She grabbed the piece of paper and crumpled it against his chest. “Do not force me to go through you. I will, Father. I will.”
He blinked, his eyes flicking back and forth between hers. Then he examined the paper.
“Three days,” he murmured.
“I cannot wait another night. I cannot wait anotherhour.”
A long, slow breath left his lungs. He lifted his eyes with a familiar look of both resolve and acceptance. The weight of that look alone made her bend at times. This was not one of those times.
In a quiet, careful voice, he said, “Do I need to remind you that you are the Queen? That without you–”
“Maybe I shouldn’t be.” The words left her mouth too quickly.
He frowned. “What does that mean?”
She laughed bitterly. “Nothing. But right now, I am not the Queen. I am not your daughter. I am what you trained me to be, Vern. And I am using everything I have to get to him. Including you. Will you help me?”
Or do I need to go through you?
There was a problem with Vern’s threat. It was terribly final. Either he could walk into the castle with her – or he was dead, at least incapacitated, and unable to help her. It was rather a useless threat.
But putting his life in her hands had never been the point of the threat.
His head lowered. “Yes, my Queen.”
Her chest tightened. She would apologize later. When Castien was safe.
—
Entering the castle was a simple matter of joining a group of chattering servants and keeping her head down as they passed the guards.
Once inside, she procured a pile of linens and walked purposefully down a servants’ corridor. No one called out. No one stopped her. There were benefits to occasionally helping Madeline with her tasks, though now she wondered at the security of her own palace. Something to look into. Later.
Beside a door to the stables, she dropped the linens and waited. The original plan had been to accost the guards at the stables right after the morning shift change. The wolf would help take them down quietly and track Castien. Vern and Jerome would assume their uniforms and armor, and have an excuse to wear weapons in the castle. Early in the day, it could be hours before the guards were missed.
Plans changed. Ash skulked in the grasses outside of town, waiting to be summoned. The sun was low in the sky. According to Zara, the guards were more alert in the evening, more likely to count heads going in and out of the servants’ entrances. More likely to notice if their fellows had disappeared.
A dagger slipped into her palm as heavy footsteps thumped beyond the door. She shifted her feet apart.
Two gentle raps sounded. A pause. Another rap. The door slowly opened.
Jerome stepped inside first, his eyes finding her instantly. The tension in his jaws relaxed. He moved further in. Behind him, Vern shut the door.
Anais examined their uniforms. No rips, no blood. They didn't fit perfectly, but that wasn't unusual. They should pass. “Good. Vern, throne room. Jerome–”
“I am going with you,” muttered her captain.
She scowled. “I need you to check the guest hall. The sooner we find him, the sooner we leave.” There was no reason for him to be a guest – unless Vern was right. Practicality demanded they at least check.
“I am going with you,” he repeated.
“Captain,” she warned.
“My Queen,” was his equally adamant reply.
She didn't have time to argue. “The both of you were much more obedient before Castien ruined you.”
Vern smirked.
