It’s eerily quiet and still.
The only sound I can hear is my own breath as I run.
The cold chill of winter morning air pains my throat and lungs, but I welcome it. Because each breath brings me closer to Nico.
Silence permeates even as I get closer to the villages. The canal. It’s as if the entire island is drunk on moonroot, passed out and deep in blissful, dreamless sleep.
But that would be too easy, wouldn’t it?
If I’ve learned anything my seventeen years living on this unforgiving island it’s that if it comes too easily, there’s probably a catch. And the catch is always exponentially worse than the reward of whatever it was you were trying to get your hands on.
It’s two minutes past midnight when I reach the door. I’m shaking and hurrying and set to burst with everything from anger to guilt to I don’t even know what when Bronwyn throws the door open.
I jump to the side around the corner, fall flat against the brick wall. Don’t dare a breath.
“Psst!” she whispers. “Get in here.”
I sneak back and in through the door. Instantly, I’m hit with the sweet warmth of sugar cookies and cinnamon. We must be near the kitchen.
Bronwyn quietly shuts the door behind me. Then she crosses her arms, glares down at me.
I raise my eyebrows and smile sheepishly.
“You’re lucky I knew you’d be late.”
“I am lucky.” And I throw my arms around her, give her a tight hug.
She squeezes me back. “Follow me.” Everything is dark and quiet, the entire palace asleep.
We only walk a few steps before Bron stops again. Reaching into a closet, she pulls out a stack of clothes. “Here—put these on. Just in case. And be quick about it.”
I nod and pull the long gray skirt, white tunic, and apron over my black clothes. She pins the bonnet-type hat on my head. “Now you work here,” she whispers.
“Can you imagine?” And briefly my mind begins whirling … Raevald is here. Sleeping. And I’m here with twelve blades strapped to my belt. This could all end right now. Right here.
“Don’t you even think it, Veda Adeline.”
“What?” I actually shudder like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t.
“He’s not here. Once a month he goes on retreat to plan battles and things. Just him and his top army officials. No one knows the exact location. He returns tomorrow afternoon.”
“What?”
She nods. “Why else do you think I’d agree to this?”
That’s fair. Still … “My Moon, Bronwyn … That was the furthest thing from my mind.”
Brow furrowed, she nods as if to give a sarcastic Mm-hmm and then places her finger over her mouth as we pass through a set of sliding doors.
And it’s like we’ve entered a separate world.
The kitchen and workers’ areas were bleak and sterile, all white and gray, iron and brass.
This new side of the palace is … Well, it’s what my childhood books described heaven like: gold and pristine and spacious. The Sun’s image or light graces most every surface.
I don’t even realize I’ve stopped moving to gape when Bronwyn tugs me by the arm.
We skirt through winding hallways and ascend a long back staircase like two thieves on the run, quiet and stealthy as cats.
It’s when we round a corner that opens up into a lamp-lit hallway that Bronwyn stops.
I don’t notice she’s not alongside me until I’m several steps ahead and look back.
She points to a white double door with gold etching decorating the intricate inlay.
I mouth the words thank you.
She smiles in that soft, Bronwyn way, her light hair framing her face with the glow of a halo dancing down from her crown. And she truly is an angel.
She waves, turns around, and leaves.
That was the deal. She got me here, but it is up to Nico and me to get me out.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way. We’re not going to risk her cover. She’s already done enough and then some.
Sweet, brave Bronwyn.
I raise my knuckles to his door.
Knock lightly.
Footsteps pad their way closer from the other side.
One of the golden doorknobs turns.
Then … my Nico.
Like a tidal wave, those anxious wasps morph into the lightest, most delicate butterflies.
They’re different from the ones I’ve grown used to invading my space at unexpected and inopportune moments.
Dorian’s butterflies are deep, dark green and reflective, like a pantera’s scales under the sunlight. They’re menacing at first until you realize they’re harmless, and then you hope one lands on your hand. That it’ll stay there forever to keep you company. To protect you.
But Nico’s butterflies are the faintest pink, nearly white. Opalescent. Pristine and innocent and oh so lovely. They’re light and fluttery, and if I collected enough of them they’d envelop me in the softest blanket ever.
His hair’s a mess, there’s a scrape down the side of his forehead, a bruise over his cheekbone. But his eyes … dark, that of a stallion, so, so very strong.
He looks like he’s been through hell—and he might be thinking the same of me—but he’s smiling, and I’m doing everything I can to barely keep myself from bounding into his arms.
Nico offers his hand and I take it.
It’s so warm, so soft, so Nico.
And I’m home.