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I slip the key into my pocket, my nervousness giving way to adrenaline. “You guys should get moving. You know the plan.” I hold up the letters sealed by “the king” before slipping them into Gesine’s grip. “Get to the sanctum. I’m sure I saw a wagon there last night. Pan will get the horses from Silmar.”
“Two lefts and a right,” he echoes, repeating the direction we gave him to reach the stables from there.
Gesine already knows how to get hold of Seamus and then they’ll head to the Trinket Inn to pay off Kaders. “We’ll meet you at the port as soon as we’re done here.”
“Have fun fitting through that tunnel.” Jarek pats Horik’s shoulder as they take off, Zorya in the lead with her sword drawn. She’ll get them there safely.
Jarek looks up the stairs to the main castle hall, his handsome face etched with worry.
“We’ll be fine. Remember?” I wink and tap my cheek with my fingertip.
“Perhaps you should choose a less conspicuous person than Princess Annika?”
“You’re right.” And I know just the one.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
GRACEN
“How is that stew coming along?” Corrin hollers at the kitchen door.
Sena leans over one of the pots and inhales. Three more simmer beside it. “Nothin’ but water and tomatoes right now. Another hour, at least, I’d say.”
“These poor people. If it were up to Boaz, they’d starve to death.” Corrin fills her arms with loaves of bread until she’s hugging as many as her short arms can carry. “I’ll send Fikar in for it once it’s ready.” She struggles with the door handle before finally yanking it open. She storms off as quickly as she came.
I return to my task in time to watch the glob of applesauce slip off my spoon and splatter onto the stone floor.
With a sigh, I grab a cloth and kneel to wipe it clean before it ends up on the bottom of my shoe. That’s the third spoonful I’ve lost. Either the fruit is too runny or I’m too scatterbrained, my gaze continuously veering toward the basket on the floor and the sleeping baby within it.
A sleeping caster baby, apparently.
How is that possible? And what does that mean that she has an affinity to Aoife? What will she be able to do?
Maybe Wendeline is mistaken. She has been under such duress lately, dragged around Cirilea day and night, not to mention whatever horrors she faced in the dungeon at Boaz’s hands. It is far more likely that she is wrong than that my daughter is the first caster born to Islor in two thousand years.
But what if Wendeline is right?
With the mess cleaned up, I pull myself to my feet.
Corrin marches toward me. “There you are. Just the person I was looking for.”
“But you were just here.”
“I was. You’re right.” She surveys the apple turnovers I’m making for the children. “Those look delicious.”
What? “They’re made with applesauce.” Corrin despises apples, a fact she rarely neglects to mention. “Why are you acting so strange?”
She steals a glance toward Sena, who is paying no attention to anything but her stew. Still, she drops her voice. “We met last night in the stable. Remember?” Her eyes widen. “I figured this disguise would be safer to move around in.”
Realization dawns and I gasp before I can help myself. “Your Highness?”
She gives me a wide-eyed warning glare.
“Sorry.” I chastise myself. “You’re back already.”
“I told you I would be.” She spots Suri on the floor and a smile stretches across her face. “That’s my namesake?”
Despite my shock, I nod. “It is.” And also, secretly, a caster. They have much in common.
Sena sets her gloves on the counter and, humming, strolls out the door.
Corrin—no, Romeria. Fates! What in Azo’dem is this mask!—watches over her shoulder until the cook is gone. “I don’t have much time, but we’re getting you and all the mortal children out of Cirilea now. I’m taking you to my kingdom, where you’ll be safe from what’s coming.”
“A war.” That’s what Wendeline said.
Fear flickers in her gaze. “Yes.”
We?
I realize the legionary from last night is standing in a corner, ready to pounce on anyone coming through the doorway. He wasn’t there a moment ago, though I’ve heard they move like ghosts. “How?”
“We’re going to start a fire in the ballroom.”
“What?” I gasp. “That will terrify the children!”
“A small one,” she reassures me. “Just so we have an excuse to get them outside. If I can get them to the nymphaeum, then I can get them to safety.”
I was just there with Atticus. It’s a stone wall and an altar. I can’t imagine what type of sorcery her plans involve. I don’t need to know. “But a fire? There are over four hundred children in there now, and more arrive each hour as the guards continue to search the city. And it’s full of hay.”
