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Those blue eyes blazed, startled and fearful. And I knew.

I just knew: He believed me.

His eyelids fluttered like wings and floated shut. When he woke up later, he would think me a fantasy. A delusion.

I veered back. I’d really just done that. To a knight!

Punk swirled, tchurring at me in horror. This skewed the plan, but what had we expected? That I could go through with it and not anticipate using the oil to knock someone out? That I wouldn’t need defenses to get past obstacles?

Plucking the stick key and hauling myself up, I reattached the hatchet to my nape, then sprinted into the birches for the one he’d thrown, clicking it to my calf. I grabbed my hat and whirled to face Punk.

I gave her a pleading look. “I had no choice. But he’ll be all right.”

She knew why I needed to go through with this tonight, but if she refused to come with me now, I’d understand. She wasn’t a minion to me.

After a moment, she made a deflated noise and pecked my cheek delicately. I answered with a smile. “Thank you.”

She twirled and soared toward the wagon. Over my shoulder, I checked on the beautiful knight. The vapors from the oil wouldn’t harm him. The worst they’d do was keep him under for a couple of hours.

And the best-case scenario was that he’d really believed my speech.

And that I’d never see him again.

If he didn’t believe me, he’d be on the hunt later. But the lower town and citadel were large places. We could go a lifetime without seeing each other.

However, if we did cross paths, I’d have to get creative.

I’d have to tell the best lie of my life.

I hedged. His fair skin glowed as he slept beside the grave, his hair cast in moonlight. Lying there, waiting to be awakened, he looked more like a fairytale than I did.

From someplace behind, Punk tweeted. I walked backward, still staring at him, at the pale branches and maize foliage clustered around him.

Then I lurched around and fled into the trees.

I had a castle to loot.

6

Fantasy

Retrieving the wagon, I drove from the cemetery and hid the vehicle amongst a mesh of bramble bushes, where the mule munched on some crabapples that I’d brought with me. That would keep his hew-haws to a minimum.

Tucking my hat under the bench and flipping the cape’s hood over my head, I crossed the field toward the castle wall, stopping at the beech tree door from earlier today. Fitting the stick replica to the bark, I opened the trunk and passed through. I’d have to burn this key once I finished with it.

Down the corridor, Punk traveled ahead of me, then returned and tweeted in a low-key tone. No guards ahead. I nodded to her and rushed through the tunnel. Climbing the second set of stairs, I nudged the next tree door, enough for Punk to slip through. My hands quivered, sending a little clatter echoing around me. Irritated with myself, I wiped my palms together to stop the noise.

At the bird’s next chirp, I crept into the empty courtyard.

The nightly patrol hadn’t come through here yet.

We kept this routine going. I’d glance up, waiting as the woodpecker shot into the air, surveying the battlements and quads along my route. She’d flap within torchlights so that I could see her, then she’d fly in certain patterns that either told me to halt or dash from one corner to the next.

I knew which route to take, from my one and only visit inside the castle. Yesterday, when I’d made an important delivery to the Crown, I’d put the final touches of my plan into motion, including committing this path to memory, with Punk’s help.

We headed to the training yard. On the lawn, spokes, mauls, pennants, and targets painted on flats balanced against the railings. And just outside the fence rose a magnificent trebuchet, a warfare machine with an assembly of pulleys and levers.

How did it work? How could it work better?