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11

Fantasy

The taper wobbled. I scrambled to keep it from tipping over and setting the blanket, or both of us, on fire. Then I blew it out and wrapped it in the sheet, to conceal the scent.

The drum of a fist assaulted the door while overlapping commands marched across the various parts of the quarter, snuffing out the town’s slumber. The troops had arrived in our sector.

I pictured one lofty man in particular. I imagined him leading the party, his winged movements riding the breeze. His crystalline eyes would peel back the darkness, attracting even the murkiest of figures out of hiding.

His honest aura would sense what others couldn’t. He would hear and smell the wind. That crown of blond hair and devoted marital ring would light the way.

Would he feel me nearby? What would the rediscovery of me do to his face? Or to the rest of him?

How would he handle me? Would his gaze strip me of lies? Stroke the truth from my lips?

The ramming outside didn’t sound like him, though I’d met him only once.

My ears picked up wood groaning and hinges screeching. I knew the moment my groggy mother had answered the call. The voices muffled. Boots slogged into the house. From the sounds of it, hands thrust open cupboards and turned over crates, searching high and low for Nicu, maybe inspecting Mother’s workshop, the saws and pegs of her trade.

The back door shrieked open.

Under our makeshift tent, Nicu and I gawked at each other—then darted out from under the blanket. Moonlight slashed through the cracks in the shed. The mule hee-hawed, the rusty pump of its lungs beckoning the intruder.

I peeked through a slit in the entrance. Whoever lumbered toward us, he or she lacked the grace of the First Knight. Also, this soldier had a bulkier frame.

Whipping around, I pushed Nicu onto the floor, wedging him against the mule’s haunch. “Don’t budge,” I said, then buried him under the hay knoll and flopped myself atop the mound.

I slumped and locked my body into position. I stared ahead with unfocused eyes, nothing but a piece of wood carved like a puppet, a product of Mother’s craft. Maybe a discarded toy for the mule.

Night flooded the shed, a burly shadow stretching across the ground. A steel object sliced the air and leather crinkled as the stalker patrolled the space. My peripheral vision espied the person’s sword swatting a few items out of the way. But really, the small area offered few suspicious corners in which to hide Royal runaways.

Beneath my ass, Nicu’s elbow dug into the right cheek. He wasn’t a tyke, but his short height made him easier to conceal.

Steps faltered, pausing at my side. I sensed the person’s gaze roaming my features, outlining my shape. My breath seized, my throat straining not to bob, my eyelids struggling not to flap.

No breathing. No blinking.

From above, a finger poked my chin. I gave no resistance, my head turning sideways. A snicker of amusement followed, the shadow straightened, and the door swept closed.

I waited, waited, waited.

Would the intruder ask Mother questions? Would she mention her woodskin timber girl? Would she wonder aloud where I’d gone off to?

The front door shut. Throughout the streets, men and women shouted to move on.

I sagged. Holy Seasons.

Punk flew into the shed but kept vigil by the door.

Nicu bumped me aside, popping from the straw and shaking fodder from his hair. “Did they find me?” he gasped.

“No,” I promised, tidying his thick layers, my fingers shaking.

It had been a close call. And all Nicu fancied was the freedom to explore his own world. To be capable of it. To learn that part of himself. The jester and princess loved their son, but maybe they loved him to a protective fault.

Not my problem. Yet I couldn’t stand the longing written all over Nicu’s face.

I wracked my brain. They hadn’t found him, so it might make sense to lay low, to stick close to home now that they’d gone. The Royal Guard would venture farther, into the wilds of Autumn if need be. They’d leave the lower town behind.