Page 54 of Avalon Tower
The lock seems simple. Obviously, there’s no reason for a complicated lock on a feral wolf’s cage because what sort of maniac would want to open it?
I recently learned in the academy that picking locks takes two tools: a bent lockpick and a strong metal prong for torc.
Gasping for breath, I remove the brooch from my corset and break the pin holding it. Then I yank the thin hairpin from my hair and stick it into the lock.
The wolf snarls at me, saliva dripping from his fangs. He snaps at my hand, and I quickly pull it back. I push the cat mask up on my head in case that placates him.
“Stop that,” I order. “I need to concentrate.”
His low growl sends a shiver up my spine.
I push the hairpin into the lock again and apply pressure as I start tinkering with the pin. I feel the slight click and twist the lock open. Behind me, the door opens, and a guard shouts something at me. I stand up and open the cage just a sliver. The wolf, recognizing the opportunity, lunges against the door of the pen as I yank the door open to the next carriage. I slide through, slamming it behind me.
I flatten myself against the door as something heavy—probably the wolf—smashes into it. Luckily, wolves aren’t good with door handles. Then, from the other side of the door, I hear a deep male scream. A little tendril of guilt twists in my chest. My pursuers just met my lupine acquaintance.
Pressed against the door, I survey the new carriage. This seems to be a luggage carriage, lined with shelves of suitcases.
My mind kicks into action, and I snag a dusty-rose valise from one of the shelves. I pop it open and strip off my dirty, torn clothes. Panicked shouts echo from the other carriage. I pull on a long emerald dress with a plunging neckline and a slit up one side. I yank out a wide-brimmed hat and put it on. With shaking hands, I quickly secure the knife holster around my thigh.
I shove my clothes in the suitcase and slam it shut.
I hurry across to the next door and fling it open. Another passenger carriage, one with mahogany tables and flickering candelabras, where the occupants are drinking bubbly pink cocktails from champagne flutes.
I stroll in, masking the pain that races up my ankle. Wearing a serene smile, I drop into an empty seat at one of the tables, angling my hat to cast a shadow on my face. A woman with wavy silver hair sits across from me, and her eyes gleam with fiery shades.
“Good evening,” she says to me in Fey.
“Good evening,” I answer. “Do you know how long until we reach Allevur?”
“Not long.” She frowns. “You have a bit of an unfamiliar accent, young one.”
“I’m from Glenfark,” I explain, hoping that it’s faraway enough to explain the foreign accent. It’s a remote island in Brocéliande.
“Ah.” She nods in satisfaction. “I should go there when I return from Fey France. I’ve heard it is quite beautiful.”
“It’s glorious,” I say. “There’s nothing like the sandy white shores of Glenfark.”
The carriage door bursts open, and the large guard steps in.
There’s only one of them now, and he has a nasty scratch on his face. This guard hasn’t seen my face because I was wearing the cat mask. He’s looking for a dirty woman with wet clothes.
“My son sailed to Glenfark once,” the lady says. “He was there for four days. He said that he liked the fruit.” She’s wearing a golden gown with sheer sleeves.
“Yes, Glenfarkian fruit is delicious.” I have no idea what fruit grows in Glenfark.
The attendant walks down the aisle, looking left and right. His eyes linger on me for just a second, then slide off. I do my best to look relaxed as possible.
He keeps going. As he gets further away, I start coughing.
“Are you all right, dear?” the woman asks.
“Yes,” I rasp. “It’s just the fumes of the train. They don’t agree with me.”
“Here.” She rummages in her small black clutch, finding a tiny metal box. “Try one of those.”
I open the lid to reveal pastel-colored sweet confections. Fey candy can be overwhelming, but refusing a gift in the Fey world is culturally unthinkable.
“Thanks.” I cough and pop a pale blue sweet in my mouth.