Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 145704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
“No real names or titles here,” I hiss, even though a thrill stirs in me as it does every time I know Zander is near.
“Right.” He pauses. “Who are you going to be, then?”
I borrow Gesine’s fake name. “Cordelia. And you’re Dunn.”
“Hey! I knew a Dunn once.”
“Did he end up on the gallows for talking too much?” Because if this keeps up, Pan is going to blow our cover.
He presses his lips tight in response.
A stable boy comes around to greet us as we dismount, and I fish out some coin, silently thanking Gesine. She knew I would try to escape as soon as she planted that thought in my head. Why she was so willing to allow it—to even encourage it—I’ll have to consider later.
Right now, I have work to do.
Despite my churning nerves, I push my hood back, lift my chin, and push through the heavy wooden door, Pan trailing after me.
Boisterous laughter and a fiddler’s jig carries through saloon doors to our right. But ahead, a heavyset woman with rosy cheeks staffs the front desk. She looks up from her needlework to appraise me through round, wire-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. They have no lenses in them. “What can I do for yous tonight?” A gold cuff peeking beneath frizzy auburn hair marks her a mortal.
I channel my best Gesine impression of poise and civility. “We are in need of a warm meal and possibly a room for the night.”
“I can help ya with the meal, but the inn is already brimming. Though there’s a tavern full of patrons who may be willin’ to share their bed with a pretty thing like you, if you play your cards right.”
There’s one patron in there who was supposed to be in my bed with me already.
“I will keep that in mind, thank you.”
“Go on in, then, and find an empty spot.” She jerks her chin to the right before shifting her focus back to her needlework. “One o’ the girls will be with ya when she can.”
She’s speaking to me as if we’re equals.
We are equal, I chastise myself. Maybe I’ve been playing the role of future queen for too long. Something tells me being royalty wouldn’t make a difference to her. Still, it’s refreshing, and the smile I’m wearing as I push through the swinging doors feels genuine.
A wall of stifling heat from the fire and the smell of sweat, smoke, and sour hops hits me, but I focus on the dingy tavern, a simple rectangular room with long, cafeteria-style tables and benches and a bar where metal steins line the counter as fast as the husky bartender can pour from the keg behind.
And it is packed with patrons, shouting and sloshing ale from their mugs as the fiddler on a wooden platform stomps his foot in time with his upbeat melody.
It’s as if that horrifying scene outside doesn’t exist, and those poor people aren’t out there freezing and aching within their wooden traps while listening to the revelry.
That reminder dampens my spirits, but I can’t think about them now. I scan the dimly lit room. The patrons are mostly male and the staff is mostly female, the waitresses’ breasts spilling from low necklines of their dresses.
It became easy for me to mark the mortals from the elven in Cirilea, but here they’re all dressed similarly, in leathers and furs, and rugged in appearance, with wild manes of hair, some with even wilder beards. No one is bowing and deferring to anyone, even though there are plenty of cuffs marking ears. Some, I note, are a dull silver patina as opposed to the typical gold.
“Um … Cordelia?” Pan hisses in my ear, nodding ahead of us.
Zander sits at the end of a table, cupping a copper mug between two hands.
Glaring at me.
He’s trying to stay calm, but his nostrils flare—a sure sign he is fuming, wondering how the hell I got here.
My heart skitters as I set my jaw with stubbornness. I look forward to that argument later. Zander doesn’t scare me anymore.
I scan the room. Elisaf is nearby, standing at the bar, chatting up the bartender. I don’t see Abarrane. She’s likely in an alleyway, torturing someone for information about Drakon and Iago. Either way, they’ve split up, which is a smart strategy.
Several curious heads have turned to regard me, leering men holding out hope for a female body under them tonight, willingly or not. Opportunists pondering what my belongings might be worth. I’ve been around enough of this type to know that for every saint in this room, there are five sinners, and I’m drawing too much attention by standing here.
Somewhere in a corner, by a wall, would be best. “Come on, this way.” Pan trails me as I weave through the crowd to the end of a long table, the bottoms of our boots peeling away from the sticky wooden plank floor with each step. As contrary as this place is to Cirilea and its gilded towers and copper tubs, it feels more familiar to what I spent many years of my life surrounded by—the crooked crowd and the squalor.