Page 8

I crack my eyes open.

“Aye?”

Hands on her hips and glaring down at me, for the first time today, I see the resemblance. Their hair may be different shades. Their faces, similar, though not the same—Lady Hilla more ample, and in some ways, more appealing. But now, standing above me, they are one and the same, she and the queen.

“You would simply close your eyes and sleep? Giving me no answers. No indication of where we are or where we are going. What you intend to do with me. Nothing more than, ‘Go

to sleep’? You are either daft or delusional to think I will simply lie on that bedroll and—”

I jump to my feet so quickly, Lady Hilla nearly falls backward in surprise.

Standing close enough to be indecent, though no less so than on our ride here, I say the words that will make quick work of her protest.

“You will go to sleep. Or find yourself brought back to Craighcebor to stand trial with the magistrate for conspiring to incite an attack on their village.”

“My sister,” she spits back, apparently less afraid of me than she was earlier, “would never allow it. And why are you holding me still if not so that justice, according to you, can be served?"

“Your sister,” I remind her, “is queen of Edingham. She has no authority in Meria, less so in the very place that saw innocents slaughtered by the people you think to call on for support.”

Her chest heaves with the weight of that truth.

“Go to sleep.”

When she raises a hand to strike me, I capture it, my fingers encircling her wrist easily.

“Remember who you deal with, Lady Hilla.”

Snapping out of her rage, the lady’s eyes widen. She has surprised herself with her actions, and the terror I see almost makes me regret what I am about to do next.

Almost.

5

Aiken

Firmus maneo.

Easier to repeat in my head than to practice in truth. As I wake, the words come to me, as they do most mornings. I’ve trained myself to think these words often, even in sleep.

But as I look down on Lady Hilla, the hands I’ve bound together pulled tightly to her chest, the thin blanket I placed on her after she slept does not alleviate my desire to tread more gently with the woman.

She is more likely in league with Whitley than she is telling the truth. Those ties kept her safe, I remind myself. The rage and despair I witnessed in her eyes last eve were likely a precursor to her attempt at fleeing. Normally I’d have trusted myself to wake the moment she moved. But these past few days have been trying. Sleep, elusive.

Lady Hilla getting herself killed would not do.

First I must discern the threat she poses, and then I will return the lady to her sister—preferably alive. While the journey to Queen Cettina will cause me some delay, it will afford plenty of time for interrogation.

By the time the sun is about to rise, only one thing remains to do before we leave.

“Lady Hilla.”

No response.

I squat down beside her, prepared to remove the ties, but instead I pause to watch the queen’s sister sleep. Her chest rises and falls as she breathes evenly. Her features, so much softer now. While awake, Lady Hilla’s brows are nearly always furrowed, her eyes narrowed.

With good reason, of course.

Once, just two months before joining the Prima’s men, I allowed myself to become injured in battle. Having been hired by a border lord to defend against an Eastman’s attack, one of many throughout the years as the two kingdoms fought for control of the only truly contested land at their border, separated in most places by the Terese River, I was struck in the calf from behind.