Page 17 of The Crimson Walls Of Algorath

“We agreed upon it last night after…everything happened.” She swallowed hard. “I asked for his assistance, and he granted it in return for my hand. He spoke with Father before they left for the prison.”

Still, Ariadne shook her head. “Take it back. I will find another way.”

“There is no other way.” Emillie closed her eyes and sucked in a long, deep breath. When she opened them again, a fire burned within them. “You have to leave.”

Ariadne’s breath caught. “You know I cannot. Father would never allow it.”

“You are correct.” Her sister turned on her heel and padded to the door, her soft-soled shoes silent across the plush rugs. She cracked the door and pulled in a satchel that she carried back to shove into Ariadne’s arms. “You leave now. While he is gone.”

“No—”

“Everything is already in motion.” Emillie nodded to the bag. “Thom has Astra ready.”

Events were unraveling too quickly. From the elation the night before while locked in passion, to the devastation of Azriel’s arrest, and now to the one-two punch of Emillie sacrificing her future to Alek Nightingale and risking her peace with their father to smuggle her out of the manor all in order to preserve her happiness. There would be nothing she could bestow upon her sister to accurately express her gratitude.

“You did not have to do any of this,” Ariadne whispered, eyes stinging. “This was not your battle to fight.”

Emillie gave her a wan smile. “Your battles are mine, as mine have always been yours.”

“But then I will not be here to help you.”

She took a step back, eyes rimmed with silver. “You would have left anyway. Now you are free.”

With that, her sister turned and hurried to the door. Ariadne’s heart crashed against her ribs. She lurched forward as the door swung open. “Em!”

Her sister paused without looking back.

“I love you.” The works broke, and she clutched the satchel to her chest, curling her fingers into the fabric. What else could she say? She had no other words. Be safe? Thank you? Every thought and feeling wrapped into those three simple words: I love you.

Emillie’s shoulders rose as she sucked in a deep breath, then closed the door behind her.

There was no time to think. Her fath—no, Markus—could return home at any minute. Ariadne had no idea how long he would be at the prison or if he would accompany Azriel’s procession to the outskirts of Laeton. If she were going to get out of the manor before his arrival, she needed to act quickly.

That lethal spring of hope began to trickle into Ariadne’s dark chasm again, and she had no intention of stemming its flow. To focus on that meant shifting from the task at hand. She needed to move fast.

The last time Ariadne had traveled east, she had no time to prepare. No warning. Not even the courtesy of a cloak for the end of winter. This time would be different. She had her provisions and way of travel, thanks to Emillie, and now she needed the appropriate clothing. If she could make it to Monsumbra—to the Caldwell Estate—she would be safe.

Madan would keep her safe.

Her half-brother. After he had rescued her from Ehrun, she had come to consider him as close and doting as a sibling. She had never imagined him to actually be her kin. Though they only shared a sire, it was more than enough. Even if they had not been related by blood, it would have been enough.

Ariadne swept through her near-bare closet and pulled from its depths a pair of old brown riding trousers, scuffed and worn-in black boots, and an airy white shirt. She yanked the simple powder blue house dress from her body and stepped into the trousers.

The way the fabric hugged her legs felt strange. It had been years since she had worn them. Decades, even. Once she had begun observing balls and their glamorous fashions, she gave up the clothing Markus had always hated in favor of gowns and heels. Now, returning to them was a foreign affair.

She stretched her hips from side to side, reacquainting herself with the unyielding cotton before tugging the shirt over her head. Her short stay showed through the thin fabric, and the shirt did little to hide the curves she had regained in her time with Azriel. Ignoring what that meant for how visible the scars were on her back, she tucked the tails into the trousers and buttoned them up to hold everything in place.

Once she had on her stockings and boots, she grabbed a thicker traveling cloak large enough to hide under were she to be caught outside at dawn and hurried back into the sitting room. She gathered up the satchel, slung it over her shoulder, then made for the door. Not into the corridor but the still-open veranda.

Three floors. When Azriel had made the jump from her old bedroom—gods, when he made the same jump from the library mere months before—it had been from the second floor. As she peered over the railing, her heart stumbled, and her stomach knotted. If she injured herself, her progress to Monsumbra would suffer. If she did not try, she would then be forced to leave through the manor and not only face questions from staff but potentially put them in harm’s way when Markus inevitably discovered her missing and searched for information.

Not one of the servants deserved such ire.

So she clambered over the rail, heart thundering in her ears. As she lowered herself to a hanging position from the veranda, she threw a haphazard prayer to Keon, then released her hold. Her stomach lurched into her throat. Air rushed around her.

Ariadne’s knees buckled as she hit the ground. She swore under her breath as her foot twisted at an awkward angle and gave a soft pop.

“Gods, no,” she whispered and grabbed her ankle. A slow turn of her foot told her it had not broken, but the moment she eased onto her feet, it nearly gave out under her. Sprained. Not at all what she needed before a hard ride—and she would need to push Astra to put as much distance as possible between her and Laeton.

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