As soon as Aris disappears into The Cat’s Cradle, I turn back to the others. I’m half expecting them to whisk me away and leave Aris to fend for himself in that den of debauchery. But Royce must want that coin first.
He waits a minute after Aris has entered before he turns to Rhat. “At the first sound of a scuffle, get in and then get out.” With that, he’s gone, disappearing into the building.
I shake my head.
Rhat looks like he wants to say something, but he stays silent, instead turning his attention to the tavern.
After a few moments, shouts erupt inside.
“I guess that’s our cue,” Rhat says.
He tucks me under his arm and steers me toward the pub.
We barely make it inside before we’re hit with shards of a broken chair being smashed over a nearby man’s head. Rhat tries to shield me, and we fall back against the now-closed door.
A bar runs along the left side of the room, while tables and chairs—which are currently being used as both weapons and shields—are situated in the rest of the room. The tavern smells of cheap ale, and the air feels sticky. Everyone has some sort of weapon in their hand and is in the middle of attacking someone else.
The din in the room is unimaginable. Glass bottles break into shards, which are then crunched under stomping feet. Men cry out as they fall to the floor and become covered in the broken glass.
A man with two side-by-side scars in the shape of Xs on his forehead spins Rhat around, but his eyes shift to me.
I realize too late that I shouldn’t have looked up at him. His bulging eyes open and close several times to process what he’s seeing beneath my hood. Before he can react further, Rhat punches him, sending the man reeling back into the fray.
“Where’s the—” Rhat starts to say before another set of hands grab him from behind, sending me off balance as well.
I fall backward, landing on an overturned table. I roll to the side to avoid being crushed by a set of tall black boots, then scramble away, taking shelter under one of the last standing tables. Pain radiates through my palms. A quick look confirms the worst.
Broken glass has torn my gloves to shreds, and small lines of crimson blood stain the fabric. I pick several bits of glass out of my skin, wincing with each one.
I peek out from under the table looking for anyone familiar. At this point, I’d almost even be happy to see Royce.
It’s like staring into a sea of chaos. Heads duck and reemerge several paces over. Teeth get knocked out and fly through the air. Grunts and groans turn into a form of communication after listening to them long enough. One man stumbles forward, blood trickling out of his mouth and staining his beard. He smiles at me, displaying a gap where his front teeth should be. Then he collapses.
I look up to avoid looking at him.
Along the rafters, several cats perch, their tails hanging down like chandeliers.
I don’t have time to watch them long. When I dare glance down, a break in the chaos reveals a door opposite the one I’d come in. Something tugs inside me. I know that’s where the gold is.
I look at my gloves. Only the fingers are intact. I’ll have to be very, very careful not to touch the gold with my bare skin. But this might be my only chance to get the gold without Royce or Rhat there to take it away from me.
I scan once more for Aris. When I don’t see him—or anyone I recognize—I make a decision I hope I don’t regret and charge toward the door.
I rush through the crowd without incident and shove the door shut behind me. The silence is deafening compared to the room outside.
This part of the building looks to be both the storeroom of the tavern and the owner’s living quarters judging from the pallet laid on the ground with blankets thrown over it. Tall barrels and several crates are stacked under the two small windows at the back of the room. A candle sits on each windowsill, casting flickering light. The bare gray walls close the room in like a miniature fortress.
My eyes adjust to the light while I search for the aura of the missing coin. I spot it coming from some additional blankets strewn about the floor.
I reach for the blankets, but stop. There’s an orange cat curled up in them. The aura is coming from beneath the cat, shining through the floorboards.
The cat whisks its tail back and forth, watching me more intently than Royce does.
I go to reach for it. The cat gets to its feet and hisses before striking a paw in my direction.
I stumble a few feet back.
“Come on, kitty,” I say, holding my hand out to it.
It hisses again.
I hiss back in frustration. I’ve never had much luck with animals back in the palace either, as if even they can sense the curse inside me. My father’s old hunting dogs would howl uncontrollably whenever I got too close. The cats in the stables would hiss and arch their backs at me. Even the horses would thrash if I tried to rub their noses. One poor pageboy was thrown from his mount just because I’d ventured too close one day.
The cat before me continues to whisk its tail back and forth, seemingly counting off the seconds until someone bursts into the room and corners me. Outside the door, men shout, and there’s a loud crashing noise.
I reach for the blanket the cat’s standing on.
The cat’s eyes glint. It leans forward, ready to spring. Its claws dig into the blanket, and I don’t want them digging into me.
I untie my cloak and whip it around in front of me. The cat leaps. I manage to catch it in my cloak, bundling the thick fabric around the animal. It squirms and scratches, trying to break free from the wool, but eventually quiets. In fact, after a few seconds, the cat curls up inside the cloak, and I swear I can hear the cursed thing purring. I place the bundle in the corner, praying the cat doesn’t leap out before I can find the coin.
Rushing back, I kick the blankets out of the way. I try lifting several floorboards until I find one that gives way, and in the darkened hole is a metal box. I pull it up and set it on the floor. The gleam from the coin inside seeps out.
I take a deep breath and flip open the lid. Coins from every nation sit atop several frayed papers. In the middle of the pile is the stolen coin.
It gleams brighter than any currency in the box, inviting me to touch it, to pick it up, but the memory of turning the guard to gold rushes to the forefront of my mind. Hands on either side of the box, I shut my eyes and steady myself.
Standing near the golden table in the tower was one thing. This is entirely another. I’m about to pick up a piece of gold wearing thin gloves. Torn gloves. I haven’t touched gold since that fateful day in the tower, and now that the moment is here, I can’t help but be terrified.
Your father needs you, I remind myself. You can do this.
I reach for the coin before I lose what’s left of my courage. But before I grab it, the door behind me bursts open.
A small man, no taller than me, rushes in. His spectacles rest uneasily on his pointed nose, and an orange glow reflects off the top of his balding head
For a moment, I think the glow is a reflection of either my skin or the coin, but neither could cast light that far.
That’s when I see the source. Behind the man, flames spread across the building and up the rafters long since deserted by the cats. Spilled drinks have caught the tendrils of fire and turned the floor into a maze of flames. I see the brawlers hurrying outside through the smoke that casts the entire room in a dark haze. The cat I threw into the corner makes its own mad dash out the door between the man’s feet.
“He said you might come for the coin,” the man says. He steps in my direction.
I don’t need to bother asking who the man is referring to.
“I was hoping he was right,” he adds. “I’ve heard your veins run gold.”
He produces a small knife, and I take a few steps back. I shut the lid of the box and hold it up defensively.
Another man appears, towering over the little man and blocking the entire doorway with his body.
I clutch the box to my chest. My heart pounds louder the closer the coin gets to it. “The coin belongs to me,” I say. I try to keep my breathing even. From the glimpse I’d gotten of the other room, everyone else has fled. I’m on my own.
“That coin was given to me for services rendered,” the little man replies. He eases further into the room. The bigger man follows.
“Don’t come any closer.” I hold the box like I’m ready to swing it.
“Get me that box back,” the shorter man says to the larger, “and then subdue her.”
The larger man takes a few tentative steps forward.
I’m out of options; the box is the only weapon I have. Without looking, I fling open the lid, reach down, and wrap my fingers around the gold coin.