Gild (The Plated Prisoner #1)(41)

“Get back on your horse.” Digby growls, and I search frantically, shoving aside scarves and extra mittens, looking, looking…

“Got it.”

I back out of the carriage and step down, but our stop in the middle of the street has brought those peering eyes closer, those dark silhouettes converging.

“Get back on your horse,” Digby orders again.

“One second.” I don’t look at him, too busy scanning, searching.

There. Across the street, a group of them are huddled beside a water well, broken buckets and snapped strings littered around the sad-looking water source.

I make my way over, and I hear some of the guards grumbling, some of the saddles in the other carriages asking why we’ve stopped. Then the unmistakable sound of someone jumping off their horse, long, sure strides heading after me.

But I keep going, right for that group of kids. They’re skittish. As soon as they see me coming—or maybe see the guard stalking behind me, two of them dart away, slick steps disappearing into the shadows. But the smallest one, a little girl, maybe four years old, doesn’t run. She stays there in front of the others, watching me as I kneel in front of her.

Twelve in total now, not counting the others that ran, all of them too skinny, too dirty. And their eyes, their eyes are too old for their ages. Their shoulders drooping with a weariness no children should ever hold.

“What’s your name?”

She doesn’t answer me, but her gaze scans over my face, as if she can see the glimmer of my skin beneath the hood.

“Are you a princess?” an older girl asks, but I smile and shake my head. “No. Are you?”

The children all scoff together, trading looks. “You think princesses live in the shanties like street urchins?”

I lower my hood and give her a conspiratorial smile. “Maybe hidden princesses do.”

Several of them gape. “You’re the golden girl! The one the king keeps.”

I open my mouth to answer, but Digby steps in front of me, body tense. “Time to go.”

I nod and stand up, but not before I dip into the velvet pouch. “Alright, you secret princes and princesses. Hold out your hands.”

Sensing what I’m going to do, they all eagerly push their open palms in front of me, shoving each other aside. “None of that,” I reprimand.

One by one, I place a coin in each hand, and they race away as soon as their dirty fingers curl around it. I’m not offended or surprised. When you’re on the streets, you don’t linger. Especially with money or food in your hands. All it takes is a second for someone bigger and meaner to come along to take it from you.

When I reach the quiet, small girl in the front, I press the pouch in her hand, three coins still inside. Her eyes widen at it, and like her body knows what this could mean, her stomach growls loud enough to rival the stray dogs.

I hold a finger to my lips. “Use one, hide one, and give one away,” I whisper. A risk—it’s a risk to give her this much gold. Hell, it’s a risk to give them any at all, but I have to hope she’s savvy enough, smart enough to be safe. The girl nods solemnly at me and then turns and sprints away as fast as her little feet can carry her. Good girl.

“Carriage. Now.”

I straighten up and turn to my guard. Digby wears his anger on his face like some people wear a coat—heavy and dark. I open my mouth to tease him or say something smart, but snap it closed when I notice that all the guards have their swords out, facing the people who have come out onto the streets. Who witnessed me giving out gold coins right out in the open, enough money to fight for. To kill for.

The ragged, hungry, desperate looking men and women dare to step closer, roving eyes on the gilded edges of the carriages, the fine armor of the guards, probably tallying how much they could buy with just a single piece.

But then their eyes fall to me. To my hair, my face. I realize too late that I didn’t put my hood back on.

“The king’s favored.”

“That’s the gold-touched woman.”

“She’s Midas’s gilded pet!”

They keep edging nearer, despite the halting warnings of the guards, and guilt and worry curls in my stomach. Stupid. This was stupid.

The tension is thick in the air, like the people are just a second away from snapping, from deciding to take their chances and attack the armed soldiers for a chance at some of Midas’s gold.

Digby’s hand lands on my arm, spurring me into action. “Go.”

I quickly follow Digby’s order and hurry toward the carriage as the people’s voices get louder, their steps closer.

And then, right before I make it to the carriage step, one of them launches forward, racing right for me. I scream as he snarls at me, screaming about taking some of my golden hair, hands curled like the talons of a hawk, ready to snatch its prey.

Digby is there in a heartbeat, between me and the crazed man. Digby sends a well-aimed shoulder into his gut, sending the man sprawling, splashing into a half-frozen puddle.

“Get back!” Digby growls, holding his sword, pointing it at the crowd like a warning. The creeping, gathering crowd pauses, but they don’t back down, they don’t leave.

The moment I scramble into the carriage, Digby is there, slamming the door shut behind me, and we’re lurching forward, the sound of guards shouting orders and threats ringing out.