I put one foot in front of the other and only by the grace of Beck’s night vision do we find our way through the dark tunnel. A cold, dripping damp seeps into my bones, and the wretched odor of wet rot is inescapable; it makes me feel like I’ll never be warm again. Even though I can’t make out his outline, I sense Beck two paces ahead, and move toward his body heat, toward the comfort of his salt-and-leather scent.
I’m not sure how far we’ve gone, or how far we still have to go. I just walk. I try not to think about how infinite the darkness seems. If I focus on it too hard, I can almost feel it crawl into my nostrils, slither down my throat, fill my lungs with every inky droplet of its absolute nothingness.
Beck’s footsteps are soft, even-paced, almost rhythmic. It’s as if he knows I’m balancing on a hair-thin wire and need an anchor. I close my eyes and walk—left, right, left—in time with his steps, trusting that he’s not going to break pace, or lead me off an unseen cliff.
But it’s been too long. We’ve walked too far. It’s hard to keep the panic out of my head as the ground wedges uphill toward the ceiling. The walls feel like they’re creeping in on me. My right hand brushes against a wet, rocky wall, and I shudder. I feel stubborn roots against my boots, drips of boggy water on the back of my neck, and the sense of being willingly buried alive tightens like a vice around my ribs.
And then Beck’s footsteps stop. I stop, too, and not even his residual body heat is enough to calm my racing heart. I hear the scrape of something soft against something uneven—like fingers scratching against splintered wood. But that can’t be right. The notion that an underground tunnel from the estate would be sealed only by a wooden door is insane. But then the door opens, and light hits us—moonlight, bright against a dazzling backdrop of stars.
I follow Beck through the door and take the deepest breath of the sweetest air I’ve ever smelled. Behind me, Beck latches the door, and when I turn, I see nothing but a tree, one of many in the surrounding woods. It’s clever, really. Unless the tree caught fire, of course—though, I imagine that if this tree caught fire, there would be bigger problems afoot.
“This way,” he whispers, pointing over his shoulder. Now that we’re outside in the silvery, bright moonlight, his footfalls are absorbed into the nightly sounds of the estate. Still, I keep about two paces behind him, mirroring his steps as we ghost through the woods.
I don’t have a clue where we are, but he’s so sure-footed, I don’t doubt that he does. At one point, I think I see a tree that looks familiar. Maybe we’re close to his cabin? I wonder what he’s leaving behind. That little wooden wind-up clock—I wonder if it’s important to him? Or if it’s even his? He won’t be able to return for it—hell, he’s still in his tuxedo, though at some point, he ditched the bowtie. A fake kidnapping was clearly not on his agenda this evening, and a rush of guilt races through me.
A dark line rises from the horizon ahead, blocking more and more of the sky as we get closer. Butterflies flap around in my stomach. I do my best to ignore them, but it’s obvious where we’re headed.
He stops us when we stand along the edge of the shadowy, towering hedge maze. Beck raises his eyebrows and nods at me. If anyone’s looking, they’ll see us: two shadows moving amongst the behemoth wall of plants. We’d have to be stupid, or insanely fast, to escape notice. I have to assume this is part of his plan, that he wants us to be seen. Beck’s anything but stupid, and Declan’s words float back to me: “Do you trust him?” I take a deep breath to brace my nerves. Let’s hope we’re fast. I don’t want to think about what happens to Beck if we get caught.
I nod back, and he shoots around the corner. I follow, keeping my head down, trying to disappear into the shadows of the tightly leafed branches as we race to the maze’s entrance. In my periphery, I see a flicker of movement in the direction of the estate, and I push my fear into my feet, chasing after Beck. The length between us grows as the entrance looms near. Beck reaches the corner first and looks over his shoulder, stretching his hand back for me. I reach out for him, and at the first sound of the distant gates clanking, he takes off in a run, pulling me behind him.
He’s fast. More so than I expected. I have to focus on my breathing in order to keep up. He runs with his right hand along the hedge, and turns every time he reaches the end of the wall. Even when we reach a dead-end—which happens time and again—he uses his right hand to guide us back out and to the right. Always to the right.
“Do you know where you’re going?” I ask.
“Out.” His voice is breathy, but not overexerted. He skates along the edges of the contained courtyards, running around me like a trapped rodent. It’s almost funny. Almost. Still, I follow, even as clouds cover the moon and shadows envelop everything. A few stray stars peek through as we go right, right, right.
“We’re not getting anywhere,” I say, standing in the center of the fifth dead-end we’ve hit. He runs around the perimeter, and then stops in front of me, close enough that I can smell his briny perspiration soaking through his white shirt.
“This is how you get out of a maze,” he says between breaths. I open my mouth to tell him it’s ridiculous, but he raises his hand and says, “This is how I found you.”
My stomach clenches, imagining him running through the freezing rain, searching in the dark and the cold, all because I got lost.
“It’ll take us out one way or another. Just stick to one wall. Better than getting lost and not knowing where we’ve been.” I nod and pick up my pace, letting my own fingers drag through the prickly leaves.
A howl floats across the air, distorted through the branches. He takes off in a sprint, and I struggle to make my legs work fast enough.
