Chapter 26

One leg hangs over the edge of the railing, the other tucked beneath me as I drag my utensils against each other.

Hard.

Squee.

I’m not even tempted to root through my pocket for the lump of caspun I keep close—just in case. The sound no longer makes me want to twist into a knot and scream, but rather pecks at my hardened shell. Like knuckles rapping against a door, checking if anyone’s home.

I’m not.

The sentries make their evening rounds, pacing the front gardens lit by flaming bowls of oil and lofty lamps that tower above the trees and shrubs. They’re easy to see from up here, balancing on the balustrade with my back against the wall, tucked amongst a fall of shadow on the edge of a sheer, unsurvivable drop.

My favorite spot.

It makes my blood rush. Makes me feel alive.

I’ve spent the past five nights sitting right here, studying the sentries’ mannerisms, their routines—their exorbitant smoking habits where big puffs of white twist with the wind.

I’ve spent the past five nights growing more and more restless, watching the moon bloat in teensy increments that count down the days I have to figure out how to climb out of that bowl.

My days have fallen into a too-familiar pattern: meal times, trial practice, sitting tucked in my guarded room with too much time to stew, watching Cainon come and go from my spot so-high above the rest.

All the makings of a cog I don’t want to oil and tend … but shatter.

I have no guilt for what I’m about to do.

Cainon will get what he’s promised—a woman by his side saying all the right things, smiling, waving, nodding ...

Lying.

But I tucked myself away for years, and I’m done living that life. There’s too much I need to see.

To ask.

Perhaps Madame Strings is across that bridge, sitting around a campfire like Vanth and Gun described—

There’s a subtle knock at my door.

I crane my neck to watch through the window as the door clicks open. Izel peeks through, looks left and right, then blows into the room like she’s made of air. “Mistress?”

I doubt she knows I’m watching as she checks my washroom, my dressing room, before finally collecting my tray, her humble expression folding when she lifts the cloche to see my uneaten meal lumped on the plate.

Was hard to muster much of an appetite after I cut through a piece of honey-glazed prawn and brought it to my lips only to find it sprinkled with the tiny black berries of a bane bush—enough to make me choke to death from a swollen airway.

It really put a damper on my evening.

After spending all afternoon at The Bowl, then spewing my guts all over the floor there, I was really looking forward to a nice, hot meal. Now I’m committed to sifting through every meal, avoiding soups and teas, watching the people who handle my food like a hawk until I find the culprit and understand the motive.

As Izel leaves, I catch a glimpse of Kolden through the open doorway, still standing in the same spot.

As usual, no chance of getting past him.

I look back down at the sentries, watching them traipse back and forth, back and forth …

Castle Noir was my city. It held my sanity in its cold, black-stone fist.

That city over there—glittering against the bruised, evening sky—it’s a brand-new canvas with real shops. Real houses. Real streets to explore.

A new Tangle to lose myself in.

There are no safety lines.

Movement drags my gaze down the line of the bridge to a horse and cart clopping forth at the far end, and my heart skips a beat. The evening produce delivery—the cart heaped with so much fruit and vegetables, it draws the attention of every sentry.

I’ve been timing the nightly ritual, breaking it down into segments and factoring each into my burgeoning plan.

It takes around thirteen minutes for that horse to clop across the bridge, giving me thirteen minutes to climb seven stories to the grounds below. I’ll then have the six minutes it takes them to check through the cart’s produce to sprint past the sentries unseen and make it to the midway rise in the bridge.

My blood races.

I leap off the railing, dash inside, tuck the utensils beneath my pillow, then knot my hair and tug on the cap Gun stole for me at the Inn. Snatching my prepacked knapsack from where I’d stashed it in a dresser drawer, I slam to a stop inches from the balcony.

My gaze drops to my cupla …

If I get caught without it, I could get in a lot of trouble. But if anyone catches sight of it, my cover will be blown.

You can have whatever you please, whenever you please. My people respect that ...

I undo the latch, remove the cupla, and stuff it in the back of a drawer in my bedside table before heading to the far corner of the balcony outside. Stretching my shoulder, I do another quick scan, recounting the route I’ve been mapping out over the past five nights while practicing my scrapes.

To make it to the bottom, I’ll have to climb from balcony to balcony, across a thin window ledge. There’s a section where I’ll need to rely entirely on the little grooves between the buffered bricks before the final descent down a drainpipe.

I search my insides for a spike of fear, apprehension, anything ...

Nothing.

Just that noxious, exhilarating excitement.

I leap onto the rail and crouch, cold air brushing against the back of my neck as I spin and lower off the edge. A frosty trail drags down my spine, up again, then hovers upon my nape, turning my blood icy.

Heart in my throat, I pause, waiting for the feeling to pass, but it just sits there like a soft “Hello. Yes, you’re fucking crazy.”

I grit my teeth so hard they ache, glancing over my shoulder toward the illuminated city … down to the approaching cart …

I’m running out of time.

Doing my best to ignore the intrusion, I shift my grip to the bottom edge and let my weight hang, toes pointed toward the balustrade below.

The wind goes eerily still.

I wait until I stop swinging, then drop, landing in a crouch on the rail and wearing a smile that’s almost feline.

I repeat the motion until there are no more balconies—just a four-story climb to the ground below. My landing spot is only a few conveniently placed shrubs away from where two sentries are taking a smoking break while waiting for the cart to reach the gate.

Thankfully, they don’t usually look up.

Usually.

I edge across the thin lip of a window ledge and turn to face the wall, pressing my body flat against stone, tongue between my teeth as I reach out and feel around for the first divot. Easing my weight to the side, I stretch my foot toward another deep dent, feeling around for a second handhold—my entire weight now hanging on the sheer stone face.

