The Queen's Assassin (The Queen's Secret #1)(52)

“I’ll remember for you,” he says, and holds out his hand for her, a true gentleman.

She takes it. His hand is warm in hers.

He bows to her. “Shall we, my lady?”

“I believe we shall,” she says.



* * *





BY THAT EVENING LADY Lila and Lord Callum are outfitted in simple, yet far more suitable, clothes whipped up by Mont’s finest—and most bribable—tailor. Anything can be bought in this city, for the right price. And somehow Shadow’s purse seems to be bottomless.

Cal even made an appointment with the barber next door. He’s already bathed and dressed in a sharp new black suit, in the Montrician style, of course, when Shadow comes out of the back room of the shop where a seamstress was helping her into a new gown.

He doesn’t look up from the broadside he’s been reading. He’s discovered that political treatises are illegal in Montrice, so clever satirists use fictional characters to stand in for King Hansen and his council. Cal’s totally absorbed in the tale, about a greedy, spoiled little boy who takes whatever he wants from anybody he wants, when Shadow clears her throat to get his attention.

A beautiful figure is standing a few feet in front of him. For a moment he can’t quite place her or where he is. Then Shadow smiles and holds out the skirt of her new dress. “What do you think?” The sound of her voice takes him back to himself.

He looks at her as if for the first time.

The seamstress has pulled her growing hair up off her face with a thick band, decorated with glittery leaves and vines around the top of her head. The gown is a pale greenish-blue, with iridescent layers flowing from a fitted empire bodice, and covered in pale gold-and-silver floral embroidery.

“Just a little something I had lying around,” the seamstress says. “It was just waiting to be fitted to the right person.” She smiles and stands back to admire her work. Then glances disapprovingly at the choppy hair around Shadow’s ears. “The wig will be ready tomorrow.”

Cal blinks a few times. He hardly thinks a wig is necessary; she looks perfect exactly the way she is. He tries to find the right words but can’t. Finally he manages: “I think . . . I believe Lady Lila is going to be quite popular.”

Shadow waves him off. “Don’t be silly.”

There’s an awkward moment until the seamstress breaks the silence by clearing her throat and announcing, “We accept coin of all realms.”

Each of them receives a set of day clothes and evening wear, which Shadow pays for with the coins in her pouch. Their old clothes are thrown in the burn pile out back. They are too ragged to save, though Cal feels a bit melancholy about it. They’re all he has left of home, and he had rather grown accustomed to Shadow in her shirt and breeches.



* * *





WHEN THEY RETURN TO the inn, Garbankle is still leaning behind the front desk. He’s tearing up a notice about new Montrician tax codes. “I’ll be sure to let the vizier know distinguished guests are in town,” he says as they pass by. They smile at each other.

In their tiny room, Caledon and Shadow stand around uncomfortably, one of them on each side of a double bed that barely looks big enough for one. Somehow, being under a roof and inside four walls feels quite different from sleeping near each other in the cave. “I’ll take the floor,” Cal says.

“That’s not fair to you,” Shadow says. She clasps her hands in front of her and begins to fidget with her fingers.

“It’s not a problem,” Cal insists, despite the fact that he was secretly thrilled at the idea of not sleeping on a cold, hard floor. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. You’ve just recovered from a rather serious injury, remember?” he adds. “And I’m fine there. I’m used to it.”

But she shakes her head. “We’ve both slept on that frozen ground; you are as tired as I am. We will share the bed,” she says with a finality that brooks no disagreement.

Cal shrugs and points to a screen in the corner. “You can change. I’ll step out of the room if you like.”

Shadow gathers up the bottom of her gown and clomps over to the changing screen. “The seamstress made me quite a matronly night shift, so there is no need.”

While she’s taking off her dress, Cal removes his boots and slides under the covers. He tries to keep his eyes on the wall, but somehow, he can’t help glancing to the corner of the room where Shadow is changing. He can see her silhouette through the screen and looks away, abashed. He remembers seeing her walking out of the spring in all her glorious form. She had not been embarrassed to be seen then, and he’d admired her spirit. It was not all he’d admired, of course, but he was a gentleman.

“So tomorrow,” she says, interrupting his thoughts. “The vizier.” She steps out from behind the screen and the shift is as matronly as promised, but made of linen so fine as to make everything underneath it visible even in the low light.

Cal coughs and averts his eyes once more, trying to find a safe space for them to land. He has been alone for so long, he had forgotten how much he enjoyed female company. But while there had been many girls in Cal’s past, he’s never met one like her. The vizier, right, they were talking about the vizier.

“The vizier is our key to the palace,” Cal says after he has composed himself.