“Is that—”
“Dogs,” he says.
“They know we’re gone?”
“Probably looking for the would-be kidnapper.”
“What if he’s out here?” I ask.
“I doubt that very much. He’s probably in that damn house playing the part he’s been paid to. Gambling or boozing or . . .” He doesn’t finish his thought.
“What if he’s not?” I ask.
“Better run faster,” he says. So we do.
“Oof,” I say, nearly crashing into him as we hit yet another dead-end. My right side aches, and my mouth is cottony. My curls are slick with sweat, flopping in dense clumps into my face. I tuck them behind my ears with my left hand, afraid to let my right fall away from the wall. I understand now why Beck keeps his hand there: touching this wall is the only thing grounding me, giving me a sense of control. As long as my hand keeps sliding along these leaves and needles, I know where I’ve been, where I’m going. I’m not even tempted to turn down the auspicious-looking paths.
We follow the wall as it bends right, right, left, right. The turns are endless, and the ground is uneven. I keep my eyes trained on Beck’s white shirt as we run on and on, using it as a beacon. Left, left, left, then right, right, left, right, all while the barking behind us gets louder. My lungs pump air through my body, and my throat and stomach ache with the exertion as my pulse flies. And then, light—dim, but certain, at the end of a corridor: an opening. Beck turns his head to me, a hesitant smile on his face.
“One way or another, we’ve found an exit. Stay here.” I nod and stand where I am, hands on my knees as I suck in air. He races ahead, letting go of the wall, charging for the apparent exit. It’s a lot farther than it looks. After about a minute, his figure is a small silhouette in the middle of the light. He turns around and waves me forward, his white shirt glowing. I hesitate for a moment, feeling the fear of being completely unanchored from the wall. The barking is louder now; there’s no time for fear. I swallow a deep breath, let go of the wall, and run.
Growls and bays carry through the maze, and I run faster than I knew I could. But another sound grows louder still: a roar that drowns out the hounds. It explodes into the deafening crash of water, just below where Beck stands, panting, on the threshold.
The river. I look out through the exit and freeze, remembering everything Declan said about the river that lies beyond. Ten feet away is a wild, frothy section of water I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.
“Now what?” I ask, bent over with my hands on my knees, trying to slow my breath and calm my lungs.
“This way,” Beck says, tilting his head downstream. A narrow, rocky ledge skates between the outermost hedge and the wildly churning river. I can’t tell how far it goes, but Beck hugs the wall and tells me to do the same. There’s only about twelve inches, give or take, between the ledge and the wall.
“Grip the sturdier branches,” he shouts, which is easier said than done. The river is especially frenetic here, and the hedges are slick with overspray. I wrap my fingers around a prickly branch and tug. It gives, biting into my skin, but not too much. The dogs are loud now, just inside the maze. There’s only one choice. I squeeze the branch and take my first step onto the precipice.
It’s slow work, finding branches strong enough to hold my weight, and then a dry spot for a decent foothold. After a few missteps and a near fall, thanks to a broken branch, I find a decent rhythm. Beck makes better time, but I keep moving, slow and steady.
“You’re almost there,” he calls, and I look up to see him leaning over from behind the corner of the wall. He’s made it. I nod and take another step, but the ground gives, crumbling beneath my toes. I slip.
I grab onto a thick branch, but it’s too flexible. It bends, dipping me closer to the water. The branches creak, the river roars, and over it all, the hounds bay, while I dip further and further toward the rapids. I scramble and squeeze a stronger branch with my free hand, feel the still healing blisters tear against the branch knots. Pushing my steady foot into the rocky ledge, I hang by my opposite foot and hand. My heart pounds as my dangling foot is soaked in violent spray.
“Focus,” Beck shouts, his voice tense but cool. I grab another thick branch and pull. It’s stronger, and my muscles shake from the effort. My loose foot finds solid ground as I regain my balance. I pause just long enough to take a steadying breath, and then keep moving forward. I reach the corner and crumble toward the ground. Beck catches me before I can even think of taking a moment to rest.
“We keep going,” he says, his eyes cut with hard determination. I look back briefly as a narrow flicker of light streams from the maze. Beck steadies me on my feet, and we run.
The shadowy forest is full of sticks, rocks, and other things that seem specially crafted to hurt my feet. Thin glints of moonlight find their way through the canopy, spearing into the darkness, giving the woods a creepy sort of other-worldliness. Ahead, Beck walks with purpose—a man confident on a trail he knows.
“Have you done this before?” I ask.
“No,” he grunts, “but I know the way.”
“How?” He doesn’t answer, just keeps hiking, pushing us forward at a breakneck pace. He moves wordlessly, and time passes, noted in painful rocks underfoot and brambles catching in my hair. I start to wonder whether we’re lost, but then he veers to the left and takes us back to the river. He crouches next to the bank and reaches in. The force of the current against his stationary hand produces frothy spikes of white foam. I watch, waiting, as he cups the water in his hands, splashing it against his face.