I like this.

Concentration honed, I maneuver down the wall, listening to my body’s natural instincts, growing faster with every stealthy shift.

My confidence swells when I see the drainpipe almost within reach.

I stretch toward the next divot—

A bit of rock crumbles beneath my fingers, and I slip to the sound of cracking thunder, stomach tumbling, forced to use my foothold as a kick board to propel me sideways prematurely.

I fly, bag swinging, then smashing against my side as I collide with the drainpipe, latch onto it with both hands, and grip tight. Sliding three feet down the dewy surface, I notice the sentries don’t even glance up, and I smile despite my smarting shoulder, breathing hard, thanking the timely bout of thunder for its rowdy cover.

I look back, spotting the cart pulling onto the grounds, guided by a red-robed merchant sitting atop the box seat …

Didn’t consider him.

“Shit,” I mutter, scaling the drainpipe in slow, shuffling motions, hoping he doesn’t think to look at the palace wall where he’ll absolutely see me undulating down the edge of it like a caterpillar.

Watching the sentries douse their pipes and move away from my landing spot, excitement bursts in my belly.

I jump the final few feet and land in the grass, drawing a deep, intoxicating breath, digging my toes into the soil. There’s only a brief moment of reprieve before I dart into the shadow of a bush, catching my breath as the cart rolls to a stop several paces ahead.

“Perfect timing,” I whisper, watching the sentries swarm it like flies, questioning the merchant, rioting through his produce.

I wait until their backs are turned before dashing across the cobbled courtyard, heart thumping, legs churning. Leaping into the thin line of shadow falling off the bridge’s ornate entry column, I slam my spine against the stone.

Relief empties my lungs.

Nobody saw me.

I look at the blocks of shadow cast across the bridge, holding my bag close to my body as I dart to the next, the next, the next—my heart thrashing with each catapulting sprint, until I finally rise over the midway point.

The bright city dawns before me like a sun punching above the gloomy horizon.

I spin, looking back at the palace poised on the island’s tip like a square set of teeth. “Wow!” I trace the path I just descended, landing on my lit suite. A smile ghosts my lips. “I just did that …”

A single taste of freedom has given me an insatiable hunger.

Not wanting the city folk to see me wandering down the bridge, I leap up onto the thick railing and swing over the side, dropping onto the massive pipe that threads beneath the structure.

Far beneath me, the ocean churns as I navigate the sloped path—heart in my throat, hands outstretched to keep my balance.

Waves smash against the bouldered shore. Fishermen perch in sheltered nooks with their lines cast, blazing lanterns and buckets with fish tails poking out by their feet. None of them look up while I traverse the pipe above their heads.

The slope threads through the stones, forcing me to clamber up and over the smooth, slippery rocks. I edge onto a footpath fringing the esplanade, standing in the block of shadow falling off the bridge’s imposing entrance.

Cap pulled down low enough to conceal half my face, I study the tall, compact buildings lit from above by an abundance of lofty street lamps, drawing my lungs full of mosaic scents.

Carts loaded with fish are pulled through the street by restless horses, perhaps eager for their stalls. A group of bronzed sailors wobble on unsteady feet, chortling out an off-key tune. A scantily clad woman prances through the crowd, twirling two short, flaming sticks while a man trails behind, cap in hand, collecting a clink of coins from applauding onlookers. Golden-haired couples wander through the throng, arm in arm, as if nothing can penetrate the bubble they’ve built around themselves.

The city ... it’s a special sort of monster, alive with a beat of its own. Never the same from one second to the next.

My gaze lands on a store that appears to be closed for the night, and my breath catches as I take in the sign hanging above the door:

Excitement flutters in my chest like a flight of butterflies.

I notice the garden box out the front of it, positively spilling a waxy-looking plant that bares thick, soft, pink leaves. “No way …”

Vasil Alione—I’ve only ever seen it in botany books. I can’t believe it’s just roosting out in the open!

Digging through my bag, I snatch the tiny pair of gold nail snips I found in my washroom earlier and inject myself into the crowd’s messy current. I zigzag around carts and sticky-faced children, stopping right before the planter box, eyeing up a healthy-looking tendril.

I quickly scan my surroundings, then snip at its thick, wood-like stem, fold the clipping in a handkerchief, and tuck it in my bag.

Victory tingles at the tips of my fingers.

I shuffle from the scene of the crime and closer to the window, a smile splitting my face as I place my hands against the glass and peer into the darkness. Squinting through the gloom, I can tell just from the shadowy shapes that the shop is packed full of plants in various forms and sizes. Erupting with elation, I spin, leaning back, caught in a world of wonder.

An entire shop dedicated to plants.

Wait …

Gun mentioned something about a plant shop he and his partner owned while we were talking at the Inn.

I look over my shoulder, through the window …

Maybe this is it?

Guilt plummets into my gut like a dropped stone.

And I just snipped their Vasil Alione.

Oops.

Something cold sweeps across my face—a slow, tender traverse that almost knocks my knees out from under me.

My heart riots. Breath hitches.

I scan the crowd, gaze landing in the pocket of black by the edge of the bridge. The same place I was standing only moments ago—now heavy with something other than shadow.

A man.

Big, broad, hooded—

Watching me.

That brush of chill is unrelenting, unearthing me, eating me up in a way that’s impossible to shake. In a way that makes me feel raw, vulnerable, and exposed.

Something wild shudders and swells inside my chest, wrapping around my ribs …

Run—it screams.

Run!