Page 53 of The Stolen Crown

Flighty? That was all he saw when he looked at me, some brainless woman whose most difficult decision to make was what shade of ribbon would don her gowns?

My fingers curled around a strand of moss. Without a glance back, I tossed it over my shoulder, snickering softly when Tait spluttered as the wiry moss stuck to his lips. More moss went flying. I drifted to the next branch. Tait tried once more to call me back. I went on ignoring him.

Until I reached for the next branch.

There was something terrifying when time slowed, when a voice somewhere in my mind screamed warnings of grave danger. As though I were no longer part of myself, I recalled how the branch split, recalled the force of the slip pulling me backward. My hands flailed, seeking purchase on anything sturdier than air.

I fell.

Another limb struck my ribs. My wrist twisted when I made a sloppy reach for a knot on the tree. I screamed, but the thickness of the morning heat blotted it out. That or the rush of panic.

Tait’s strong arm caught me around the waist. No. It gave too much and I slipped, only to have his iron grip circle around my sore wrist.

His thick belt was secured around his body, a sort of makeshift harness. Hooked over one shoulder was a second belt he used to hold knives across his chest and back. Doubtless, he’d given up his argument and climbed up to insist I secure myself with the second strap.

Rather sweet of him.

Agony ripped through the small bones and muscles of my wrist, drawing my focus back to the predicament. My legs dangled high over the ground.

Tait’s face was red as he attempted to heave me upward. Panic lanced through my chest, and tears dripped from the corners of my eyes. All at once, I was not the confident woman I always tried to be.

What a fraud I truly was—always terrified, always desperate to prove otherwise. It led to this sort of bullheaded, feckless folly. Now, if Tait lost his grip on me, as he said, I would break my royal neck.

“Mira, look at me. Look up.”

Somehow, through the fear, I blinked up at him. Stern as always, but now his stoicism served as a ballast I could cling to.

“I’m going to swing you slightly.” Tait’s voice was firm and low. It was steady. “There’s a lower branch where you can put your feet. Then we’ll climb down. Together.”

I did not know if I nodded or gave any indication toward agreement, but Tait gently swayed my body beneath him. Toes outstretched, I aimed to cling to the branch that was there. My shoes slipped over the slick bark.

Another cry, another wrench to my wrist.

My body slipped. “Tait!”

“I’ve got you.” His tone was determined, steady. “I’m not letting go. Try again.”

On the second attempt, I managed to hook my heel across the branch. Tait never faltered in his hold on me and waited for my free hand to grab the branch overhead before he released my wrist. I stood still, trembling, my feet on the branch, one arm hooked on the upper branch. I dared not move, lest I topple over again.

Tait made quick work of unfastening his simple harness and carefully scaled past my branch, standing on the one beneath me.

He held up a hand. “Come on. We’ll go down together.”

I shook my head. “We’re too much weight as one.”

“I’ll stay one branch ahead.”

Again, I shook my head, fingers digging into the branch over me. My other arm was tucked against my chest. An agonizing throb took hold in my wrist, and the sharp jolts of pain turned my insides. “I—I—I only have one arm.”

Tait blew out a long breath. He glanced below, then, without a word, he wrapped the belt around the trunk again, each hand gripping one end of the leather. “On my back.”

“What?”

“Get on my back. I’ll carry us down. All you must do is hang on with your one arm.”

“Tait—”

“On my back, over my shoulder, or we die here. Your choice, Vicious.” Tait shrugged. “If you’re too afraid, well, it’s been a near decent life these last few months. Likely to be a slow death, for certain. I hear starvation is not nearly as horrid as dying of thirst.”