Chapter 27

My back is glued to the glass—a butterfly mounted on a corkboard with a pin straight through her insides as I hold that shadowed stare—chest heaving. Mind spinning.

Run!

A horse and carriage trundle past, snipping the view and the gravity of his crushing perusal. I burst onto the esplanade—dodging people, carts, fish stalls. Darting down side alleys riddled with wooden crates and barrels and puddles of filthy water that slop up my legs.

A scuffing sound scrapes across the ground behind me—too close—and a shiver attacks my nape, like someone’s breathing down it. A chill nips at my skin, stealing bites of my warmth.

Devouring me one small mouthful at a time.

Heart pumping a violent, thrilling beat, some unhinged part of me flares to life knowing danger’s snapping at my heels. I change direction again and again until my lungs are burning just as much as this toxic fire in my lower belly. Until I’ve twisted my lines into so many knots, I’ll no doubt struggle to find the palace again before dawn.

The hairs on the back of my neck settle; the air goes hot and sticky.

Breathing hard, I risk a glance behind. Seeing nothing but an empty alleyway, I fall in a heap within a shadow against a wall and whip off my cap, wiping the sweat from my face. I shiver, despite the heat and my fervid skin, reliving the feel of that stare carving over me ...

Intome.

My heart leaps.

“Fuck,” I mutter, tucking damp tendrils behind my ears, spiked with a wild restlessness I can’t shake—that makes me feel more alive than I did sitting on the balustrade, or free-climbing down that wall.

My breath shudders as I try to ignore the shameful, incinerating ache between my legs.

Just my imagination. He’s not here.

I replace my cap, close my eyes, then tip my head against the stone. City sounds battle around me while I devour thick, exotic smells: spices, fried fish, the pinched musk of wine. A fiddle carves out soft, lilting notes, brought to me on a remedial breeze.

Leaning forward, I peer down the alley to the opening at the far end.

It’s busy. Alive.

I push up, weaving around a puddle toward the merriment ahead, though my heart leaps into my throat when the smell of smoke coasts past me.

Madame Strings.

Lured further down the alley, I see a cramped courtyard off to the side, stuffed full of people surrounding a blazing firepit. I backstep behind the corner and watch—gaze bouncing from person to person, all boasting golden hair and bronze skin.

One of them laughs so hard he falls off the square stone he’s using as a seat. Another stands, throws her hands in the air, and twirls until there’s an amber shower flying from the mug she’s wielding.

“Excuse me,” I croak, stepping into the smoky orange atmosphere.

One of the boys twists in place, squinting. “You lost?”

Probably.

“Do you know where I might find Madame Strings?”

He laughs, eyes glittering with a sprinkle of mania. “If only I knew. Come see me if you find her. I’m almost out of candy, and her shit’s the best.”

Candy?

I’m about to ask what the hell he’s talking about, but he drums up conversation with a girl who drapes herself across his lap, effectively dismissing me.

Right.

“Thanks,” I mutter, continuing down the alley, toward the fiddle player and the source of the rich smells that make my empty stomach gurgle. The alley spills out into a large, crowded courtyard—what I suppose is a town square alive with some sort of night market.

I stare in wide-eyed wonder at the huge, ancient tree that spawns from the center of it all. Riddled with small, open-mouthed hollows, its wide-reaching branches are dotted with lanterns and sitting sprites kicking their legs back and forth.

Mail tree.

It’s so much bigger than the one at Castle Noir, circled by a stone fence that’s a backdrop for a loop of carts selling drinks, wares, and tasty-looking treats that make my mouth water. Even the shops on the outer rim of the square are open, unlike the others I came across during my mad dash through the streets.

People are milling around, some wobbly on their feet with their heads tipped back in laughter. Some with children on their shoulders or big baskets hanging from their crooked arms, heaped with food and trinkets.

I step out amongst it all, keeping my hat pulled down to hide my face, the cold cobbles nursing the tender soles of my feet.

“Found you.”

I gasp, whipping around—

Nothing.

That deep, velvety voice echoes in my head, its blunt, frosty blow against my ear leaving a cool shiver that stretches all the way to my pinched nipple.

Further.

Heart rioting, hand coming up to brush the pebbled skin on the side of my neck, I scan the churning crowd, searching for a shock of black hair and silver eyes.

I swallow, shake my head, and shove the echo of rich baritone somewhere so deep it can’t play with my strings and muddy my mind.

Not real.

Spotting a stall selling dusted dough balls akin to Cook’s honey buns, my heart aches.

I approach, drawing a hungry inhale. The smell is similar—creamy and rich with the scent of honey, but sweeter.

