1 ‘Aunt’ in Kikuyu. According to Emma's research, a niece would never address her aunt by her first name. Traditionally, from Emma's understanding, when speaking directly to her aunt, she would name her “mother of (eldest child’s name.)” In the story, Emma tries to follow those conventions where they make sense, keeping in mind that Aerinne is also raised in Everennesse and American cultures, so probably doesn't strictly adhere to customs from Limuru. Also, her aunt and father have probably adopted Everennesse ways as well, so while they've taught their children the basics through casual interaction, they're probably not strictly enforcing it. In other words, any mistakes a reader who is knowledgeable in Kikuyu culture may come across, is purely the fault of the feeble author.
Chapter
Three
THE HUNTED FOX
Montague retaliates against one of our safe houses a week later. A real one, not a decoy we dangle as bait to ferret out leaks or suss out Baroun’s current strategy, but that isn’t the reason I’m breaking out into a brisk jog on the way home.
Stubborn as usual, I refused to take the coach to make a point to myself. If I’d taken the coach I would’ve had to bow down to my trepidation, my fear. Cower from the sense of being stalked through the streets of my own District from something no one can see or feel but me.
This is the most alone I’ve felt since Danon surrendered his freedom to save me. I slap the back of my hand against my prickling eyes.
The Mad Dog of Faronne is now a hunted Fox, and there’s no one I can tell because I don’t quite believe it myself.
Because no matter how many times I look over my shoulder, search the shadows or the rooftops, I see nothing.
No one is following me.
But today, like every day this week, as soon as I leave my house the phantom threat of sharp nails drags across my throat, followed by the press of invisible fingers.
I stumble and nearly trip when teeth graze my neck, the bubbling caress of air a chuckle against my skin—not a happy chuckle.
Numair and Juliette will be angry I slipped away without them again, but watching me run from air would be too much even for them. We don’t have mental institutions in Everenne, but if we ever built one, it would probably be because of me.
Adrenaline rushes through my blood and I jerk to a halt and whirl around. Well, we always knew I was crazy. I suppose no one can blame me for finally having truly snapped.
“Come out,” I snarl. “Whoever you are. Whatever you want. Come thefuckout.”
No part of me wants to believe I’m imagining things. Hallucinating. That my guilt has created a ghost to torment me because waiting on the Prince to come take my head is just that agonizing.
I’m about to chop said head off myself and deliver it under my arm to the palace just to get all of this horseshit over with.
But that’s such a defeatist attitude.
Of course no one responds aside from a few quick glances from those close enough to hear my demand. They give me a wide berth, but they often do if they recognize me.
Turning, I begin jogging again, still refusing to hail a coach though the streets feel like a maze, a predator’s cave even as I tilt my head back and look up into the stormy sky as reassurance the world has not become a trap.
I lift my middle finger and wave it over my shoulder.
Fifteen minutes later when I enter the Commander’s office, the sheaf of documents clutched in my hand, it takes a moment for my heart rate to settle.
Tereille is sitting on his mate’s desk and Dulenne is present, one of the cousins?1 Édouard uses for intel. The Commander worked our operatives until they uncovered a meeting between Montague and potential allies among the neutral Districts, in the forested territory outside Everenne.
Dulenne’s average tall, with red-gold hair worn in multiple braids down his back, his nose hawkish and his eyes a light gray-blue like steel. “The location is unusual.” He bows to me but doesn’t interrupt his report. “Three neutral Branches represented, meeting two hours northeast of the city.”
Édouard’s fingers still on his pen. “Away from our usual surveillance points.”
“Exactly. They know our methods—the safehouses we monitor, the usual meeting locations. It suggests they’re planning something significant enough to warrant abandoning establishedprotocols.”
“Numbers?”
“At least thirty warriors, possibly more. The tree canopy could hide more.”
Édouard sets down his pen. “And Montague’s purpose?”
“The positioning suggests this isn’t a political meeting, Commander. It’s an-off-the books war council.”
