Page 78 of The Queen's Line

I shrugged and shook Douglas's offered hand. "Just take care of your family now, and the court will do everything it can."

I tried to make the words plain. The last thing the man needed—with a recently deceased wife and a daughter on the brink—was more pity. His jaw worked, eyes blinking quickly before his head jerked with an uneven nod.

"You do us right, no matter what anyone say," he said gruffly, stepping back.

I wanted to askwhowas sayingwhatexactly, but I let it be, turning away from the door. Scrapper was meant to be waiting for me back at the Wing and Rook, and with any luck, he'd have the answer to that question.

I pulled my hood up, on the off chance there were any city guards about, or just folk who wanted my time, and headed for the nearest shortcut back to my bar.

"Martin?"

My pace didn't falter at the question, but I heard footsteps slapping on the brick to catch up with me.

"Aric, I've been looking for you."

I slowed as I dipped into the narrow walkway between two massive patched together buildings. Rumsbrooke used to have breathing room between the houses, I remembered it as a child, but as more families lost their land outside of town, Rumsbrooke had begun to swell, threatening to split at its seams.

"Your mistress needs a favor," the man following me said, and finally my steps faltered, my eyes growing wide.

I glanced over my shoulder and squinted at the man. Tall, with golden brown skin hinting at some mixed heritage, and a pale gaze that seemed to cut into me. Familiar but…

"The princess needs protection," he said, stepping closer into eerie shadows made by the candlelight from a low window.

"Head of the Royal Guard," I said, eyeing him up and down as I recognized him at last. "What are you doing out of uniform?"

"I assumed you wouldn't want to be seen with me in it," he said, shrugging.

I grunted and looked back ahead of me to the end of the alley. That much was true, but it would take more than a change of clothes to fool most of the eyes in Rumsbrooke, and especially those in my court.

"What danger is she in?" I asked, thinking over the letter still in my possession. The alley was as good a place as any to talk, although I continued farther down, away from the windows.

"The most immediate I can tell is her own insistence on attending the harvest festival," he said in a low grumble.

My lips twitched as I scanned around us. Bryony was giving her head guard trouble then, stubborn little creature.

"She has me, her Chosen, and she's not incapable of defending herself," he rattled off, stuttering as I spun to face him.

"What's your name?"

"Cresswell Stark," he said, standing straight and proud.

"You said she has you, what about the rest of her guard?"

"I don't trust them."

"But you trust me?"

"Shetrusts you," he said.

I frowned down at my boots at the swelling sensation in my chest, waiting for it to settle or pass, but it lingered in the quiet.

"The festival is tomorrow, and I'm fresh out of trinkets from the south to use for any magic so—" I was about to offer myself in the crowd when Stark pulled something from his pocket.

It glowed in the dark alley, and my palms itched at the sight of it, a pretty little stiletto dagger just thrumming with power.

"It's hers," Cresswell said.

I frowned and reached out, expecting to find some trace of a charm, perhaps some palace magician's signature spark. Instead I just found…magic. No form, no function, just power clinging to the blade as if it were a sponge left to soak.