The hardest part of this job isnโt the stealing. Itโs the escaping. At best, it takes me two minutes to scale the wall out of the Royal Sector, but the night is cold, and myย ngers are starting to go numb. Dawn is only an hour o๏ฌ, and sentry spotlights slide along the high stone walls at irregular intervals. I clutch my fatherโs old apothecary pack tight under my arm, clinging to the darkness, waiting for an opportunity.
Several of the sectors have electricity in the wealthy areas, or so Iโve heard, but the spotlights here are brighter than any candle has ever beenโeven brighter than the bonย res the towns light to burn their dead.ย ๎ขeย rst time I saw them, I stared like a fool until I realized those lights meant danger. I spent days trying toย gure out some kind of pattern to the surveillance, until I admitted that to Weston. He snorted and said there was no pattern, just bored men spinning a light around a pole.
๎ขeyโve been spinning this light pretty steadily for the last hour.
Iย ex myย ngers and mentally adjust my estimate to three minutesโthen bite my lip and think.ย ๎ขe light has been returning to this section of wall at least every two.
Wes is probably at the workshop already, waiting. He can scale the stone wall in half a minute.ย ๎ขanks to his height, he can leap, catch the high spires with his treble hook, then brace against the wall to bounce to the top like a cat. Iโd be jealous, but itโs kind of entrancing to watch.
Not that Iโd ever tell him. Iโd never hear the end of it.
Entrancing, Tessa? Itโs just a wall. Nothing like this. And then heโd climb a tree or do a cartwheel o๏ฌย the workshop roof or walk on his hands.
And then Iโd have to punch him, because that would be better than him seeing the blush creeping out from under my mask, becauseย yes, all of that is equally entrancing.
I need to stop thinking about Wes.ย ๎ขis sentry light needs to stop spinning. I need to make my rounds, or weโll lose days of healing. Some people donโt have days. A few might not even have hours.
I have to get out of hereย rst. If Iโm caught with a pack full of Moonย ower petals, King Harristan and his brother, Prince Corrick, will tie me down in the palace gardens and let the birds peck out my organs.
Suddenly, the light stops, way down near the corner where the wall dips into shadow because of a slope. Itโs where the amateurs always try to make their escape.
Iโm not going to waste an opportunity. I tear out of my hiding place like a rabbit scared from a glen, my own treble hook already swinging. I canโtย ing it all the way to the spires like Wes can, but I can reach the brackets that sit midway.ย ๎ขe hook whistles up at the wall ahead of me, and I leap before it pulls taut. My boots scrape against the stone as I climb, slipping a little on the granite. I reach the bracket, the tiniest little ledge, but itโs enough to brace against while I pull the treble hook free and swing for the top. It clangs onto the spires, and up I go.
๎ขe light begins to move.
I suck in a breath and urge my feet to push me faster, higher.ย ๎ขe pack bounces against my ribs as my feet slip and shi๎ย against the wall. My hands are burning where the rope slides.ย ๎ขe light sweeps close, and itโs suddenly blinding.
๎ขen Iโm over the wall, half rappelling, half dropping to the forest ground like a sack of oats. I give the rope a jerk and the hook falls beside me, a little jingle in the gravel at the base of the wall. Dirt and debris cling to the homespun wool of my skirts, but I donโt dare move to brush it away. I can almost taste my heartbeat as I hold my breath and wait for the sentries to ring the alarm.
But no. Brightness glides along the edge as the light continues on its path. I swallow my heart and wind up my hook. A crescent moon hangs high in the sky, but the barest hint of purple gleams at the horizon, a reminder that I hesitated too long, and time grows short. I slip through the forest with practiced ease, my feet silent on the fallen pine needles. I usually smellย re from the woodstove by now, because Wes always beats me back. We have a system: he starts the kettle and grinds the petals so we can make the elixir, while I weigh and divide the powder into the appropriate dosage.ย ๎ขen he
bottles the liquid as itโs ready, I wrap it into our packs, and together we make our rounds.
