Total pages in book: 222
Estimated words: 210715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1054(@200wpm)___ 843(@250wpm)___ 702(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 210715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1054(@200wpm)___ 843(@250wpm)___ 702(@300wpm)
“What are you scheming, Maggie?”
The man had some sort of sixth sense. I had given him absolutely no indication that I would do anything except go to the Citadel, but somehow, he had sensed that there was more to it.
I looked right into those green eyes and said quietly, but with as much force as I could scrape together, “I’m trying to stop the Butcher, and I want to save a woman’s life. You may not have meant your oath to save Matheo and to stop what’s coming, but I did. I meant every word. I do not want to see this city burn.”
I needed to put him on the defensive.
“When I give my promise, it is cast in stone,” he said, carving each word out.
“I swore I would see this through.”
And yesterday morning I would’ve believed him with all my heart. But not today.
“It’s in my best interests, Maggie. I need Rellas to correct its course to keep Selva safe.”
Have you thought of allying with Goryni? I hear Omelyana is a rare talent . . .
“Then let me try to save Eliarde. The brothers are loyal to their father and Gort is loyal to you. I have no plans of walking up to the nearest guard and telling him the Sleepless Duke is hiding out in a deceased slaver’s house by the river. But if I tried, either Will or Lute are perfectly capable of stopping me.”
Everard frowned. He looked so much like the old Reynald.
Damn it.
“Even if the Butcher is prowling the streets instead of licking his wounds, he has no idea what either Lute or I look like,” I said. “You can’t go. Neither the Magnars nor Clover can get into the Citadel, but I can. I still have Berengur’s crest. He will remember me. This is our best option.”
Everard looked at Lute. “Escort her and bring her back here unharmed.”
Lute nodded and jumped to his feet.
“You can finish breakfast,” I told him.
He sat back down.
Across the table, Everard leaned back in his chair, thinking. He looked cold and regal right now, like some dark monarch contemplating an invasion.
“Be careful in the Citadel. Take care of yourself.”
There was genuine care in his voice. Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice . . .
“I’m always careful.”
He slid something across the table. A small copper den.
“Your lucky coin.”
“I don’t want it anymore.” I looked at Clover. “Once we finish breakfast, please help me get dressed. I must look like a noble today. The more highborn, the better.”
Clover bowed her head. “With pleasure, my lady.”
It took me over an hour to get out of the house. Clover sprang into action as soon as I got up from the table, as if she had been waiting for a chance to make me over and assured me that I would “look right” when she was done.
Looking right entailed having my hair properly arranged, which took forever. Right now, two wide braids ran along the sides of my head to the back, where they became a single elaborate plait with silver cord braided into it. Six narrow braids crossed in a lattice on top of my head, in the space between the two larger braids. Somehow Clover made me have three times as much hair.
I could never replicate it, which was probably the entire point. It was like wearing a sign above my head that said, “Look, I’m wealthy enough to have someone else to do my hair, and I can waste a whole hour sitting in a chair while it’s being done.”
While Clover worked on that, Kaiden brought news from the Knight Vanquisher Plaza. It was crawling with people from the Justice Chamber. Everard’s strike had left a twenty-five-yard cut in the cobbles. It was only half an inch deep—he must’ve aimed for minimal damage, but it was there.
After my hair was finished, Clover produced a dress. She had sewn it from the fabric she’d purchased that first time at the market. I’d had no idea she was even working on it. I asked her when she’d found the time, and she just smiled. The gown was a rich forest green, and it fit me like a glove. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. She’d never measured me. She’d just eyeballed it and somehow delivered a perfect fit.
Most dresses, like the ones we had bought at the market, came with lacing on the sides. It was the medieval equivalent of one-size-fits-all. You slipped the dress on and tightened the lacing to the right fit.
This gown opened from the back, so I could step into it, and the back slit was secured by two silver-colored snaps. It was clearly custom-made specifically for me. My shoes, dainty boots, also identified me as someone with money. They were pretty and uncomfortable, the kind of shoes worn by women accustomed to carriage rides.