She smirks. “Blame the cider.” Her soft laugh is like the trill of birdsong. “I overheard some of the patrol talking about what an oaf he was...” She shrugs. “I took a chance.”
“And if his name wasn’t Henry and you misheard or if one of them was Henry instead of Heath or Moss—?” I ask as the risk of what we did catches up with me.
“Did you have a better plan? Drinking all the cider?” she teases.
I hiccup, scolding myself for not being more civilized.
Once we’re warm and dressed, Kiki lays the tapestry on my bed. I kneel next to her and she doesn’t object when our arms brush and remain pressed together.
“I got the map,” she says triumphantly.
“If you didn’t, we’d either be in the ashpit or Hargrave.” I indicate a place off the tapestry where the dead are laid to rest and then take in the rest of the outerlands.
The possibility of what lies beyond the borders sobers me. “Raven’s Landing is a peninsula. You came in from here.” I sweep my hand along the northern region bordering the sea and then point to where we’re going. “If we make it out, first we have to cross the I’s.”
“The eyes?” she asks.
“Because you never know who’s watching you. The innerlands: Inneveldt then Inismoore—the moorland,—and Inverness—the forest.”
She traces her finger along the thin threads of the tapestry leading to a blank space. “What’s here?”
“That’s the Royal Road that leads to Nine Days. It was once called Innsbruck if I remember correctly. They used to say that passage between here and the Morgorthian Mountains took nine days, but no one in recent memory has stayed alive here,” I point to what was once Innsbruck, “for longer than nine days. It’s now a ghost town. Then we head up this way to Briar Knoll, the Bogs, Landsdowne, and at last the mountains.”
“That’s a lot of places.”
“It’ll take us a bit of time.”
“When do we leave?”
“Sunrise.” I rub my hand down my face. I need to sleep off the cider because her words, her lips, and her sugar snow scent spin circles around me. She shifts in and out of focus. I collapse onto the bed and my eyes immediately close.
I dream of Kiki. Of course, I dream of her as I’ve been doing since I found her in that tree in the hills.
When the haze of a foggy morning wakes me, Kiki isn’t in the bed or seated in the chair. The fire is nothing more than a thin curl of smoke, and I bolt to sitting. The tapestry is folded neatly on the edge of my bed. I worry that she rushed off to the castle again.
I get to my feet, swaying slightly, and pull on my coat against the chill. The coins jingle softly in my pocket. Half are gone. A stone plummets in my stomach. She left.
I get to my feet. Dire possibilities rush my way when the door flies open. I catch it before it hits me in the face.
“We should have left earlier, but I figured you needed some extra sleep so I went and gathered some supplies.” She hoists my bag onto the table. “Some of that nasty bread, two extra pouches of water. Some dried fish…”
I can’t help but smile with relief. “Then let’s go,” I say, stamping out the fire.
“Just like that?”
“Yes.”
She smiles as though relieved that I didn’t back out.
We prowl through the Roost and into the Flats. The morning mists hang low. The lights still flicker from Hallowtide, forming halos around dismal objects: a stump, a well pump, and the jutting signs of several shops. In muted tones, we discuss our exit and the first leg of the journey.
“I’ve only heard stories of a few people who’ve made it to the outerlands,” I start, feeling the particular thrill of becoming one of them.
Just as soon as the thought crosses my mind, a sharp whistle interrupts us. I spare a glance over my shoulder, pausing long enough to recognize Heath and Moss. This time they wear the crimson uniforms of the patrol. “Stop,” they shout.
We don’t.
Kiki and I hurry along the lanes strewn with trash and stubbed candles from last night. They gain on us, only thwarted by a mule with a wagon. A slow-moving elderly couple causes us to split up and veer around them. A cart cuts between us.
I call for Kiki, trying to dodge the patrol as the morning foot traffic thickens. I press through frail bodies and stamping feet but don’t spot her in the sea of people bumping and spilling into each other.
She’s gone.
Chapter 13
Ineke
A stream of laborers and shopkeepers, probably drowsy after the nights’ festivities, sweep me forward. Like being caught in rushing water, I can’t stop until they deposit me at an intersection—one way to the castle, the other to the Basin, at least I think so. I scan the crowd for Soren’s head, sticking out from the mass of people, but dark glances and early morning grouching meets my eyes and ears.
I move against the current to the Flats, only breaking my stride until I’m back where I started. Soren is probably waiting for me and if not, I’ll go to the outer wall. I glance over my shoulder at every bend in the lane, looking for Soren. I listen for him calling to me, but I don’t dare loiter when a company of guards descends on the intersection between the Flats and the Roost, eyes attentive as though they’re searching for trouble.
Or someone. Two someones. I overhear a guard asking about a man and a woman—a mountainy guy and a small, dark-haired girl.
Is it weird that I miss my desk and dealing with demons? How is it that now