But today, thereโs no smell of wood smoke.
I get to the workshop, and thereโs no Weston.
I think of that light stopping on the wall. My heart is in my throat again.
Wes isnโt stupid. He wouldnโt try the corner. I didnโt hear an alarm anyway.
But heโs still not here, and Iโm already late.
I light theย re and try not to worry. I can hear his voice telling me to keep calm.ย Mind your mettle, Tessa.ย ๎ขeyโre theย rst words he said to me on the night he saved my life, and heโs said them a dozen times since.
Heโsย ne. He has to beย ne. Sometimes we canโt meet at all, and one of us waits at the workshop forย ๎een minutes before running solo. Mistress Solomon occasionally keeps me late, brewing and measuring and weighing the herbal remedies that she promises her customers will workโbut they rarely do. Sometimes Westonโs master needs him at the forge early, because some spoiled sportsman needs a new sword or a horse has thrown a shoe. Itโs happened before.
But Wes was here earlier. And heโs always backย rst.
๎ขe workshop is tiny and warms quickly from theย re.ย ๎ขereโs no electricity out here, so the workshop is dim, but I donโt need much light for this. I busy my hands to keep from worry, grinding each petal into dust, careful to scrape every speck onto the tray of my scale. Even dry, theyโre fragrant.ย ๎ขe elites pay dearly for every fraction of an ounce, then waste it by drinking the elixir three times a day, even those who show no signs of disease.ย Preventive measures, the king calls it. Once a day is usually plenty, and I have my notes to prove it. Even Wes was distributing too much in the beginning, until I showed him that we could help far more people with less. My father would have called it a waste. A waste of good treatment when those who canโt a๏ฌord it are dying.
๎ขen again, my father was executed for treason and smuggling, so I donโt
call it anything at all. I just do what I can.
I glance out the window.ย ๎ขe purple horizon has taken on the faintest hint of pink.
I glance at the door, as if that will make Wes appear.
It doesnโt.ย ๎ขe kettle whistles. I divide the water into tiny measured cups and add half an ounce of ground petals to each, along with two drops of roseseed oil for the cough, which I measure out almost as carefully as the Moonย ower petals themselves. I try not to steal what I can come by honestly, but roseseed nearly costs me a weekโs wages, so I donโt even let Wes measure it.
Once the petals and roseseed have dissolved, I weigh in a bit of turmeric, which can bring down a fever enough to let the medicine work better, but I have to add a sprig of mint and a pinch of sugar, too. Adults donโt usually need much convincing to swallow the tincture, but we canโt risk wasting it on children who might spit it out.
From the Royal Sector, horns blast and shouts cry out, and I jump so hard that I overturn a cup.ย ๎ขeyโve caught someone.
Wes.
I should run and see. No, I should run and hide. My muscles refuse to do either.
Mind your mettle, Tessa.
I need to move. I need toย nish. When the Moonย ower is combined with the other ingredients, the elixir works betterโbut then theyโre only good for a few hours a๎er brewing. I need toย nish our rounds, even if I have to do it alone.
๎ขe horns continue to blow. Shouting echoes in the distance.ย ๎ขeyโre going to wake half the sector. My breath has become a low keening from my throat. I imagine Prince Corrick being called down to deal with the traitor.
๎ขe sentries arenโt gentle. Westonโs easy smile will be a grimace of pain. Iโll hear his screams from here.ย ๎ขeyโll tear him apart with the tiniest knives imaginable.ย ๎ขeyโll stu๏ฌย his mouth with burning coals.ย ๎ขeyโll feed him alive to the royal lions.ย ๎ขeyโll burn each limb, one by one, until he loses consciousness from theโ
โLord, Tessa, you hardly need me anymore.โ
I shriek and overturn another cup.ย ๎ขere he is, in the doorway, his blue eyes bright behind the mask, his smile easy.
