Panic presses on my chest, making it difficult to breathe.
Papa said I had a talent for knowing the honesty of a man’s word. A sort of heightened gut instinct. When someone speaks the truth, a warm sensation starts in my belly and spreads beneath my ribs. A handy trick, considering it works for lies too, except dishonesty feels like ice on my insides, chilling me top to bottom. I can feel the warmth of his words, the truth of his rejection.
The table’s edge digs into my hip as I lean closer. “Please,” I say, swallowing my pride. “The other merchants won’t trade with me. And I didn’t plan on my father getting murdered.” The words taste like ash.
He balks. “If I’m caught with your poached meat, I’ll be thrown in the dungeon. Or worse. Boys as young as fourteen are being made to fight against Shaerdan. I cannot risk my family. Take your trade and go.”
The closed look in Mr. Tulach’s eyes, coupled with the warm truthful sensation spreading through my core, crushes my hope. I grit my teeth, sling the bag over my shoulder, and dash from the tent. How will I get lodging now?
The other merchants will have nothing to do with me. Eyes shift away when I approach. Backs turn. It’s no different from the first time I went to market without Papa by my side. Can you not see we’re here to do business with you, sir? Cohen’s words were steely.
I’ve got no business with Shaerdanians, the vendor sneered.
Cohen stepped in front of me. If she’s a Shaerdanian, then you’re a jackass.
It took a beat for the insult to settle on the merchant. By then we were running away. The man’s rejection stung, but Cohen’s defense soothed the hurt.
If only he were here now.
I’m nearly out of the market when Old Lyman, in soiled rags huddled on the church’s steps, whispers a plea from his cracked lips. He lifts his beggar’s cup. I don’t know why I pause.
When Cohen accompanied me to town, he always stopped to give coins to the poor. If I were ever in this situation, I’d like someone to extend the same kindness, Cohen said with conviction, even though a man like him—?the chosen apprentice to the king’s bounty hunter—?would never fall to such misfortune. But that was Cohen, always charitable. Even to those deemed worthless.
I’ve nothing to give Old Lyman, and so I feel foolish for having stopped. I shake my head, a touch flustered for having dallied at all.
“Kind of ya, anyway, to share yer smile.” His words are garbled by the loss of teeth.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I swing my satchel to the side, and, after checking every face in the square, pull out some elk. The portion is small. All I can spare. I press the meat into his dirty palm while muttering an apology for not giving more.
His other hand lands atop mine, trapping me softly between trembling, mud-crusted fingers. “They’re lookin’ for ya, lass. Guards are comin’. Best go quick.”
It takes a beat for his warning to hit me. I jerk out of his grip, mumble thanks, and race toward home.
I’m nearly to my cottage on the outskirts of Brentyn when a whinny and nicker echo behind me. In the distance, the pebbled dirt road hums with the pounding of hooves.
Quickly, I scan for a place to toss the bag. The piles of leaves beside the road aren’t ideal, but they’re the only hiding spot. Distress snakes through me as I bury my sack, making frantic work to memorize the area before darting back to the path.
Where will I live when they seize my home? Who will take me in?
Dust dirties the air as the riders draw closer. Only then do I remember Papa’s dagger in the bundled meat. I glance at the lump of leaves, hedging on making a desperate grasp for the blade, but time is gone. Six royal guards wearing red coats with gray stripes and the king’s emblem—?a circular badge with the head of a stag in the center—?emerge around the bend.
I tug my skirt lower and run my fingers over my braid, drawing out twigs. When the group trots closer and divides, three riders moving to my left and three to the right, I drop into a small curtsy, as is customary around nobility and the king’s men.
A man with a staunch scowl set against weathered skin brings his mare to a stop so that the animal’s breath of heat and hay puffs across my face. I stifle a cough and keep my spine tree-trunk straight. The man must be the leader since he has the most stripes on his shoulder. Five in total.
“Britta Flannery.” Not a question. “Where have you been?”
“On a walk.” My eyes remain forward despite how badly I wish to check the leaves beside the road.
“Is that so?”
His doubt makes me ill. I never know what to say. My usual awkwardness feels like a death sentence as I fumble for a believable answer.
“Perhaps you could explain what that is.” His chin jerks to the side where a guard pulls my bag from hiding. No! Fear jolts through me.