I look at the price boldly displayed on a plank of wood hanging from the bottom of the cart:

Chip. I wonder what that looks like. And where I can get five of them without having to beg at Cainon’s feet again.

I push on, passing stalls selling toffee apples, impeccably carved glass flower figurines, meat sticks glazed in something dark and dripping, mulled wine that smells like cinnamon and cloves and is stirred in a cauldron big enough for me to crawl inside. There’s another stall spilling a small forest of simple wooden racks across the cobbled ground, each packed with handmade cloaks that look like they would’ve taken weeks to sew.

I pull one free, folding back the front panels.

Fully lined, a deep hood, lots of little pockets to keep things in …

Zane.

It’s the perfect replacement for the one I lost. And a perfect excuse to find out where he lives and pay him a visit.

A warm feeling floods my chest as I imagine him unwrapping it, boasting that lopsided smile when he tallies up the pockets.

Gliding the hangers across the rail, I carefully sort through the stock, finding one—only one that’s the perfect size for him.

I have to have it. Need to have it.

The store owner sweeps past while I count the pockets, his attention poking at me like the pointed tip of a sword. “You have any coin, boy?”

I turn, catching his shrewd stare.

Shit.

My mind whirrs, fingers curling around the cloak’s hem.

I’m worried that if I’m forced to come back for it later, it’ll be gone.

An idea explodes, bursting my chest full of warmth.

“I have something much better,” I beam, digging through my knapsack. I withdraw a small parcel and peel back the layers, holding it out.

The shopkeeper looks down. “A stick?”

“Cutting,” I clarify. “It’s called Vasil Alione. It’s very rare. If you dry it, then steep it in hot water, it forms a paste that can be used like a waterproof bandage, but it has many … other … uses ...”

I trail off when a deep dent forms between his bushy brows, like he’s disgusted at the very sight of my offering. He looks me square in the eye, and I’ve never felt so small.

“Are you daft?” he belts out, and the commotion surrounding us stills.

“I— I …”

Looking around, I notice some people have stopped in their tracks, watching on with wide eyes that take greedy gulps of my shame.

My cheeks heat.

“No, I’m—”

“You want to trade a stick for one of my fine, tailored garments?” He chuffs a laugh, and I close my hand around the precious cutting, pulling it close to my chest. “You must be out of your fuckin’ mind.”

All I can do is blink, staked to the stone like a statue.

I just want this moment to end.

He snatches a broom from where it’s leaning against a rack and stalks toward me.

I bolt past nosy onlookers, feeling their sharp stares prick at me like tacks as I slink into the crowd, shoving past a hoard of drunken sailors. I weave past a dancing flutist, dodge a man on a unicycle, and get lost amongst the churning people—chest pounding, eyes stinging.

Pausing, I tuck the precious stem inside my bag, drop my chin to my chest, and breathe through the extra surge of shame flaring up my neck ...

Are you daft?

Hands scrunching into fists so tight my nails punch through the skin on my palms, I close my eyes, wanting nothing more than to blink out of existence. Disappear. To dash up Stony Stem and crawl beneath my bed.

How could I be so stupid?

My heart stops as something hard and formidable steps up against my back like a shield—a sturdy, too familiar presence that seems to say I’m here. It’s okay.

You’re not alone.

A weight settles on the crown of my head and an icy breath blows through my hair, casting prickles on the backs of my eyes …

I almost believe it’s real.

Almost.

Part of me even wishes it was.That he was. That I could lean back and crumble into him—tip my head and feel that same chilled breath thread across my face.

Ease my flaming cheeks.

The rest of me is so horrified my imagination would bring him here to taunt me in my most embarrassing moment that I want to scream and shout and spin and bash my fists against his make-believe chest.

A sob threatens to burst from between my clenched teeth.

“Go away,” I whisper.

Plead.

A pair of strong hands settle on my waist, tightening—halting my breath.

My heart leaps so high in my throat I almost choke.

Not real.

All in my head.

I dig into my bag, trembling fingers snatching the snips. “Go away!” I scream, spinning, slashing the empty air, my words belting out across the quelling crowd of blanched faces. Countless pairs of eyes watch me punch and hack and stab at nothing.

Nothing.

All in my head.

My arm falls, chest heaving from the thrash of my unfiltered rage. Or perhaps madness is a better word. More accurate.

I look at the pathetic, tiny weapon hanging from my limp hand, then back to the silent crowd.

Definitely a better word.

Slowly, cautiously, they begin to shift into murmuring motion.

I squeeze my eyes shut and drop my chin to my chest, pulling deep, controlled breaths …

Not real.