Weston sees the mess Iโve made and rolls his eyes. โOr maybe you do.โ He moves forward and sets the cup upright. โDid you already put the powder in that one?โ
I donโt know if I want to hug him or hit him. Maybe both. โYouโre late. I heard the horns. I thoughtโI thought they caught you.โ
โNot today.โ He pulls the sleeves of petals from his pack, then follows them with three apples, along with a twist of sugared dough thatโs still warm from an oven. โHere.ย ๎ขe baker was out back scolding his daughter, so I swiped you some food.โ
He was late because he brought meย breakfast. Not just any breakfast either. Food from the Royal Sector will be theย nest imaginable.ย ๎ขe apples will be injected with honey, the twists of dough made with real butter and laced with cream and sugar.
My mouth opens. Closes. I frown and turn away. My throat is tight for an entirely new reason. โ๎ขatโs very kind of you, Weston.โ
โ โ๎ขatโs very kind of youโ?โ he sco๏ฌs. โMy, arenโt we feeling proper this morning.โ
โI need toย nish the elixirs.โ โIโllย nish. You eat.โ
โIโll eat in a minute.โย ๎ขe horns continue on the other side of the wall, but now I can ignore them. Probably another smuggler. Weโll likely see his skin suspended beside the gates tomorrow, a๎er the king and his brother are done with the body.
โFine.โ Weston takes an apple, kicks back in the only chair, and props his booted feet up on the worktable. He wears a wide-brimmed black hat above the mask that stretches over his eyes, but he tips the hat back now that weโre in the workshop. I only ever see him byย relight, so I canโt tell exactly what color his hair is, but he usually needs a shave by now, and the faint beard growth always seems reddish brown when he sits near a candle, matching the dusting of freckles near the edge of his mask.ย ๎ขe skin around his eyes is smudged with kohl or soot, making the blue brighter than any eyes Iโve ever seen. My own eyes are hazel green, my brown hair in a tight braid under my cap. Wes always says I look like a cat in my mask and my black jacket. Once, when I was feeling brave and cocky, I told him he should see me without the disguise so he knows what a proper young woman looks like, but his face went grave.
โNever,โ he said. โItโs too dangerous. If we know what the other looks like, the information can be gained under torture. I wonโt do that to you.โ He paused. โAnd I sure donโt want you to do it to me.โ
๎ขat was theย rst time I realized that Weston Lark probably isnโt his real name. He likely assumes Tessa Cade is fake, too, but itโs not. When we met two years ago, my parents had just been killed in front of me, and I was too racked with grief to come up with another name.
โYouโre quiet,โ says Wes. He loudly crunches the apple, and I want to smack it out of his hand. โWhatโs wrong?โ
โNothing.โ I bottle the elixir Iโve already madeโusually his jobโand pour new cups of water to begin the process again.
Behind me, I hear him shi๎ย out of the chair and stand. He comes close enough for me to catch his scent, like the woods and the cinnamon from the bakeryโbut also something heavier underneath, something unmistakably Wes. โTessa.โ
I jab an elbow into his midsection, and I have the satisfaction of hearing him grunt.
โWhat was that for?โ he demands. โYou made me worry.โ
โBut I brought you breakfast.โ His voice is rich and deep behind me. I ignore him.
He leans in until his breath brushes against the sliver of skin between my hair and the high neck of my jacket.ย ๎ขe other apple appears in front of me, wrapped up in his longย ngers. โItโs a reallyย goodย breakfast,โ he taunts.
I take the apple. Sugar dusts the skin. Itโs warm to the touch, and I wonder if the honey inside is warm, too.
Despite myself, I take a bite.ย ๎ขe honey is warm. โI hate you,โ I say with my mouth full.
โ๎ขatโll probably work out for the best.โ Heย icks my hat up a few inches and grins. โNow eat quick,โ he says. โWe have rounds to make.โ
