Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Quin’s eyes jump to mine. “I know it. It’ll be ready. In case.”
He plucks herbs from the box and begins grinding as I methodically stack the necessary spell. Sweat dribbles down my temples as I steer it into the young woman. Her brother grabs my arm, his grip choking as he steadies me. His desperation will bruise my skin, and it echoes the weight of my own when I couldn’t save River.
The spell’s energy burns through me in a relentless surge that eventually has my knees buckling.
She’s too young to die. Please work. Please be in time.
Heat scorches through my spine. My fingers cramp. The scent of scorched lunabloom floods my nose. Her pulse stills. My own skips to match.
The last of the spell comes out in a quick thrust, and blue and gold hues shimmer through her skin. I hold my breath as the scales flake and disintegrate—yet her chest remains still, each second dragging out like an eternity.
“She needs time to absorb and process—”
“Bastion?” A soft, gentle croak. “Bas?”
The vespertine leader whirls around to his sister’s half-open eyes and outstretched hand. He grabs it with a joyful cry and kisses her wrist.
My breath whooshes out. “She’ll need plenty of rest. I’ll take Quin and be on my way.”
Bastion’s head snaps up.
His men close in on us.
I hoped things wouldn’t turn out this way, but I expected they might. “Breaking your promise?”
“I’ve never cared for rules.”
“Quin, now.” I hold my breath as Quin clouds the air with the sleeping drug he’s made.
Within moments, the slumber descends, and Quin and I make a hobbled escape. We haul in air the moment we’re outside, sneak through the shadows to avoid a patrol, and make for the downhill slope leading to the next farm.
We catch our breath in a dilapidated stable, the smell of mould and hay mixing with our exhaustion. “They won’t stay sleeping long,” I murmur, trying to steady my racing heart. “We have to hurry.”
The crunch of boots on gravel sends a jolt of panic through me. I shove Quin and myself behind the hay, heart pounding in my throat, the smell of damp straw filling my lungs as I press him into the narrow space. The steps grow louder, the straw scratching against my skin as I shift to peer through the window above Quin’s shoulder. A patrolman’s shadow stretches across the frame, his hand curled around a readied whip. I duck against Quin’s chest and his arms come around my waist, holding tight. We wait like this for a long minute before I dare to shift, and even then, I move slowly in case the rustle should give us away. When it feels quiet enough, I prop my chin on Quin’s shoulder and check outside again. I wriggle closer to get a better look into the distance. Clear.
Quin’s heartbeat is suddenly harried against my chest and my pulse hitches. Is this position paining him? I try to read his pulse, but he shifts his wrist purposefully out of reach.
“You don’t have to act tough for me,” I murmur.
“Not acting . . . tough. Hurry.”
“We’re good. Wait a few moments to be sure.”
He leans hard against the wall and our bodies graze as we quietly collect ourselves. We slip out from behind the hay, the cool air hitting us as I search for the parcel I stashed here before heading to the hideout. I hurriedly unknot the cloth. “Strip.”
“Excuse me?”
“Clothes off, quick.”
“Did I get knocked out along the way?”
I toss fabrics at Quin and skate my hands under his cloak, over his shoulders to push it off. “Not a dream. The farmer should be carting down the road any minute now.”
Quin eyes the fabrics and me over them, and with a grimace, changes into skirts, gloves, and headscarf. Our eyes meet; he shakes his head at the quiet amusement he must read in mine. Yet, he continues to let me lead this absurd act.
I prick my finger and run the red over his lips, grinning at his unfathomable stare. “Pretty. When the wagon stops, I’ll introduce you as—”
“Your sister?”
“—my mother.”
His mouth works hard to hold back words.
I pull him, limping, out the door, and stop, shaking my head. “We need a legitimate reason it’s hard for you to walk.” I cock my head, scrolling my gaze up and down, and—“got it.”
I stuff Quin’s cloak up his skirts to his belly, making it swell. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
Quin grumbles but doesn’t fight. I wrap an arm around him and we make for the road.
“Keep your head down,” I murmur, and halt Farmer Georgos and his donkey trundling along the gravel road with their cart of chopped wood. “Please, will you give us a ride into town? My wife’s struggling with her labour. I’m a healer, but we need to get to the apothecary.”