The Conquering, page 75:

  In the end he did not give me a gold.

  Varuht took the goldest of the wyvern harem as his bride and named our freshly conquered lands after Kheovaria. He gave the others to his lords.

  But not to me. Claimed he couldn’t risk more wyvernborns if I were to have a son. I, alone, had to settle for a drab unmarked who cowered before I even struck her. He only allowed me my armor.

  I jerk awake to aching pain lancing through my back. I shift and my wooden headboard bites into my spine. Skies, I must’ve fallen asleep reading—

  I jolt upright, nearly knocking the book off my lap. I snatch it up and listen for sounds of the rest of the house waking. If Clara came in here to wake me… she’d have found the book.

  I need to get rid of it.

  The candle at my bedside is now a solid puddle of wax, and a faint pinkish-orange glow tints the navy sky out my window. Still early. I need a plan.

  My cheeks are still stiff with the salt of dried tears. I’d finished the book and the ending had been… heartbreaking. It’d made for a great distraction, however, from the bloody image burned into memory of the man hanging over the palace garden fountain.

  After that gruesome sight, Prince Emory whisked me away and tucked me into my carriage. “You must be terribly distraught,” he said, squeezing my hand. “I apologize you had to see such a monstrosity. I assure you, we’ll get to the bottom of this security breach. You needn’t have to worry about seeing such a thing again.”

  The High Guard, who half-carried me through the palace and out to the carriage, cleared his throat.

  “Oh,” the Prince’s face grew serious. “Best you not mention this—talk and worry will only encourage those rebel bastards. You understand.”

  I’d nodded, even as my mind swept back to the rebel bastard I knew. The Abel on the Privetts’ roof hadn’t seemed capable of slitting a man’s throat and writing with blood. And if not him, it had to be someone under his command. But why my father’s name? “I understand.”

  The Prince had beamed. “Clever as you are beautiful. I must meet with the palace guard. I will call on you soon, my dear.” Then he’d swept a kiss across my lips, hopped out of the carriage, and shut the door.

  I peer down at the book and smooth my hand over the final page. The ending. Poor Kheovaria. If the story is true, Vincent Varuht named our country for her, even after murdering her.

  I turn that final page over, expecting nothing but maybe a “The End”. Instead, a hasty note marks the inside of the back cover.

  Let this book be the true record of how the Conquering occurred, who dreamt it, who executed it… and who rescinded their oath. We Venons will forever be the shadow of the Kingdom.

  Unless we take it back.

  - Jar Venon.

  I drop the book and recoil from it. Venon? The first Venon? All the time I’ve been reading his words? His pen strokes?

  The narrator of the story is revolting enough in his hate and the way he’d planned and executed such a brutal, bloody murder of the wyverns and the human stewards that cared for them. He’d clearly been one of those stewards, too—though I haven’t figured out why he called himself a dud.

  Regardless, the book has to go.

  I pull on my least-remarkable and most-conservative dress and creep downstairs, book stowed in my pocket along with a note explaining I’ve gone out for a stroll and will be right back. Hopefully, the early hour means no one will be awake to stop me.

  Tiptoeing down the hall with my boots in hand to stay silent, I near the dining room. Faint murmuring sounds emanate from within.

  I creep to the doorway and peek inside. The Foundress and her butler, Mr. Bens, sit together at the table, their backs to me, both with breakfast-filled plates.

  The Foundress passes Mr. Bens a letter. “Honestly, how does he expect me to read this ridiculous handwriting?”

  Mr. Bens chuckles and peers at it, their hands brushing with a gentle familiarity I’ve never seen before between such class differences—or at all, honestly. It feels private, intimate. “Atrocious indeed. I believe it says he’ll be back next week, maybe the week after, depending on… something about politics. Even I can’t make out that line.”

  I dart silently across the opening and continue on to the front foyer. Clara would never allow a servant to eat at the same table as her. That the Foundress does makes me like her even more.

  I leave my note at the door, throw on a lightweight hooded cloak, and slip out the front door.

  Outside, the chilly morning wind blows across the canal and nearly rips off my hood. I grip its edges and tug them down across my neck as I hurry down the street towards the market. The city’s buildings and walls block the horizon, but the sun’s early rays light dappled clouds with shades of pink and orange. One catch of those rays on my skin and I’ll expose myself. Hopefully no one will look closely at a drably dressed woman on foot.

  I glance longingly at the palace across the canal as I go. Skies, if I can just get this book safely back where it belongs, I’ll commit myself fully to pursuing the Prince and being perfect. If I can just get away with this one dangerous mistake.

  I turn onto Main and only a few dozen peasants hurry about with supplies. The air holds a pleasant calm without the clop of horses or the shouts of market shopkeepers. With any luck, I’ll be tucked back into my bedroom before Clara even rises for tea.

  In the market square, shopkeepers are just beginning to set up their stands and open their carts. I keep my head down as I search the rows for the Venon family crest and its chartreuse green House colors. On foot and hidden under my cloak, no one glances twice at me as they prepare for the day.

  I round a fabrics cart and my heart lifts. An open caravan waits at the end of the row, painted green and the Venon family crest shining above its displays of produce.

