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My blood goes cold—I hadn’t even bothered to think that far ahead.

Ayan holds back a laugh, but Clover’s face softens with empathy. Apparently, she now knows how the young duke feels about her.

“Nothing’s going to happen,” she assures him. “If your cousin makes a move, I’ll stab him, all right?”

Bartholomew nods, but he’s obviously not any keener on the setup than I am. The truth is, selfish reasons aside, I’d feel better if Clover were going to stay in my room—away from Lawrence and his questionable reputation.

“They’re going to wonder what’s taking us so long,” I say. “We best get moving.”

“What about the rest of us?” Ayan asks. “What’s our cover?”

“We’ll keep it simple,” I answer. “Bartholomew, you’ll say you pose as Lawrence’s squire.”

The boy nods. “What’s my name?”

“What do you want it to be?”

Immediately, he answers, “Black-eyed Bart.”

“Black-eyed Bart?” I say, startled by his swift answer. “Is there a specific reason?”

Ayan grins at the young duke. “You’ve put some thought into this, haven’t you?”

“I think I can remember to answer to it.” A lopsided smile spreads across Bartholomew’s face. “And it’s a good criminal name, don’t you think? It has that pirate feel.”

“Black-eyed Bart it is.” I turn to Pranmore. “Are you still staying here?”

Pranmore shifts nervously. “I’d prefer to.”

This mission must be intimidating for the elf. I’ve dragged him right into enemy territory—though technically, he dragged himself.

“That’s fine,” I assure him, and then I turn to Ayan. “You can use your name.”

The High Vale looks uncomfortable. “That might not be the best idea. Maybe I should stay on the ship as well?”

“Why?” I ask sharply. “We’ll need your offensive magic if something goes awry.”

Obviously knowing something I don’t, he gives me a cryptic shrug. “Just a thought.”

“You’re going with us.”

“What about me?” Clover asks. “Can I use my name?”

“It’s probably not a good idea to use your real one.” Holding back a smile, I say, “How about…Penelope or Lucinda?”

As if Clover remembers our conversation from when we were waiting out the aynauth atop the rock, her eyes brighten. With a mischievous smile, she says, “All right, soldier. We’ll go with Penelope.”

The title is silken on her tongue, no longer a jab but an endearment.

It takes me a moment to compose myself, and when I turn back to the group, I find Ayan grinning at us with raised brows. “Care to share that inside joke with the rest of the group?”

“Not particularly,” I say gruffly. “Let’s go.”

Bartholomew stares at the scuffed wooden deck, and Pranmore studies me with an expression that looks a lot like pity. I ignore them both.

We make our way down the gangplank and find Captain Caldwell waiting for us.

“They’ve all gone to the tavern,” he says. “I’ll take you.”