The Queen's Assassin (The Queen's Secret #1)(24)

A heavy pair of silver shears sticks out of my sewing basket. My heart skips a beat as I glare at them.

I take a deep breath. I don’t think of myself as a vain person, but my long, thick hair is as much a part of me as my brown eyes or the trio of freckles on my left hand. I pick up the scissors. I set them down again. But I know I have no choice—I have to do this.

I yank my hair back into a ponytail, pick up the shears, close my eyes, and chop it off in one swoop. I open both eyes and run my hands through what’s left. I’m a little shocked, and a little saddened.

But the worst is done, so I trim the rest. Closer to my head, but still a little shaggy, leaving some curl at the nape of my neck and at the top. Like a boy who needs a haircut.

I get dressed in black pants and a loose tunic with a tighter shirt underneath and put my sturdiest boots at the side of the bed, ready to go. I have the forged work order and all the coins in a pouch at my hip. I’d leave now but I don’t want to spend too much time out in the dark. If I wait a few more hours, the rising sun will provide enough light for a journey.

All the potential problems with my plan repeat in my mind over and over again, endlessly. It’s impossible to quiet my nerves. I review my preparations, certain I’m forgetting something, though everything seems to be in order. As soon as I get to Deersia, I’ll find a way to help Caledon escape, and he’ll be so grateful, so impressed with my bravery and cunning, that of course he will take me on as his apprentice.

At the first sign of golden light at the horizon, I jump up and lace my boots. When I get to my bedroom door, I stop to take one last look at the dresses hanging on their hooks, at the girl I could have been. It may be my imagination but they look a little forlorn.

I creep down the stairs, edging as close to the wall as I can to avoid those creaks. I hear Aunt Mesha snoring. Moriah is a quiet sleeper. They’re going to be absolutely furious when they wake up. In the end I hope they’ll be proud of me, though.

Before I slip out the back door, I leave ten gold coins and a short note on the kitchen table: You know that I need to do this. Tell my mother I am safe. I love you both.





CHAPTER ELEVEN

Shadow

I MAKE IT TO SERRONE—TORSO bound, hair shorn, clad in stable hand’s garb—just after the sun rises. The crisp morning air chills the back of my bare neck. I hadn’t thought to bring a scarf.

The palace looms over the village. I feel as though it’s watching me. Like it knows I am escaping, and does not approve.

The Brass Crab is closed and won’t open for hours, which is a good thing. The proprietor buys honey for mead all the time. I’m certain he would recognize me. Otherwise there are few people up and about. I see the baker through his shop window; he doesn’t look up or notice when I walk by. The glove-maker’s wife sweeps the walk in front of his workshop and though I pass less than a yard from her, she offers no more than a polite nod of the head.

I was nervous coming into town, but it turns out young men don’t garner much attention at all. It occurs to me they probably believe I’m a page or errand boy, the background of their daily routine and nothing more.

After the row of shops, there is the town square, where I set up our market stand a few times a week. From there the main road forks left toward merchants’ homes and farms beyond; it forks right toward other towns in northeast Renovia. And it continues straight to the palace. The stables, along with the prison tower—a temporary holding cell for housing the accused before they go to trial—are situated on the west end of the property. That’s where I need to go.

Before stepping any closer to the castle grounds, I pause. If I go back right now, I can fix everything. My hair can be covered with a wig. I won’t miss the royal carriage that has been sent for me. It’s not too late to change my mind.

Except, it is. My decision has been made, and I know that this is what I have to do, risks and all.

I follow the ancient stone wall, once tall, now a ruin barely to my waist, that runs through the grassy field toward the stables. Once there, I linger alongside the building, collecting piles of hay. I need to look like I belong.

A couple of boys show up for work, their breath steaming puffs in the frigid morning air. One of them shoves the other, both laughing. Birds land in the grass searching for their breakfast. A mourning dove sits on a fence post; it coos back and forth with others hiding in the trees of the garden.

Shortly after, two transport guards stomp across the grounds, heavy leather boots squelching in the damp lawn. The birds scatter. The men disappear into the stable building, likely to check on the horses and the transport wagon. Stable hands will feed the animals first, then check their shoes and prepare their bridles and reins before hitching them to the wagon. Only when everything’s in order and the wagon pulls out onto the gravel path will the guards board the prisoner. He’ll take the same route through town as Caledon.

I have to time my appearance exactly right. If I approach them too soon, they may expect me to do work I don’t know how to do, or they might want to check up on my story before departing. They’re more likely to accept it if they don’t have much time to think about it.

My hands are dirty, so I smear some of the grime on my face. That will help disguise me. One of the guards shouts out to the other and my stomach feels as if it’s leapt into my throat. I take a few deep breaths. Slow, deliberate, like my aunts always tell me to when I’m upset or scared.