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“Why do you wear Ranorsh boots, then?”
“Because they're comfortable.” He opened the curtains. “Now, we have a problem to solve.”
Because Ranorsh officials would let him in, but she had no reason to enter their country. “Maybe when we get my passport—”
“This goes beyond a passport, Thea. I am not exaggerating when I say you cannot start there without documentation. I fully believe my contact has the authority needed to help a Kentorian woman settle in Ranor, but we need documentation to even reach him. If they'll turn us back, then what?” Gil shook his head and paced, the restless way he'd paced the tiny wood shed where she'd first agreed to accompany him.
She felt just as trapped now. Already, she saw the ways this could spiral out of control. To be deported from Ranor meant she'd be handed over to Kentorian officials. How hard would it be for them to discover her identity and connect her to the king's death? She'd had an appointment that day, at that exact time, and that she'd lost the letter with that information during the skirmish in the castle proved she'd been there. There was no way Samara's capital didn't know she was involved. Her throat tightened and she sank to sit on a bed. “Then what do we do?”
Gil raked his fingers through his hair. The illusion faltered around his hand, leaving an odd shimmer behind. “I don't know. We could—” He stopped short and turned to look at her.
The intensity in his eyes made her cold.
“What?” She fought an unexpected surge of panic. “We could what?”
He raised a finger. “Wait here.”
Before she had a chance to protest, he slid from the room and left her alone.
This time, the lock snapped shut.
CHAPTERNINE
It was latewhen Gil returned.
“I hope you've brought something to eat with you,” Thea grumbled, though she'd already satisfied her stomach with provisions pulled from her bags. Being trapped inside was far from a welcome reprieve, but she'd taken advantage of the quiet anyway, drawing patterns and plans for embroidery and dozing in between ideas. The beds here were not as comfortable as the one in the room Jaret had given them. She doubted Gil would mind.
“What I've brought is far better, I assure you.” He locked the door after him and drew something out from underneath his cloak. A small box and a stack of papers.
She was less than impressed. “How is that better?”
“Because of what they can achieve.” There was no table here, so Gil sat on the floor and brushed a hand over the wood to ensure it was clean. Then he spread out the papers and opened the box. Inside, a wooden pen with a shiny steel nib lay on a bed of wool. Small bottles of ink rested at one end.
Thea's brow furrowed, but she kept her skepticism to herself as she leaned forward to inspect the papers. Half were blank. Half bore writing, some of it embellished with decorative swirls and frames. “What are those?”
“Examples. My memory is accurate enough for some things, but not accurate enough to fool officials who make comfortable livings from finding mistakes.” He chose a bottle of ink and scanned the room as he shook it. “That lantern in the corner. Bring it. It's growing dim outside and I'll need the light.”
She slid from the bed and retrieved it for him, along with the little chest of matches left beside it. Those were a commodity; even in Samara, the artisan mages who made them charged a fortune. To find them in a place as common as an inn struck her as curious. Perhaps the extent of trade in Heartroot made some things easier to get.
Gil lit the lantern and closed its glass door, then set to work. “First, your passport.”
“Are we not going to the passport office?”
“No. I've been in the streets and heard whispers of what happened in Samara. We have no way of knowing what the people here know. If the royal guard has already ordered your capture, then making an appearance in such an office would be no better than handing you to the...” He trailed off strangely, interrupted by some thought that made his face fall. He caught himself and gave his head a shake. “To the headsman.”
Thea tilted her head to one side. “What's wrong?”
He held the pen above a blank paper and frowned. “For a moment, I found myself thinking that I don't know what to put on your passport, because I don't know your full name.”
“But we can't use my name,” she concluded.
“No,” Gil said. “We can't.”
She quirked a brow. “I suppose we'd best make something up, then.”
“That's a task for you. This is who you're to be for the rest of your life, after all.”
“What does yours say?”
