I reached for the door handle and opened it before Zafir could stop me. Avonlea stood there, looking much younger than she had before, and I realized she was probably closer to my age than I’d realized. A timid smile found her lips as she lifted the tray in her hands. “I thought you might want to clean up.” I could hear nuances of the same lazy-sounding version of Englaise that Florence had spoken in. Balanced on her tray were a mismatched ceramic bowl and pitcher, along with some washrags that looked as if they’d once been some sort of delicate lace, but were now frayed and threadbare.

“Come inside.” I stepped out of her way, watching her tiny frame move deftly, her footing so sure that the tray never even wobbled. “You didn’t have to do that.”

She nodded, and this time her almost-blue eyes met mine. “I know,” she answered, and her smile grew as she set the tray on a battered chest of drawers. “Florence’d kill me if he knew I was wasting water this way.”

“Florence?” I asked, wondering at her use of his name. “So he’s not your father?” I was even more curious about her than I’d been before.

She shook her head abruptly, limp strands of hair falling against her hollow cheeks. “No.”

She poured water from the pitcher to the bowl, and dipped one of the tattered cloths into it, wringing it gently. I took it when she passed it to me.

Avonlea waited eagerly, and I knew she meant for me to use it, so I wiped my face, which was still covered in grime from the wagon’s floor, and then my neck and my hands. While I worked, she picked up my cloak and shook it out, oblivious to the way hay and dust swirled in the air around us. When she was finished, her hands brushed over the fabric, and I knew that she was feeling the same thing I had the first time I’d touched it, that the fine wool that was so creamy it felt more like soft velvet.

“Thank you for the water.” I said at last, setting the rag aside and staring at the murky water that remained in the bowl. “And thank you for dinner, it was delicious.”

Her smile was back, earnest. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” she whispered, her voice subdued. “For giving me a name.”

the assassin

He waited until everyone around him had gone still. There were still two soldiers on lookout, but it was easy to steal past them unnoticed. The sentries weren’t expecting one of their own to break ranks. Their concern was simply to keep strangers away.

And he was no stranger.

Behind him, the campfire crackled, covering any sound his feet might make against the compacted rock and grit. But it was cold out here, away from the warmth of the flames, and he shivered, steeling himself against the bitter cold of the night.

His eyes were quick to adjust, and soon he could see the path in front of him despite the fact that the moon was virtually nonexistent behind the thick black bank of clouds. He was like a nocturnal predator, he thought slyly, his lips parting into a shrewd grin.

He made his way up to the top of the ridge, so he could look at the encampment below. He wondered if they even realized how exposed they were down there. How obvious and vulnerable they were. He’d have to talk to Brooklynn about that when they stopped again the next night.

Maybe it would earn him some respect in her eyes.

Maybe she’d stop looking at him like some sort of lackey.

The high-pitched whistle that came from behind him, from within a crag in the mountainside, was a dead giveaway. That was sort of the point.

“Keep it down. All that squawking sounds like someone shot a bird or something. Do you not understand subtlety?” It was easy to slip into the cadence of his birth tongue, and he found the rhythm of the familiar speech comforting after speaking Englaise for too long.

The silhouette of a girl emerged, and even without the benefit of light, he knew, from memory, that her cheeks were dirty and that her eyes were hard. “I wasn’t sure you heard me.”

“Everyone heard you. But I had to wait for the right time.” He took a step closer, lowering his voice even more and narrowing his eyes curiously. “You didn’t have any trouble finding us?”

Her shoulders straightened, just as he’d expected they would. She was proud of her skills. “Don’t be stupid. No one can track like me. You might as well have set the forest on fire for as ‘subtle’ as you are.”

He’d definitely have to warn Brooklynn. His people weren’t the only ones looking to find such an easy target, and the last thing he wanted was to end up on the wrong end of a marauder’s blade.

A snapping sound behind him made her reach for the dagger at her belt. “You weren’t followed were you?”

He held out his hand to stop her, straining to see in the direction he’d just come from. “No. No. The camp’s sound asleep. Just an animal, I’m sure.”

“So? What about the queen? Is she dead yet?”

She may as well have used her knife to stab him in the chest.

He didn’t want to answer this question. Wasn’t sure how.

“We have a problem. The queen is missing.”

She exhaled loudly, not even trying to keep quiet now, and he could feel her disapproval. Why did he even care after all these years?

When her steel eyes found his through the darkness, their intensity hit him like a blast. “Find her.” Was all she said.

But it was enough.

He nodded, knowing he had to make things right. Knowing he had to convince her she could trust him with this, that it hadn’t been a mistake to choose him for this mission.