  I hurry towards it, a smile already tugging my mouth as a bent figure behind the stall reaches for a sack. He straightens to reveal a middle-aged man with dark brown hair and dumps potatoes into an empty display basket.

  I turn abruptly away. Damn. I don’t recognize him. I skirt around the stall, peeking from the corner of my eyes for any sign of Farnell’s messy mop of red hair.

  None.

  I draw in a steadying breath and debate talking to him, anyway. Skies, but it does Farnell no favors for rumors to circulate of a young noble lady asking after him—and far worse if anyone finds out who I am. Peasants are hung for insinuations like those.

  I bounce on my toes. I could go back to the house and bury the book under my floorboards again. I could toss it here, into a waste bin, and pretend I never saw it at all. My fingers curl around the leather cover in my skirt pocket. The thought of the last account of Kheovaria’s life and death soiled by rubbish…

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  And Farnell had been very clear that it needs to be returned.

  I can’t just toss it. The least I can do is hide it and try again. Skies, who knows when I’ll have the opportunity again, especially if Clara finds out about this excursion.

  A horse tethered to a pub neighs and a wild idea takes flight. I can ride the book back myself. It might take me the better part of the day, but I can hide it at the manor and, next I see Farnell, I can tell him where it is and he can return it. The servants will let him in, especially if I tell them to. They might even deliver a cryptic message to him for me…

  I turn a corner and the stables come into view at the far end of the street where this road ends at the West Gate. Each of the city’s three gates, East, West, and South, has a stable since none of the city houses have their own horse facilities. Mr. Bens took our horses to this one upon our arrival, and our carriage is stored in a warehouse on the other side of the wall.

  Without warning, an object crashes through a window to my right and clatters out onto the street.

  I jump back.

  A wooden chair with one of its legs broken clean off skids to a stop a few yards away. The sign above the large, shattered window reads: Boulder’s Books. Inside, at least one knight and two guards knock over shelves of books at random. Each wears the green Venon crest on their silver chest-plates. The knight shouts commands at his guards and takes a book offered to him, only to throw it down onto the trample mess of papers rapidly growing at their feet.

  The books. Pages fly, paper tears. The horrible destruction of something so precious rips at my chest.

  But…

  Skies, they aren’t just destroying books.

  They’re looking for one.

  I drop my gaze and cross to the opposite side of the street. A cold sweat breaks out across my body. I try to control my pace and keep my posture casual.

  It might not be my book they’re looking for. Maybe they aren’t looking at all. Maybe the man failed to pay his taxes and this is his penalty. But the sick feeling in my gut doesn’t abate. I rub the book in my pocket as I go.

  I’ve nearly passed the shop when the door bangs open. The knight and his guards pour out onto the bookstore’s landing and return to their mounts. One shoves a peasant off the landing, sending the poor man sprawling onto the street below and his bundle of parchment scattering across the cobblestones.

  “Watch where you’re going, vermin,” snarls the knight as he takes up his horse’s reins—No, not a knight.

  The pit of my stomach drops.

  Maurus Venon.

  I duck my head and turn sharply away, walking as quickly and casually as I can towards the nearest alleyway. He won’t see me, doesn’t have any reason to recognize my plain linen cloak. He doesn’t know I have the book in the first place, even. No reason to suspect me. No reason to search me.

  I glance over my shoulder as I reach the alleyway’s entrance.

  Maurus Venon turns his head and his gaze lands square upon me. Oh, Skies.

  I spin away into the alley’s shadows and—

  I crash into something solid and decidedly alive. I slap a hand over my mouth to stifle my yelp.

  A masked man with tied-back long dark hair steadies me. Raised brows ease into a likely smile that pulls at his mask. “Lady Aubrey,” Abel says, low and full of humor. “We meet again.”

  “Are you following me?” I gasp, staring incredulously up at him. And it is up. He’s alarmingly tall, this close.

  “Just whom are you trying to escape from today?” He shifts closer, the fabric of his shirt brushing against my shoulder as he leans to peer around the corner. “Ahh, Maurus and his thugs.” He withdraws back into the shadows, his voice laced with distaste.

  I open my mouth again. I ought to pull away, even if it means risking an interaction with Maurus. Abel is a rebel and it’s broad daylight, not the middle of the night on a rooftop. Here I might be seen, witnessed. Cavorting with rebels is a far worse crime than possession of a possibly illegal, possibly entirely fictional book.

  Him or Maurus.

  The pound of hooves on cobblestones nears.

  Abel’s eyes grow intense and urgent. “Do you wish to be found?”

  “No, I—”

  In one swift movement, Abel clasps one hand over my mouth, and shoves me roughly back into an alcove of the building beside us. Then he swings his cape over my head and dowses us both into darkness as his body slams up against mine.

  “Shh,” he says, the rough fabric of his mask pressing against my temple. “Be still and we won’t be more than a shadow.”

