the territories, then?” Caspian asked. Neither of them had spoken much since they’d left Nore’s office; there was so much between them that needed discussed, dissected, that neither of them could quite bear to raise it. There would be time, Nore thought. Time when she wasn’t still boiling with fury for Celestine, time after she read his letters, time when he wasn’t hot with fever, time when she’d slept and would possibly think twice before she said something too hotheaded.

He sighed, turning on his side to nestle in farther. The cat made a grumpy noise but only readjusted to better accommodate Caspian’s comfort.

“Finch.”

“Yes?”

A hesitation. A pause. “I love you,” Cas said. “I’m sorry I waited so long to say it again. I think I was trying to wait you out. But I should’ve told you in the prison, when I woke to your face over me and your knife at my throat.”

Nore snorted. “I probably would’ve killed you if you had, Cas.”

“Probably,” he agreed. His hand went to her knee, fingers tightening. “I probably would’ve deserved it.”

“Probably,” she agreed.

Do you think me pathetic? Do you read these out loud to your new lovers?

I need to stop. I need to quit writing to you, or forget about you, or move on—and in some ways, I am. I’m thinking about you less. I don’t think I remember your voice, or your hands, or the dimples on your knees (too often, I think of the scar on your left knee from the glass on the night we agreed to marry).

But if I stop writing to you, then who is there to talk to who knows all of me?

Letter from Caspian Khari to Nore Gordon, dated 1634 UCE

thirty-two

IT WAS THE MIDDLE of the night when Nore woke; she had managed to sleep through the full day and half of the night after their departure from Lindan. She’d needed it—Nore had barely slept since they’d left Idistra last.

Next to her, Caspian was too hot under the sheets, sweating out his fever. He’d assured her that, with his combination of spells and medicines, he would be perfectly fine the following morning. She was choosing to believe that he knew his body and his magic better than she did.

And Nore needed the space. She was now a traitor to the crown. Perhaps Celestine wouldn’t publicize her crimes in order to protect the identity of the rest of her spies, but she’d use her own channels. Nore would never again be able to return to Nettlepool, or perhaps even Lindan. The weight of it sat heavy in her stomach, unavoidable, unless she found a way to gain the upper hand.

And she’d made Cas a true traitor now, twice over. Nore felt the press of it on her chest.

She got up and dressed, then found the sheaf of letters in her case. Nore left the room, shutting the door quietly behind her, and went off into the ship.

There was a space on the lower stern deck, tucked away, where the wind would not find her and neither would any other passengers.

Nore nestled deeper into her coat as she settled into her hidey-hole. From here, she could see the sea, and the churned-up wake trailing behind as their ship moved swiftly forward, and the chilly stars above. She watched it for a moment, wondering if she would ever be in these waters again, before she decided it was not worth thinking about.

Nore opened the sheaf and took stock. Caspian had carefully dated his letters, so the first thing she did was put them in order. Some were three or four pages, front and back; some were only scraps, marked with red dirt or ashy gray grime. Some were multiple weeks of entries, crammed onto one or two sheets of paper, the writing going sideways and across to fill as much space as he could. There were dozens of letters, and it took her half an hour just to get them into some semblance of chronology before she allowed herself to read.

Nore took in the stack of them, the weight in her hands, the truth of years of Cas’s thoughts for her and her only. She felt the lump in her throat rising, knowing where she was starting—and she read.

When Dove arrived, I was no more than a boy. I think I was thirteen when I started running her letters. Maybe fourteen? But only just.

The first thing she asked me to steal was a pocket watch from one of the lords on her own lands in Arlowe. He was coming to Nettlepool for a show at the theater. All I had to do was push past him after, my hand brushing against his coat pocket. By the time he realized it was gone, I’d already handed the watch off to her. I never knew why she wanted it. I didn’t know why she wanted half of the things she asked me for.

How many times did I ask you to leave Nettlepool? I lost count, in the end.