Page 6 of His Noble Ruin

“Would you like to sit down and have some tea?” Etna asked.

“I don’t like tea,” said Cael.

I rolled my eyes and mouthed an apology to Etna, but her smile never faltered.

Cael’s eyes met mine, his brows low. “Plans have changed. The heir will be at The Wordsmith at five o’clock.”

I nodded, careful to hide the anxiety that threatened to swallow me at the thought of trying to win the heir’s trust. Making friends wasn’t my forte. I’d rather climb ten stone walls.

Then I realized what Cael had just said.

“Wait. Five o’clock tomorrow?”

A smirk appeared on his lips, his version of a smile. “Tonight.”

My words abandoned me, along with the air in my lungs. The blisters on my feet ached at the thought of walking again so soon. “In an hour?” My voice came out weak. “There’s no way. If I don’t have time to change, I won’t pass for a journalist.”

He glowered from the doorway. “This is your only chance to get to him before he becomes king.”

He was right, but I shook my head. “I can’t walk that far in an hour.”

Cael stepped forward, his mustache too close to my face. “Thenrun. I’ll meet you there.” Without another word, he opened the door and took the steps into the rainy street. I closed it after him, swearing when my foot landed in the cold puddle.

Marcus raised his eyebrows and whistled. “He makes your father look like a perfect gentleman.”

I smiled, but inside I bristled with anger. I could deal with Cael’s rudeness, but this was too much. With that uniform, he was overstepping, treating the plan like his own. Any deviations from the plan could have serious consequences, but he didn’t even seem to care. What did my father see in him anyway?

I sighed. “Better get my boots.”

ChapterThree

Runningover cobblestones was twice as painful as walking on them. I pushed myself forward with all the energy I could muster, but it didn’t help that the path to the scholars’ club was entirely uphill and slippery with the falling rain. My boots pounded over the streets toward the hill that dominated the center of Cambria. My raincoat kept my dress partially dry, but my hair was soaked before I’d even left Quarter C. I didn’t stand a chance of blending in at a scholars’ club if I looked as bedraggled as I felt.

Everything passed by in a rain-soaked blur: horse-drawn carriages, sharp-pressed suits, tall hats, elaborate braids, fine gowns, and umbrellas trimmed in lace. I clearly didn’t belong here.

Finally, when the stitch in my side threatened to take me down, I turned a corner and The Wordsmith came into view. The clock below its dome revealed it was ten minutes to five and I mentally congratulated myself for my speed.

I marched up to the palatial building, keeping my back straight and my head high to compensate for my less than impressive appearance.

Cael prowled nearby in the street, his blonde hair and uniform slick with rain, but he didn’t seem winded. He must’ve used his uniform to catch a carriage, which my Class C rank card wouldn’t allow. My envy sparked over the stolen uniform that gave him an advantage over me.

I approached him. “Has the heir arrived?”

He rolled his eyes. “I don’t know. They wouldn’t let me in.”

“Well, it looks like your uniform won’t get youeverywhere, will it?”

“Journalists only.” He gestured toward the entrance with raised eyebrows. “Go on, then. Give it a try.”

I nodded once and headed toward the white-gloved doorman.

“Only journalists are permitted tonight, miss,” he said the moment I arrived at the front doors. “Special orders.”

I pulled out my rank card from beneath my raincoat, hoping the words stamped underEmployerwould be enough, and handed it to him.

He frowned as he read the card. “You work for the Cambrian Tribune? What is your role there? Brewing tea?”

I kept my expression neutral and my accent crisp. “I am a journalist, sir.”

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