I needed more information. I’d have to open another box.

I didn’t exactly relish the thought. There was something seriously disconcerting about being a faded copy of yourself in your body, never mind traipsing about someone else’s memories. It would have been easier to take her on with a weapon in my hand. Instead, I was going to have to be sneakier than that.

First, I had to find a better hiding place before someone found me just standing there like an idiot. The tapestry pouch was still slung across my chest and it bumped heavily against my hip when I moved. I peered out of the murder hole. Twilight painted the sky blue and orange between the trees in the distance. Smoke rose from a small hut I assumed belonged to the blacksmith. The glow of the fire leaking out of the open door was fierce. On the right, a tall ash tree rose from cracks in the courtyard ground. Green leaves fluttered, partly obscuring the view of the stables along the wall of the inner bailey. Hay lay in piles outside and drifted between the loose wooden boards of the upper story. If I could swing into the tree and then jump onto the roof of the stable, I could hide in the hay loft.

Big if.

I crept up the stairs to the next floor, darting between torches to hide in the shadows of the corridor. The first arched oak door I came across was locked. The second opened onto a windowless room full of the sound of scurrying feet and claws. I slammed it shut again as quickly as I could. There were no tapestries on this floor, just a cold draft that snapped at the torches and the hem of my dress. It wasn’t until the next room that I found a window just big enough to fit through. The chamber itself was empty except for the smell of smoke. There was nothing here to threaten me but it still just felt wrong.

I hurried to the window, pulling open the wooden shutters. There were knights above me on the ramparts but they ought to be looking beyond the walls, not directly down into the heart of the castle compound. And it was dark enough that if anyone looked up, they shouldn’t be able to see me. The tree waved cheerfully from a few feet below. I swallowed. It was a lot farther than I’d thought, and the window was narrow. Almost too narrow.

I took off the tapestry bag and hung out of the window again. I swung it carefully, wincing at the light clinking of boxes as they shifted against one another. I swung it again, and again, until I had a good arc. I let go and it skimmed the outer twigs, catching on the tip of a heavier branch, and dangling precariously. I waited for a cry of alarm. When there was nothing but the steady strike of the blacksmith’s hammer, I straddled the stone sill.

“If I die I’m so going to kick Viola’s ass,” I muttered.

And then I let go. I wasn’t jumping, I was falling.

I grabbed at the tree, leaves slapping at my face, branches scratching my arms and yanking my hair. The air rushed at me. I finally got hold of a branch but it wasn’t strong enough to support my weight. It broke and dropped me onto the next branch, nearly putting my eye out. I clung there, cursing.

I could smell smoke and horses and hay. I reached out, straining muscles I didn’t know I had to grab the tapestry bag. When it was safely wrapped around my wrist, I crawled along the branch like an inchworm while the tree creaked warningly.

When I hit the roof of the stables, I was grinning. Aching all over and bruised, but still grinning. Mostly because no one had seen me and I wasn’t lying in broken pieces on the ground. I dug through the bug-infested thatch and wiggled inside, landing on a soft mound of hay that made my nose itch. The horses below me nickered and snorted. I lay still in the darkness for a long moment.

And then I did the only thing I could do, despite the nerves firing in my belly and along my spine. I reached into the bag and pulled out a random box. It was wooden and set with colored enamel pieces in a mosaic of a lady with a dragon curled up beside her and a knight kneeling to them both.

I opened it, thinking of Kieran.

1198

Viola waited for Tristan on the hilltop, the wind blowing her woolen cloak behind her, revealing glimpses of her green surcoat. Ice glinted on every blade of grass, crunching like broken glass under her horse’s hooves. A hawk circled overhead with a high-pitched shriek of warning to mice, rabbits, and all small huntable creatures below.

“You came.” Viola smiled, sliding from her saddle. As always, she felt her entire body sing, just to see him.

“Of course,” Tristan replied, dismounting. The indigo blue of his tunic matched his eyes. He didn’t say anything else, only walked her backward until her body pressed against the trunk of the tree and the leaves sheltered them from prying eyes. Her long blond hair caught in his silver cloak clasp.

When he kissed her it felt as though there was lightning striking off her, as if she could set the whole world on fire and watch it burn with a smile just as long as they were together. There was no cold wind, no ice dripping down the back of her neck; there was nothing but him. His lips were teasing and desperate but no more so than hers. He kissed her throat and she tilted her head back, inhaling the scents of him: smoke, iron, and the rare oranges Lord Phillip had just received for Christmas. She remembered dancing with Tristan in the hall, wearing a crown of holly leaves. No one had suspected them.

He pulled back slightly but they stayed locked together, breathing as one. When she smiled, he smiled. When he leaned in, she leaned in. The last of the russet oak leaves clattered like bones around them.

When her horse shifted closer to nibble at the thawed grass, Tristan finally noticed the pack on her saddle and frowned. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going home.”