Into the Dim (Into the Dim, #1)(73)

Bran’s hand splayed on his chest in mock offense. “Well, that stings a bit.”

“We may need you for the moment,” Collum said, ignoring Bran and rising halfway off the bench. “But understand this: I am in charge of this mission. In charge of them.”

As he flung a hand toward me and Phoebe, Bran reared up, meeting Collum nose to nose. “And a great job you’ve done so far, yeah? Getting yourself arrested. Leaving the rest of your team to fend for themselves. Was that part of this grand scheme of yours, mate? Top notch, then, I’d say.”

“Why, you limey bast—”

“Not again,” Phoebe groaned.

“Oh hell no!” I shoved back so hard, I nearly sent her tumbling off the bench. Marching around the table, I planted myself between the two bristling boys. “Sit,” I ordered. “Now. Both of you.”

To my utter shock and amazement, they did. I’d never ordered anyone around before. I decided I rather liked it.

“We,” I said, “are going to work together to get out of this mess. So you two are gonna cut all this machismo crap and stop being such . . . such . . . buttholes to each other.”

Bran snorted. Then his head fell back, and he howled with laughter. Phoebe giggled, and even Collum’s mouth twitched. A momentous accomplishment on my part.

I was offended. Here I was trying to assert the tiniest bit of authority for once in my life, and they were laughing?

“What,” I spat, “is so freaking funny?”

“A butthole?” Bran wheezed to Collum. “I don’t know about you, but I haven’t been called a butthole since I was in primary. I have literally never been so terrified. I think we’d better agree, or we’re likely looking at big trouble from this one.”

I pointed at Bran, pinning him with my sternest look. “I’ve said it before, and I know I’m going to say it again: You. Stop. Talking.”





Bleary with food and exhaustion, we trudged up the stairs to our rooms. I mumbled to Phoebe as we climbed, “Shame we can’t watch the coronation. To be so close . . .”

“Not me.” Phoebe yawned as we entered the small bedchamber. Her eyes lit on the steam rising from a wooden hip bath. “You couldn’t get me to move from this spot for a brick o’ gold.”

“While you bathe and rest, I’ll have the girls brush out your gowns.” The serving matron frowned at our near-ruined dresses.

“No need,” Bran called from the hallway.

Without asking, he strode in, hefting a trunk. “Before I left for the Tower, I took the liberty of having some of your things brought over. A helpful young girl named Alice packed them for you. Though apparently some shrew of a housekeeper gave my man a bit of trouble.”

“Hilde,” Phoebe murmured in a drowsy voice. “I almost miss that moldy old hag.”

“The innkeeper’s wife will tend to MacPherson’s injuries and give him a tincture to help with the pain. He’ll sleep for a while.” Bran set the trunk down with a bang. “Get some rest.” He winked at me as he sauntered out. “I’ll see you soon.”

Phoebe’s eyes narrowed as he closed the door behind him. She wheeled on me.

“What?” I asked, suddenly finding great interest in a row of wooden clothing pegs that protruded from the wall.

“You know very well what,” she said as she began unlacing the sides of her filth-spattered gown. “And I get it, I do. The lad’s charming and no mistake. And he did help us today. I want to trust him too. I do, but.” She paused, until I reluctantly met her gaze. “Just be mindful, Hope. Remember, he’s still Celia’s son.”

As if I could ever forget.

Seconds after her bath, Phoebe was snoring in the narrow bed. I took my time, even though the water was barely tepid. Despite the small, red-hot brazier in the corner, I was shivering by the time I’d dried off and pulled the clean shift over my head.

A soft knock startled me. Dust motes danced in strips of late-morning light as I opened the door to find Bran Cameron staring at me. His eyes ranged from my face down to my bare feet. My toes curled when I realized I was standing there before him in only a threadbare shift.

I crossed my arms over my chest and tried to ignore the way that—even in the chill—I felt his gaze burn like a trail of coals.

“It can’t be time to go already?”

“What?” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Oh. No. There’s plenty of time. But I thought . . . maybe . . . you might care to see the coronation?” His eyes scanned my face.

I darted a glance at Phoebe, still dead-asleep beneath the covers. “I don’t know about that. Collum might be recognized. We haven’t even dyed his hair yet.”

Bran studied the toe of his boot as it scuffed the floor. “Well, you see, I know a place we can watch the entire event without being seen. The abbey isn’t far if we use a shortcut, but there’s only room for two. Of course, if you don’t want to go without them,” he hurried to add, “I’d understand.”

I nipped at a cuticle as I studied him. The thought of witnessing one of the most remarkable events in history sent a thrill through me. But though Bran had risked his life to help us, he had still lied to me. About everything.

Yet nearly all the nobility in England would be there. What if Mom was among them?