fight the sudden
ache.
She’d once overheard her mother
say that Zane could charm the fish from the streams and a tiger out of a tree.
Lia believed it. She believed he could charm a dragon, if he wished. It was one
of her deepest fears.
The
horses were quiet now. They smelled her, they sensed her, but the change felt
like a balm in the air. The need to bolt was gone. The carriage door opened a
crack. Animal tamer, master thief: he wrapped a hand around the edge of the
wood and held it in place, his sleeve and shoulder outlined with sun. The
interior of the coach lit like a flame.
“Do me a favor,” Zane said.
“Don’t come out.”
And before she could answer, the
door closed to darkness again.
It did not occur to him until
that afternoon to ask her which way to go.
He’d held his peace up on the
driver’s perch again, keeping an eye on the horses and the road. Without
discussion, the Romanian coachman had crossed the Danube and pulled them out of
Pest. It was what they had agreed upon days earlier, to head deeper into the
vineyards and woods, to head for the mountains. It was what Rue had suggested
in her sparse rice-paper note, after all.
But he had within his grasp a
living, breathing compass to what he sought. At least that was what she’ d
claimed.
For a very long while, Zane only
stared at the rump of the horse hitched in front of him.
He did not want to ask her.
The entire business of Lady
Amalia Langford made him uneasy. Despite what she’d said, he wouldn’t be
surprised if he awoke one night soon to a knife—or worse—at his throat from one
of her exuberant family members. Clearly she’d been planning her escape for
some while. It seemed unlikely not a single member of the drákon had
noticed her behavior.
He studied the rough countryside
just beginning to unfurl from the clutches of the city. Everything was cold and
raw and damp, burnt colors that blended up into clouds and hazy sky. She did
not belong here, just in the way a precious gem did not belong with dirt or
stones. It put them both at risk. He’d seen it already in the coachman’s face,
in that of the hotel workers, even in her swains at the ball:
She was different. Her body, her
face. The way she moved, as if the very ground did not exist beneath her feet.
Different.
Intoxicating.
Dangerous.
God. It’d be a bloody miracle if
the peasants didn’t end up tossing torches at them as they passed.
The carriage jolted through a
rut, and Zane thinned his lips. He was overreacting. Another bad sign. He was
used to operating alone, in the dark, letting his spiders spin webs for him
while he remained hidden in corners, directing, reaping. He’d let greed tempt
him out into the open, greed and curiosity, and now it truly appeared he would
suffer the consequences.
But he had come all this way.
Damned if he was going to run home now with his tail between his legs just
because some brown-eyed sylph had latched on to him and would not let go.
He did not want to think about
this. He didn’t want to think about her at all, with her primrose skirts and
her trunks stacked over his and her hair glinting summer gold by the cool
autumnal sun.
She had
duped her people and broken away from Darkfrith, which meant she was crafty.
She had journeyed alone all the way to Hungary, which meant that she was
audacious, if not reckless. She’d willfully ignored the rules of her kind—barbarous
rules, ironclad rules—which meant she might be desperate.
She had found him at the hotel.
She had lured him to the ball.
She had worn a dress that shaped
her in ways he’d never dreamed a woman could be shaped; she’d tilted her head
and smiled at him and sent a goddamned tremor down into the marrow of his
bones.
She was dangerous.
And it would be foolish not to
ask her.
He glanced at the
coachman—bearded, wrapped in scarves, as fine a gypsy as Zane had ever seen—
and then turned around in his seat. He opened the panel inset behind him,
showing a
ache.
She’d once overheard her mother
say that Zane could charm the fish from the streams and a tiger out of a tree.
Lia believed it. She believed he could charm a dragon, if he wished. It was one
of her deepest fears.
The
horses were quiet now. They smelled her, they sensed her, but the change felt
like a balm in the air. The need to bolt was gone. The carriage door opened a
crack. Animal tamer, master thief: he wrapped a hand around the edge of the
wood and held it in place, his sleeve and shoulder outlined with sun. The
interior of the coach lit like a flame.
“Do me a favor,” Zane said.
“Don’t come out.”
And before she could answer, the
door closed to darkness again.
It did not occur to him until
that afternoon to ask her which way to go.
He’d held his peace up on the
driver’s perch again, keeping an eye on the horses and the road. Without
discussion, the Romanian coachman had crossed the Danube and pulled them out of
Pest. It was what they had agreed upon days earlier, to head deeper into the
vineyards and woods, to head for the mountains. It was what Rue had suggested
in her sparse rice-paper note, after all.
But he had within his grasp a
living, breathing compass to what he sought. At least that was what she’ d
claimed.
For a very long while, Zane only
stared at the rump of the horse hitched in front of him.
He did not want to ask her.
The entire business of Lady
Amalia Langford made him uneasy. Despite what she’d said, he wouldn’t be
surprised if he awoke one night soon to a knife—or worse—at his throat from one
of her exuberant family members. Clearly she’d been planning her escape for
some while. It seemed unlikely not a single member of the drákon had
noticed her behavior.
He studied the rough countryside
just beginning to unfurl from the clutches of the city. Everything was cold and
raw and damp, burnt colors that blended up into clouds and hazy sky. She did
not belong here, just in the way a precious gem did not belong with dirt or
stones. It put them both at risk. He’d seen it already in the coachman’s face,
in that of the hotel workers, even in her swains at the ball:
She was different. Her body, her
face. The way she moved, as if the very ground did not exist beneath her feet.
Different.
Intoxicating.
Dangerous.
God. It’d be a bloody miracle if
the peasants didn’t end up tossing torches at them as they passed.
The carriage jolted through a
rut, and Zane thinned his lips. He was overreacting. Another bad sign. He was
used to operating alone, in the dark, letting his spiders spin webs for him
while he remained hidden in corners, directing, reaping. He’d let greed tempt
him out into the open, greed and curiosity, and now it truly appeared he would
suffer the consequences.
But he had come all this way.
Damned if he was going to run home now with his tail between his legs just
because some brown-eyed sylph had latched on to him and would not let go.
He did not want to think about
this. He didn’t want to think about her at all, with her primrose skirts and
her trunks stacked over his and her hair glinting summer gold by the cool
autumnal sun.
She had
duped her people and broken away from Darkfrith, which meant she was crafty.
She had journeyed alone all the way to Hungary, which meant that she was
audacious, if not reckless. She’d willfully ignored the rules of her kind—barbarous
rules, ironclad rules—which meant she might be desperate.
She had found him at the hotel.
She had lured him to the ball.
She had worn a dress that shaped
her in ways he’d never dreamed a woman could be shaped; she’d tilted her head
and smiled at him and sent a goddamned tremor down into the marrow of his
bones.
She was dangerous.
And it would be foolish not to
ask her.
He glanced at the
coachman—bearded, wrapped in scarves, as fine a gypsy as Zane had ever seen—
and then turned around in his seat. He opened the panel inset behind him,
showing a
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