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My breath hitches, Benedikt’s tongue flicks skillfully over my bottom lip, and the part of my brain that actually wants me to survive the next week wakes up.
I’m not supposed to be kissing this man. I’m already in over my head enough.
I’d jerk away from him, but Benedikt eases back a few inches at the tensing of my body. He stays close enough to block any clear view of me from down the hall, his eyes still twinkling. “I think that did the trick.”
I give him a pointed look, grasping hold of the remains of my self-restraint. “I’m pretty sure you could have accomplished the same result without going quite that far.”
He offers me a smirk that’s softer than usual. “This way was more fun. You’ll have to forgive me for taking the opportunity that presented itself. I’ve been wanting to kiss you since you nearly unmanned Stavros.”
His gaze flicks up to my forehead. “And if our ghostly friend enjoyed it too, all the better.”
The reference to Julita—to the fact that he was thinking about her soul inside me when he kissed me—douses any lingering heat. I clench my jaw and draw myself up a little straighter against the wall.
A flick of my eyes tells me that Romild hasn’t gone anywhere. She’s standing with her back mostly to us again, staring at the note she was handed while she seems to wait for someone.
“Shall we—” Benedikt starts, and a different familiar voice reaches my ears from the opposite end of the hall.
“Make sure the carriage is ready. I’ll be out in a few minutes after I take care of one more matter.”
Ster. Torstem calls the words over his shoulder as he steps into the hall from one of the archways leading to the outer doors—speaking to a page or an assistant, I have to assume. He marches past our hallway in the direction of the library.
My heart skips a beat.
A carriage. He’s going out somewhere in the city—to the orphanage? To arrange some other plans we’d want to know about?
This is an opportunity I might not get again. There’s only one possible course of action that fixes all of the problems I’ve just stumbled into.
I give Benedikt’s arm a quick pat, willing the flush out of my cheeks. “Keep an eye on Romild until you’ve seen who she’s meeting here. I’m going to find out what Torstem’s up to.”
Twenty-Five
Benedikt’s eyes widen, but I duck under his arm and dart off down the hall before he can protest.
The lilac silk I’m wrapped in glints in the light from the sconces. I wish I could dash to Stavros’s quarters to grab my plain cloak, but I can’t risk missing the carriage.
At least this color is significantly less eye-catching than the turquoise gown.
I slip through the doorway and cross the courtyards to the college’s outermost gate. There is indeed a carriage waiting on the road just beyond the walls, modest by noble standards but still more finely carved than anything you’d usually see in the middle wards.
Outer-warders make do with carts and their feet.
Clouds clot the sky overhead, and the breeze feels damp against my cheeks. But the dimness makes it easier for me to avoid notice.
As I eye the vehicle from a shadowy alcove in the wall, it occurs to me that my dress is less than ideal for a variety of reasons. Noble gowns are a damn sight prettier than they are practical, especially for stealthy maneuvers.
Wetting my lips, I peer down at my skirt with its slits for riding. With a few hasty motions, I tie the loose bits tight around my thighs.
The young man Ster. Torstem sent ahead finishes conferring with the driver and heads back into the college. One of the guards on the top of the wall high overhead tosses a bored remark toward the other.
I ease along the wall until I’m out of view of the front of the carriage and then make a leap for it, bending low and sliding across the cobblestones. With a soft whoosh of fabric, I’m hunched under the vehicle.
It isn’t built so differently from the merchant’s wagon I clung on to what feels like a century ago. To my immense gratitude, carriages tend to be set higher off the ground.
I hook my knees and elbows around the wooden reach bar that runs down the middle between the two sets of wheels. With another tug of the fabric gathered around my legs, I ensure it won’t drag on the road.
Are you sure about this, Ivy?Julita asks. I can picture her frowning skeptically.
“Nothing I haven’t done a dozen times before,” I whisper, and tense at the thud of approaching boots.
