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An hour later, Blanchette collected a candle from the table, lit its wick, and left the great hall with determined steps. A wicker basket hung from her shoulder.
The flame bathed her face and danced across her taut features. She should have taken the stone staircase and returned to her chamber. Instead, Blanchette veered off into a dark hallway, where she was instantly grateful she’d brought the candle.
As she rushed by various rooms—the kitchens, the scullery, the larder, the buttery—voices clapped through the otherwise still castle like thunder. Every time she turned a corner, Blanchette held her breath, expecting to run into one of the Black Wolf’s pike-wielding soldiers. Luck seemed to be on her side for once.
The candleholder trembled in her grip as she grew closer to her destination. Her eyes studied the ancient stone walls, searching, searching…
A slight indentation—an irregularity only visible to someone who knew where to find it—caught the corner of her vision. She glanced over her shoulder—then over the other one—and looked down the long corridor. She switched the candleholder to her left hand and steadied her grip. With her right hand, she reached for the jutting wall slab—a secret door—and pried it open.
She wedged inside the passage.
Her candle illuminated what would have been pitch darkness. Blanchette ventured down the black tunnel. She’d only been down here once while playing as a child. She’d never forget the terror she’d felt, the sensation of being swallowed by a black beast. The air was damp and heavy with the scent of age-old secrets, each step echoing in the abyss. The tunnel’s walls were impenetrable, designed to be completely soundproof.
The tunnel’s walls were not merely solid but formidable. They’d muffle any prisoners’ screams.
She felt those walls pressing down on her now, a palpable darkness that choked all sight and sound. After about a hundred feet, she reached a fork. She took the left path and felt the ground slope beneath her feet, leading her deeper into the bowels of the castle. She imagined she was inside a colossal sleeping dragon, rushing through his long, spindly neck, seeing only the flicker of light through clenched, needle-like teeth.
Muffled talking—barely audible over the beat of her own heart—jarred Blanchette from her thoughts. She rounded a sharp corner and finally reached her destination. Three sconces flashed brightly within the dark chamber of cells, casting a glow in the otherwise black belly.
Blanchette rushed to the first cell, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. Jonathan was crouched in the far corner, his arms wrapped around upright knees.
“Jonathan.” He stirred from his sleep at the sound of her voice, then rose onto wobbly legs.
He looked disoriented. His eyes resembled two open wounds, and his characteristic smile was buried beneath sallow skin. Anger, rage, resentment—the full force of it all—roiled inside her gut. He stumbled to the front of the cell and grabbed the iron bars.
“Blanchette? Good God, you are a welcomed sight.”
She forced a smile, then passed a flask of water and a heel of bread through the bars. “As are you, my friend. Here.”
He took them and immediately downed the flask.
“Slow down. Please, not all of it at once. I’m not sure when I can return.”
Wiping his cracked lips on his sleeve, Jonathan said, “Aye… where is he?”
Blanchette hesitated. “Your child is well. I promise you.”
“Where is he?” he asked again. Blanchette noticed his hands trembled as they held the bars. The question sounded like a plea.
“He’s at the orphanage, waiting for your release. I shall see that he’s well cared for.”
Jonathan breathed a long sigh, then returned the flask to his lips. He drank slowly and deeply while the darkness pulsed around them.
“I wish I could believe you. I can imagine how lost and miserable he feels,” he said, speaking more to himself. Or to the darkness.
Blanchette stepped closer to him until she pressed against the bars that separated them. “I want you to trust me as I trusted you.” She stared into his eyes and found a world of pain—one she knew all too well. Her heart twisted in knots. The Black Wolf rose in her mind’s eye—a waking nightmare—that crudely made armor, his swift and deadly arrogance, the glint of his sword as it cut down her father’s men. “I am in your debt, Jonathan. And I fully intend to pay it. You saved me. You risked your life and your child’s life for me. In this short time, you’ve become a dear friend. My mother always said being a queen was quite like being a parent. All the people are your children, and you must see they’re well cared for. Well, my father failed in this duty. But I shall not.” She held the candle close to her face and watched as the light played across his taut features.
Jonathan finally smiled, then nodded as if affirming some inward thought. “Stay safe and stay strong, my queen. God knows this world needs you.”
And with a last backward glance, Blanchette left Jonathan to his shadows and returned to her own.
* * *
Rowan’s warhorse surged with power as his hooves kicked up mud, grass, and rock. Fifty mounted soldiers followed in his wake; Winslowe Castle fell behind them in a wash of gray stone. The green of the wood and the town’s buildings and steeples drew closer, puncturing the horizon.
Rowan urged Sunbeam forward with slight pressure from his thighs. The beast responded with regal elegance as the drumming of his hooves became a rolling thunder. Smoke darted beside them like a dark shadow.
The landscape of Norland rushed by in a ribbon of greenery and a churning overcast sky. Edrick kicked his courser with fierce grunts until he fell in beside Rowan. Sir Royce and a handful of soldiers followed them.
