Cinderella Is Dead(40)

I hear a sound like water dripping on the cobblestones and look down to see that he’s pissed his pants. Constance wields her power like a sword, a power that I didn’t even know we could have. I’m in awe of her.

“Let’s go,” I whisper. I am sure someone is going to spot us if we stay too much longer.

Constance pulls her knife away. “Wouldn’t want to dirty up my blade.” She steps back, and the man takes a deep breath.

“Good on you, miss. I dare say when the constable hears about this, he’ll hang you, but—”

Constance raises her knife and brings the hilt down on top of the man’s head, sending a loud crack! echoing through the alley. He falls face-first onto the ground, muttering something incoherent. We scramble into the cart and nudge the horse forward to the main road.

“Do you think he’s dead?” I ask, trying to figure out if I care.

“No.” Constance sounds severely disappointed by that.

I’d never seen anyone so skillful with a knife, and if she was afraid while she threatened the man, she didn’t show it.

“I hope the headache he has when he wakes up never goes away,” she says. “And who was that woman from the crowd? Lady Hollins?”

“I’ve never seen her before,” I say.

“She would have betrayed any one of us in a heartbeat,” Constance says. “People like her are more of a threat than almost anyone else.”

We stop a quarter mile from the western edge of the town’s limits. The watchtowers stand waiting for us. This is the first time I’ve approached them with the intent of sneaking by.

“How will we get past?” I ask.

Constance reaches down into the saddlebag and produces a small, bulbous container made of clay. The top tapers to a dull point with a length of cloth, coiled like a rope, stuffed inside the opening.

“We’ll need a distraction,” Constance says, smiling in a way that would be funny had I not been so nervous about getting past the guards.

We come to a small rise in the path. Trees on both sides create a corridor that leads straight to the border and into the nearly impenetrable darkness of the White Wood. Two palace guards patrol the flat land between the two towers. There is no cover, no place to hide.

“I’ll light this at the base of that tower,” Constance whispers as she points to the one farthest away to our left. “As soon as it goes off, we’ll steer the cart straight through.”

“As soon as what goes off?” I look again at the little clay container.

“The bomb.” She holds the container up, giving it a little shake like I should know what it is.

“Did you make that?” I ask.

“Of course,” she says flippantly. “My mother taught me.”

“My mother taught me how to make bread.”

The corner of her mouth turns up. “Well, that has its uses, too.”

“They’ll follow us,” I say, my heart galloping in my chest.

“No, they won’t,” says Constance. “They won’t even see us, and even if they do, they’re afraid of what’s out there, so they won’t follow.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“Stay in the cart,” Constance says. “Get ready to move. The fuse will burn for five minutes, which should give me enough time to get back here to cross with you.”

I’ve imagined escaping Lille a million times in my head. At no time did I imagine how afraid I’d be if I ever got the chance to actually do it.

“It’s risky,” says Constance, reading my expression. “But sometimes that’s the only way to get things done. Take the risk, light the fuse. Onward.” Her tempered optimism has faded a bit, and I see a side to her that is so determined and fierce that I’d be frightened if I wasn’t so inspired. She hops up and disappears into the trees beside the path.

I grip the reins while studying the path in front of me. It’s a straight shot into the White Wood. I glance behind me. There is nothing back there for me other than a long list of reasons why I need to find a way to end Manford.

Onward.





19





“I’m sick and tired of these patrols,” a man’s voice says. “No one is coming this way.”

I freeze. The voice comes closer. I can see the figures of two men passing by the head of the trail. I quickly climb down into the shallow gutter at the side of the road and press myself into the damp earth, trying not to breathe.

“We’re out here because the king doesn’t think we’re good enough at the other posts,” another man says.

“What’s this?” I hear the first man ask.

“A cart,” the man answers. “No passengers. You let anyone through?”

“No,” says the other man.

I shrink closer to the ground to keep my body from shaking as the footsteps come closer. The musty smell of earth fills my nose and mouth.

“Over here,” says a voice that sounds like it is directly above me. I brace myself, ball up my hands, and prepare to fight.

A noise like the firing of a cannon erupts in the distance. A rumble ripples through the ground, and the men standing by the cart shout as they race toward the sound. Suddenly, a set of arms pull me up out of the dirt. I struggle to get my hands around the person’s neck.