  I can hardly breathe. If Maurus found me like this with this man…

  Heat pours from the hard, angular press of Abel’s body against mine and with it the sweet musk of pine and decaying leaves and moss and vague hints of horses. I’ve never been so close to a man before, never had a body pressed up against mine so much that I can feel the rise and fall of his chest against mine, the hard press of his hips against my belly. His breaths are slow, calm, even—a sharp contrast to my own which grow progressively more rapid, bordering on frantic.

  The pound of hooves grows louder and stops. So near they must’ve paused at the opening to the alley.

  Silence stretches.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and clench my fists on the lapels of Abel’s tailcoat, bracing for the impending discovery. Abel’s breath creeps through his mask and whispers across my lashes.

  “I could have sworn I saw…” came Maurus’s brutish snarl, mere feet away.

  I tense.

  Abel’s rough fingers tighten over my mouth.

  Another hoofbeat on stone.

  Then more, this time moving away.

  The clops fade into the hum of the city.

  Abel steps back and throws his cloak over his shoulder. “Now, where were you off to before the Venon brutes scared you down my alley?” He adjusts his mask a little higher on his nose.

  Still slumped against the wall, my pulse throbs through my limbs as I stare up at him. The morning breeze is abruptly chilly where he no longer touches me. I open and close my mouth several times, trying to get a grip on what just happened. “You’ve been following me.”

  Those eyes crinkle with humor. “Of course I haven’t.”

  My brows rise up my forehead, and I try to shake myself. I have to get out of here. Get to the stables. Away from him, of all people. I reach for the book in my pocket and let out a breath. Still there.

  “Funny you’d be running from him. He is the newest, most eligible bachelor. I’m surprised you’re not falling all over yourself for a chance to garner his attention.”

  “What?” It comes out nearly as a gasp, the idea so revolting I can barely control my expression.

  “No? Isn’t that your play? You’re a young noble lady, aren’t you? Or are you so sure you’ll win the Prince’s affection that you won’t even entertain a backup?”

  Bile climbs up my throat. “Maurus is not fond of me, nor I of him.”

  “Oh?” His eyes dance with challenge. “That’s not what I heard. Rumor has it he’s made quite the offer for you already.”

  The sting comes swift and alarmingly intense. That brutal reminder that I’m merely a bartered good. I force my jaw to unclench. “That’s none of your business and, while I appreciate your…”—I scan the shadowed alcove—“timely abduction, I really must be on my way.”

  He catches my arm. “I think ‘thank you’ is what you mean, and I wouldn’t go that way if I were you. Listen.”

  I freeze. Distantly, the shatter of glass pierces the din.

  “They’ve just gone to the next, probably the pawnshop a few doors down. Unless you want to be spotted. Then, by all means, carry on.”

  I shoot him a scathing glare and turn sideways to squeeze past him towards the other side of the alley.

  He eases towards me, forcing my breasts to scrape across the buttons of his coat. Those eyes crinkle again, like he is immensely pleased with himself. “Where was it you said you were going?”

  “I didn’t,” I snap. The defiance sends a heady rush through me as I squeeze past him and step out into the early morning sun of the next street over. Except, when I turn right to resume my trek to the stables, I stare at a dead end. Damn, I’ll have to find a more roundabout way…

  Boots crunch behind me and his heated breath tickles the back of my neck. “If you tell me where you’re going, I might even escort you myself. My plans for this morning have been… altered.”

  I glance over my shoulder, remembering how silently he’d moved last night. Had he purposefully made his steps audible just now as a courtesy? Did rebels even do courtesy? I search his face for the murderous glint that has to be there, somewhere, hidden under all that charisma, the mask, and the sweet smell of horses. “And what plans were those?”

  “Well,” he says cheerfully and tucking his hands into his trouser pockets with the innocence of a strolling gent, “you tell me and I’ll tell you.”

  I narrow my eyes, but I want this over with. The sooner I make my way, the sooner I get rid of this book, the sooner all my problems go away. “The stables.”

  His head cocks like he’s trying to pick out the lie. “Alone? On foot? Why not have your servants fetch that black beast of yours for you?”

  “Explaining why wasn’t part of the deal.”

  He laughs and it might be the most incredible sound I’ve ever heard. Full of honest joy and ease that burns me with jealousy. “If you must know, I was terribly interested in what our lovely friend Maurus is looking for and if he’d found it. There’s a rumor floating around about a particular book. I’d very much like to know what’s in it. Consider it a… rebel curiosity.” He winks.

  I flush and curl my fingers around the book in my pocket. “And the directions?”

  “That, as you so recently pointed out, wasn’t part of the deal.” His eyes flash with devilish glee. “But I will escort you, if you’re so inclined.”

  I narrow my eyes. I should say no, immediately. I should go home, toss the book.

  He extends a hand, his sleeve riding up enough to expose the edge of a leather bracer beneath. “I assure you, we’ll stay out of sight, but well within earshot of a half a dozen guards, should you find me anything less than a gentleman.”

  I’m struck by what a gentleman he appears. A sharp, finely tailored tailcoat and waistcoat. An elaborately tied cravat. A pitch black top hat. If it weren’t for that mask and the hidden leather bracer, he’d be the picture of a high noble. How curious.

  I slide my hand into his rough, calloused palm. “Show me.”