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It was hard to tell if anyone actuallywasout here enjoying the night. Brandon stood there for five minutes, then ten, trying to probe the shadows, but he saw no one moving, heard no one breathing, could not locate any shape that he could definitely identify as a woman.
It would be funny—and horrible and disastrous—if, on Brandon’s very first night on this assignment, Nadder had arranged for the prisoner’s escape, and Brandon spent his entire watch guarding over empty air.
Then there was a sound from under the canopy, the slightest scrape of metal against stone, and Brandon peered more intently through the darkness. Yes—that looked to be a seated figure, barely distinguishable from the feathery mass of the potted plant behind her. The sound came again as the woman rearranged her chair. Those sinuous shapes must be her arms, uncrossing and recrossing as she rested her wrists on the table before her. That slight bobbing motion was her head as she glanced around.
Brandon waited, wondering if she would speak to him, but she was silent. So he was silent as well. It was not up to him to introduce himself as her latest jailor. She might not even notice, or care, that someone new had joined her household.
He was obscurely disappointed. He realized he had been bracing himself to resist her advances, to remain impenetrable to her guile. But she was not bent on winning him over. She didn’t even realize he was there.
Brandon’s next two shifts at his new job were equally uneventful. Both nights, when he stepped out into the garden, Villette Rowan was so still that he had to strain his senses to make sure she was actually present. She never bothered to speak to him, not even when, after an hour or two of silent contemplation, she came to her feet and swept into the house. He bowed as she passed, but he got very little more than an impression of her size and a glimpse of her features.
He could tell she was delicate and slim, with light bones and small hands. Her hair was dark and her skin was a deep brown. When she passed him, the floral scent of summer intensified, sweeter than honeysuckle, and faded once she entered the house. He always waited a moment or two, then followed her inside to watch as she made a slow, graceful climb to her room.
He spent the remainder of those nights patrolling the interior of the house, making at least one pass around the exterior grounds, and trying not to yawn. It was always a relief when the servants began stirring shortly after first light. Even though he was still on duty until nine o’clock, at least he was no longer the only one awake. And breakfast helped him keep his eyes open until his shift ended and he could seek his bed.
“How do you like the job so far?” Finley asked at the end of the third day. She was on duty, though she was pretty relaxed about it, lounging on one of the wrought-iron chairs set before a matching table in a corner of the atrium. He had dropped into the chair across from her, making sure not to obstruct her view of the garden. He was backup for these twelve hours until his own shift began.
“So far there’s not much to it,” he said.
“Has she talked to you yet?”
“Not a word.”
“Maybe she’s given up. Nadder says she ignores him like he’s not even there, and she’s always treated me like I’m invisible. Maybe she’s decided it doesn’t do any good to try to seduce the guards.”
“Just as well.”
Finley yawned. “I agree.”
At nine, Finley headed down the hall to her room and Brandon walked the short route out to the garden. As always, he stood still a moment just to get his bearings, to make sure nothing and no one had breached the small space, to locate the shadowy figure sitting under the linen canopy. Then he took his customary stance—legs spread wide to keep him steady, hands crossed behind his back, ready to sweep down and grab weapons from his belt—and settled in for a long, uneventful wait.
The next hour passed in silence except for the rasping of insects, the scurrying of night creatures, and the rustling of shrubs and flower stalks. Then from under the awning came the faint screech of metal against stone. Another slight sound heralded a small burst of light, and Brandon realized Villette had struck a match. And lit a candle. Two. Three, before blowing out the match.
“So you’re the new guard,” she said.
As soon as she’d moved, he’d swung around to face her, and now he bowed in her direction, in case she could see him. Her own face was tantalizingly illuminated by the flickering candlelight—a swatch of cheek, a crown of hair, a single oval eye—each feature briefly appearing, then quickly fading into darkness.
“I am,” he said.
“What’s your name?”
“They call me Brandon.”
She considered him. “You have an unusual accent. Where are you from?”
“The islands.”
“Ah. Then your name isn’t Brandon after all, is it?”
He was so surprised he almost didn’t respond. “I’m sorry?” he said at last.
“The Zessin people have their own language, don’t they? Full of lots of s’s and l’s and hissing sounds. What’s your real name?”
“No one in the city has ever been able to say it,” he told her before pronouncing it.
“You’re right. I can’t say that. So I suppose Brandon will have to do. How long have you been in Corcannon, Brandon?”
“About two years.”
