Page 59

“If you’re quick,” Mikros adds, “you can catch up to Florentius.”

I eye them, pulse racing.

Makarios drops his books onto my desk and draws a wooden pass from his belt. “He requested one too.”

“When?”

“Maybe fifteen minutes ago?”

I grab the pass and race through the gardens to the canal. Florentius is already making his way there... What if he’s caught sneaking onto the island? What if he’s unable to get there, distraught, bobbing in a rowboat alone?

I’ll catch up, follow quietly. Be there if he needs support.

See why Quin fears us going near the island.

With a lantern pilfered from the apothecary, I take a wobbly step into a damp boat. Redcloaks stop me at a lit checkpoint below the grand duke’s palace and cold eyes look me up and down, inspecting not only the narrow wooden pass but my boat, person, and belongings. Finally, the pass is handed back with a sharp nod and I row through the dark depths beneath the palace, out into the mist shrouding the north side of the royal city.

Moist air clings to my face and seeps quickly through the layers of my clothes. I retie my cloak, closer around me, and lift the lantern. I see only the dark, still water and moonlit mist a few feet in front of me.

Florentius, where are you?

A soft splash. An oar breaking the surface of the water? Is he close? Ahead? Dark, imposing stone walls and a crumbling cliff face rise from the mist as I head in the direction of the sound.

The other island. The one no one speaks of. Or leaves.

It looks like it might be as big as King’s Island, but it’s colder here. Wind whistles through broken windows. It’s dark, but for the hazy glow of light in one of the towers.

Another splash.

I lift the lantern to the water ahead, straining my eyes for a glimpse of the boat. “Florentius?” I call out softly.

A shadow shifts in the mist.

“Florentius?”

Low murmurs drift, barely louder than the soft lap of water against the boat. I freeze, lantern swinging in my grip as I search for the source, straining to catch the words. The voices are muffled, harsh—a conversation through clenched teeth. One not meant for others.

“But they’re allies. Why?”

“He’s no longer useful. The dead don’t talk.”

“Will we become loose ends too?”

“Shut your mouth and do your job.”

They draw closer; I can see their hulking forms through the gloom. My gut tightens. Quietly, I dip my oars into the canal and move towards the thicker mist. Better not be seen; better they not know they’ve been heard. My boat glides silently through the water, closer to the bank, and—

Bumps into another boat.

I let out a startled cry and wind gushes around me. In a blur of movement, a figure drops onto the seat beside me and crushes my back to their chest, an urgent palm pressed over my mouth.

My heart rams against my chest, and a nose brushes through my hair. An authoritative whisper. “Quiet.”

I stiffen as those other voices grow louder.

“Did you hear something? A cry?”

“What do you expect? We’re passing the island.”