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I eye the clouds building in the distance, hoping they head south.

“Do you want to camp outside the village or stay in the guard barracks?” Simon asks from atop the horse that he thankfully rides alone.

Clover is once again on Vidnar, and Bartholomew travels next to me in the wagon.

The boy loves his horse—he talks about him with such pride, it’s amazing he lets Clover ride him. The boy truly must be smitten with the lady-in-waiting.

“We’ll head to the guard barracks,” I tell Simon, looking away from the impending storm. “Let the men sleep in real beds tonight.”

And Clover.

I’ve slept outside her tent every night, and it’s become a strange sort of torture. Not only does she mumble in her sleep, but she also sighs, shifts, and stirs.

I should let someone else take a shift, but I cannot bring myself to leave her. At first, I told myself it was because I had to stay close in case she decided to wander off by herself and do something nefarious in the dead of night.

But if I’m honest, it’s because I like the way Clover calls my name when something startles her awake—as if my presence alone is enough to soothe her worries.

It’s…concerning.

“You heard the captain,” Simon calls to the group. “Into the village.”

Veterans of the supply run holler greetings to the guards they recognize when we reach the open gates.

“Hello, Simon,” one of the guards says. “Last trip before winter?”

“I certainly hope so,” he replies, hanging back to speak to the man.

The guard’s eyes linger on Clover, who’s paused just ahead to study an old Vallen totem at the side of the entrance. “Who’s the girl?”

“Lady Clover, one of Camellia’s ladies-in-waiting.”

“What’s she doing on a supply run?”

That is an excellent question.

“Who cares?” Simon replies flippantly. “She’s better to look at than the rest of these boarkers.”

Clover laughs under her breath, obviously within earshot of the conversation. She then turns my way, catching me watching her, and smirks. Apparently, she likes the idea of lumping me in with the “boarkers.”

I turn away just in time to see the guard raise his brows suggestively in Clover’s direction as he says, “The king is providing you with entertainment now, is he? Maybe I should volunteer for the next run.”

“Now just a minute—” Bartholomew begins before Clover cuts him off.

Looking over sharply, she purrs, “You want to see how entertaining I can be, guard?”

Then, without the slightest hesitation, she pulls the bow from her back, nocks an arrow, and aims it at the man. “Let’s play a little game.”

“Lady Clover,” I begin wearily, not believing she’ll actually shoot—but that’s a mistake.

Before I can finish my sentence, she releases the arrow. It flies past the man and embeds itself in the wooden post next to his head, so close the fletching smacks his ear as it settles.

Lowering her bow, Clover gives him an innocent look. “Shame. I missed.”

“Clover,” I repeat more sternly this time.

The guard stares at her, stupefied andangry.

She pulls another arrow from her quiver. “I’m better with moving targets. Why don’t you run, and we’ll see how I do?”