Spindle Fire (Spindle Fire #1)(49)

“But they were killed!” Isbe blurts out.

“Exactly,” William says.

There’s a silence while Isbe tries to make out what he is telling her. Pigeons flutter out of the bell tower above them, cooing. “Travel as they did . . . ,” she says slowly, and then swallows, putting it together. “In a . . .”

William puts his hand on her back, a kind of affirmative pat. “Hearse,” he finishes.

She has to admit, he’s clever. No one will think to interfere with the small wooden construct, its horses draped in black, a casket in place of a passenger seat behind the driver’s perch.

Then again, it means they are going to have to lie down together in a coffin.

“We’ll make preparations, and leave tomorrow,” he says.

The next day the wind carries an angry bite to it. Isbe shivers as she and William make their way back to the church at sunset. The old, gravel-voiced wagoner—one whom the prince claims they can trust with their lives—greets them gruffly and without fanfare. It’s clear from his tone that he thinks what they’re doing is a terrible idea. Isbe wonders just how much William has offered him to take this risk. Or perhaps he has no choice.

It takes a few minutes to get into position in the contained space, and Isbe almost laughs when William has to get out and try again with his cloak untangled. Luckily the coffin is lined in velvet and is, of course, as yet unused. There is no smell of death and decay, only cedar and pine. It is like a small enclosed bed, and not altogether uncomfortable, although it is nearly impossible to shift around without jostling each other. The driver leaves the lid open a few fingers’ width. It’s enough to allow for a thin strip of moonlight and fresh air without anyone seeing in.

Isbe hears the driver whip his horses, and soon they are trotting along the pitted road. After only a few minutes of their heads banging together on the small velvet pillow, William suggests Isbe slide down somewhat so that her face is near his chest.

And then, the very long and very awkward silence begins.

“I think we’re at the river road,” the prince mutters into her ear sometime later, startling Isbe, who had been nearly asleep. “The road feels bumpier here.”

She scrunches her brow for a moment. “No, not yet.”

“No, I think we are. I hear the current.”

Isbe shakes her head, which causes her cheek to brush William’s doublet. “That’s a loose terret. The reins are rubbing against one of the horses’ harnesses.”

“How can you—” he begins to ask, but stops himself.

“I’ll let you know when we’re near the river,” Isbe assures him. She’ll smell it.

William fidgets and shifts. It must make him uneasy, not being able to see where they’re headed. A thought strikes her, and she accidentally snorts.

“Are you laughing at me, Isabelle?” he asks. “I confess I’m not an expert on the susurrus of loose carriage gear.”

Now Isbe actually does laugh. She’s never heard anyone use the word susurrus. “No, I just had a thought that amused me.”

“Which is? Do entertain me. We have a long journey ahead.”

“I was thinking that people are so very dependent on light—either the sun, or oil for their lanterns, or candles. Without it, they have no idea where they’re going. But I live like that, and well, I’m not saying it’s better, but one could argue that it’s a more honest way to be.”

“More honest?”

“More true to life. Because we’re all stumbling through darkness, really. None of us knows where we’re heading. Not in the bigger picture anyway.”

“You’re quite the philosopher, Miss Isabelle of Deluce.”

She could swear she feels his smile through the growing warmth of his chest near her cheek. She smiles back into him, wondering if he can feel it too.

“So tell me,” he says. “Is your sister philosophical as well?”

Right. This is all for Aurora. She’s not here to make interesting conversation. Isbe thinks for a minute. “She is thoughtful and intelligent. She taught herself to read.”

“Really,” the prince replies, sounding impressed.

“Well, there wasn’t much else to do at the palace all these years,” Isbe says automatically. “But yes, she reads very well. Less for the ideas in it, more for the . . . stories.” She can’t bring herself to say romance. It is somehow too uncomfortable a word to say to a near stranger, especially one with whom she happens to be sharing a coffin. “Aurora is . . .” How to explain it? “She’s a quiet person.”

“I suppose it’s commendable for a woman to be soft-spoken,” William says, a bit of distance in his voice.

The comment annoys her. “I suppose. But Aurora isn’t soft-spoken. She is silent.”

“She doesn’t speak at all?”

Isbe squirms. “She will make you a good wife,” she says. That’s what the entire point of this journey is, after all. William must fall in love with Aurora. “My sister can convey worlds to you in a single look. She is creative and joyful, patient and kind, and you must have heard rumors of her beauty.”

“Anyone can be beautiful,” the prince says. An odd comment.

“Not like her.”