The Drowned Woods (37)

And so no one noticed when silver flashed between her fingers—a stolen hairpin. The sound of metal working against metal was covered up by the tromping of booted feet against wooden floors.

A door opened—and then they were descending stairs. Damp cellar air brushed the girl’s wet cheeks. She had learned how to cry when needed because tears often made people uncomfortable or sympathetic. The tears had no effect on this man, save for making her seem even weaker in his eyes.

Which was his mistake.

The pin caught and turned—and the chains came free. The girl did not release the iron, not yet. Instead, she tightened her grip on it, whirled around, and slammed the chain as hard as she could into the man’s face. It caught him just above the brow, and he cried out in startled pain. Blood poured forth from his forehead and he swiped at his eyes. The girl kicked him in the back of the knee. He fell hard, barely catching himself on the heel of one hand. He reached for her, but the girl was gone.

She rushed back up the stairs, her heart a hammer in her chest.

She had not survived the kiss of a brand only to be returned to the man who had placed the iron into the coals. She sprinted through the house, trying to find her way back to those stairs. If only she could descend to the ocean, perhaps she might have a chance. She could take a boat and sail far from Caer Wyddno, find a new home—

A servant appeared in a doorway, carrying a tray of drinks. The girl smashed her fist into the tray, upending the wine.

Magic sang through her, familiar and welcome, and the crimson wine froze the servant’s feet to the floor. Then the girl pushed on.

She couldn’t stop. She had to run, to keep going.

There was the door.

All she had to do was step through it and she would be free.

Her fingers landed upon the door and she yanked. It didn’t budge. She pressed her hand up against the frame, called to her magic a second time. There would be water in the wood, perhaps enough water to—

But her magic faltered.

With a snarl, the girl jammed the stolen hairpin into the lock. Her fingers were unsteady but she took a breath, trying to calm herself.

“There’s iron in the frame,” said a voice from behind her.

The girl whirled, back pressed to the door, pin held out like some kind of weapon.

Someone stood a few strides away. It was the other girl, the one from the sitting room—with the smiling mouth and twitchy fingers. A thief—she must have been, to live in this guild.

“Who are you?” asked the thief. She tilted her head to one side, dark hair slipping from an untidy braid.

For some reason, the question made the girl go still. Perhaps because the thief was the first person to utter it. No one had asked her such a thing in a very long time—those in the prince’s employ knew of her and everyone else merely wished to know what they could get from her.

The girl’s breaths were uneven. “Mer,” she said. “My name is Mer.”

The thief took a step closer.

But Mer raised her hand, fingers extended. “Don’t—no closer.”

The thief’s smile widened. “You’re magic, aren’t you?” Another step. “I saw what you did to the servant.”

“Yes,” said Mer. “And if you’ve any wits at all, you’ll open this door and release me.”

One last step, and the thief was close enough to touch. Mer’s fingers brushed up against the thief’s shoulder, settling there. The thief wore no iron; she would be easy to harm. All it would take was a sharp twist of magic.

But the thief did not flinch. Instead, her own hand came up. Her touch was so gentle that Mer barely felt it—the thief carefully brushed Mer’s hair behind her ear, revealing the ugly brand. Mer expected her to grimace and look away. But the thief did no such thing.

“You survived him,” she said. “The prince, I mean. And you escaped one of our hirelings, too.” Her dark eyes roamed across Mer’s face. “You stole that pin from my mother. My mother—the queen of thieves.”

Mer swallowed thickly. So that’s who this girl was: not merely a thief, but a princess of thieves.

“You,” said the thief, “are going to be fun, I think.”

There was a clatter of booted feet and Mer looked up. Several guards were running toward them; she flinched and drew back. But the thief’s gaze never left her face.

“Stop,” said the thief, raising a hand. The guards stopped. “Tell my mothers she is joining my crew.”

One of the guards spluttered. “Lady Ifanna—you cannot—”

“Oh, I can,” said the thief. “My mothers wish for me to take on more responsibility? Then I will. I want this girl on my crew. I’ve never had someone who could use magic before.”

The guards drew back, looking both dubious and wary. But they did not dare argue, Mer realized. If her mother was the queen of thieves, then this girl was her own kind of royalty.

“And if I don’t want to join you?” said Mer. “What’s stopping me from escaping the moment I have the chance?”

The thief threw back her head and laughed. “Then,” she said, “I’ll just have to make things interesting enough that you won’t want to escape. Come. I’ll have some supper sent up to my rooms. I’ll want to hear your whole story.”

“I’m not a thief,” said Mer. She wasn’t sure what she was, not anymore. She wasn’t the prince’s diviner; she wasn’t the spymaster’s apprentice. There was only one thing she was sure of—Mer was going to be hunted. By the prince’s soldiers, by the city guards, and by Gwynedd. Too many people had drunk from those poisoned waters.