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I’m broken out of my reverie by that very man now.

“Tis all just so . . .” I have no words to explain. “I do not know whose life I live now.”

As I talk, Aiken makes his way back to the fire, and I join him. This time, on a separate log. Though I can still feel his lips on mine. His fingers intertwined with my own.

“You could have been killed. I could have been killed,” I say.

He does not seem bothered.

“When you laid your sword on the ground . . .”

Aiken picks up the long stick in front of him that he’d been using to stoke the fire. “’Twas a risk, aye. But the bigger risk would have been allowing those men, and the others in the party ahead of us, to see me as their enemy.”

I open my mouth to ask why he had not simply greeted the newcomers rather than attack them, but the words do not come out. Instead, I find myself staring at his lips. Remembering.

“I apologize for kissing you,” he says, somehow guessing my thoughts. “I should have realized their suspicions earlier.”

“’Twas necessary. No need to apologize.”

“And I am sorry for taking you, Hilla. And for the treatment you will endure these weeks on the road. Sleeping on the ground, fearing for your safety. I am sorry for it.”

Though I’m unsure what brought this turnabout in Aiken, tis a welcome apology.

“You protected my sister, so I thank you for that. Though still, I do not know why.”

He says nothing. And I know by now whatever secrets Aiken keeps, they are not ones he will share with me.

“May I propose,” he says, sitting back down as the fire rages, “a truce? I will not inquire as to the true story of how you lost your crown. And you will do the same as to my motivation for protecting your sister.”

I like this Aiken, the one who talks.

“Or with regard to your apparent distaste for the man you serve?” I add. “Or the network of men you seem to have?” I ask, thinking of his scouts and the innkeeper of Crow’s End. “Or why,” I venture, as boldly as my sister might, “you look at me in such a way even though you have taken a vow of celibacy?”

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them. Truly, why did I ask such a question? The events of the past few days have caused me to take leave of my senses.

Aiken leans forward, resting his elbows on both knees.

We are further apart than before, but not so far apart that, with the firelight so close by, I cannot see his eyes. His lips may not be upturned, but a faint smile is there nonetheless, making me glad, and not ashamed, I’d asked the question.

“Answering the first question could put me in danger. The second, even more so. As to the third . . .” He pauses. As always, Aiken is measuring his answer. Will it be that of a stranger, polite and meaningless? Or will he answer in truth?

“Tis the most dangerous question of all.”

17

Aiken

Jolted awake by a hawk’s cry, Hilla sits up in the saddle. She’s slumbered against my chest often these past fifteen days. Our pace has been punishing, so I’m glad for it. If there were other ways I could atone for the fact that she’s been put in danger, I would do it.

Knowing her as I do now after more than a sennight, the thought of her plotting with Whitley against her sister is beyond absurd. The opposite, in fact, is true.

Hilla lives to serve her sister.

At first I believed it was guilt for having inadvertently thrust Cettina into her role as queen of Edingham. But each night as we sit beside the fire, or twice since Crow’s End at a table inside an inn, I learn a bit more.

In part because of her nature, and in part as the older sister, Hilla has clearly been attending to Cettina for many years. I suspect the death of their mother plays a part as well.

“How long did I sleep?” she asks, turning in the saddle.