“Don’t drink it,” he says, nodding at the river. “But it’ll feel good against your skin.” I nod and squat beside him. It’s a longer reach for me, and I worry I’ll topple in, but his hands curl around my waist, holding me safely to the ground. I scoop enough water in one hand to wet one cheek. He’s right. It doesn’t quench my thirst, but it does cool my face.
“Now what?” I ask, leaning back on my haunches as he lets go. I retie my hair and fan the back of my neck.
“Shouldn’t be much farther,” he says, scanning the immediate vicinity, as if he knows of something that should be here. He moves along the river, ducking into the murkier shadows among the trees when necessary. We wander like this for a while, striding through moonlight, and then ducking into darkness. There’s a rugged elegance to the way he moves. Maybe it’s the well-fitting shirt and tuxedo pants in the shafts of moonlight. Or maybe it’s how light his steps are, how capable and purposeful he is with his body. He stops and kicks something solid. It looks like a felled tree until he removes the branches covering it and reveals a small canoe.
“We’re going in that? Down that river?” I ask, hoping the shakiness in my voice sounds like I’m out of breath, and not like I’m terrified out of my mind. He looks up at me, and there’s enough light that I can see his amused smile.
“I’m a sailor, Arden. You don’t trust me to steer a canoe down a little stream?”
“If that’s a stream, then I’m your first mate.”
“Second.”
“What?”
“Second mate. I already told you about my crew. Shaz is my first mate. Position’s not available. You’re my second mate.”
“I said what I said,” I say. We both smile, but it’s different than before. For one slippery moment, it’s as if we both acknowledge that things between us are fundamentally changed. Then he snorts and shakes his head, hulking the canoe off the ground and over his shoulder in one sweeping motion.
“You coming?” he asks, moving down the bank, making it clear there’s really only one answer. I follow as he lowers the canoe and sets it to launch.
“Get in. Careful there, Capo.” Squatting down low, I place one foot inside the wooden vessel, followed the other. The canoe shifts, and I fly forward. I land on my knees, inside the canoe, and clutch at the bench seat.
“Elegant,” he says. I’m too nervous to laugh, but I can only imagine how ridiculous I must look, sprawled gracelessly over the thing. I shift to sit on the bench and feel the boat rock under my weight.
“How do we steer this thing?”
“Oars, on the sides.” Between the bench and the left side are two oars. I can’t see their condition in the shadows, but my expectations are not high. He takes a breath and pitches himself into the boat, sending it freewheeling into the current and careening downstream. I didn’t realize how fast the river was until now, and I swallow my stomach as it climbs up my throat.
“Beck,” I say, as we spin left, turning almost ninety degrees. “Oars! Put them in the holes!” My fingernails carve half-moons into the sides of the boat.
“Rowlocks.”
“What?” I shout over the water’s roar.
“Not holes. They’re rowlocks—dammit,” he says, pulling out first one oar, and then the other. He threads one through a hole—a rowlock—and then does the same with the other, all while we ricochet down the river.
“Ahh!” I yelp as we go down a sudden hill, almost sideways.
“Got it,” he says, gripping the oars and taking control of our direction. He faces me, and now I’m riding backward. I turn around, and not twenty feet ahead of us glint several frothy rapids, bright in the moonlight.
“Oh my God,” I say.
“Name’s Beck,” he shouts. I jerk back to face him.
“You’re making jokes?”
“Arden, I told you: you’re safe with me. I swear. Just hang on—and don’t turn around.” I watch him as he lowers his brows and sucks on the inside of his cheek. His eyes are wide and focused, the corners of his mouth upturned in eager anticipation of the coming battle. The boat plunges, and I fly off the seat, swallowing a small cry. I barely have time to steady myself before we lurch right, then left. The tail spins out as we plunge again. Beck never loses control of the oars, his grip tense, the tendons in his forearms taut. It’s bumpy, and terrifying, and water splashes my right arm, but then suddenly, it’s smooth.
“Don’t look,” he says. So obviously, I turn and do exactly that. A series of rapids more formidable than the ones we just navigated rears into view.
“Oh my God,” I say again.
“I told you, I’m good at this.” Bile rises in my throat, and I lean forward, placing my head between my knees to keep the vomit down. Beck chuckles. “Aw, that’s what all the girls say.” I squeeze my eyes shut tighter and ignore him.
We keep our breakneck pace, hurtling forward with the current. Beck’s oars only serve to right the boat, which makes us go faster. Even still, the next set of rapids seems to last forever. There’s less plunging, and more crazy steering, as well as some incredibly original cursing. My head jerks from side to side, until I feel scrambled and grateful I didn’t eat dinner. But then finally, the current calms, the sky brightens, and when I look up again, I can just make out an orange haze on the horizon.
“What’s that?” I ask, thinking of Declan’s shiny brass compass in my pocket, wondering how turned around I could possibly be while on a river. “That’s not the sun, is it?”
“Nope. It’s Rocky Point. Biggest port on the eastern coast. Nordania’s version of a hooker with a heart of gold.”
“Are we safe in the open?”
“Should be. People will be looking for a woman in a dress. All I need is an hour to get my crew together.”
“Your crew?” I ask. He cocks his head as he steers us to his left, pointing the canoe toward a dock.
“Well, yeah. How else do you think we get out of here?”