Page 2 of Kingdom of Shadows and Wings

After finger-combing my dark brown waves in front of the mirror, I weave the locks into a braid.

My reflection shows a heart-shaped face. Big hazel eyes. A slightly upturned nose.

My mother and sister, on the other hand, with their dark golden curls, long noses, and stubborn chins, are dead ringers for the parade of unsmiling ancestors on the downstairs wall. Mother tells me I favor my paternal grandmother, but I have to take her word for it. An accident with a candle during my younger years destroyed that portrait.

Outside my window, darkness devours the last bit of daylight. I hurry as I rummage under the bed to unearth my bow, slinging it and a quiver full of arrows over my shoulder. A dagger gets tucked into my boot.

I’m sheltered, not stupid.

A hooded, forest green cloak completes the ensemble. I grab a pouch full of coins from my desk drawer before easing my chamber’s heavy door open a few inches.

The corridor is empty. No one intercepts me as I race down the servants’ stairway and burst into the kitchen. “Is the extra food all packed?”

Cook—a rosy-cheeked, sweet-natured woman named Betsy who prefers to go by Cook and has lived with us since before I was born—nods. She always smells delicious, like cinnamon and sage. “Yes. And the horse and wagon are waiting in your usual spot.”

“And you and the rest of the staff already ate your fill?”

She pats my cheek with her calloused hand. “Sweet girl, don’t you fret over us. You just hurry up and get back safety.”

Worry pinches her expression, same as always. I flash my most reassuring grin. “I’ll be in and out before Mother finishes her next two goblets of wine.”

My mother requests massive amounts of food for her soirees, over half of which always remains untouched. After the initial grazing period, the guests ignore the delicacies in favor of mead and ale. The waste always bothered me, so I started telling the staff to remove most of the uneaten dishes early. They pack the food into a wagon and cart it just outside the castle grounds. Two of the guards help me slip out undetected. I pretend to turn in for the night, drive the food out to a man in the village who ensures it reaches the neediest, and return home without my mother ever suspecting. Simple as brambleberry pie.

Well, except for that one time. But how could I possibly know one of my guards would fall ill? That evening ended with me scaling the wall up to my bedchamber window. Not an ideal experience, but I survived.

Quiet as a ghost, I slink through the courtyard. Too much free time has allowed me to perfect a bunch of random skills, like climbing. Sneaking around. Picking locks and cursing. Reading any books I can get my hands on, including the inappropriate ones. Basically, the types of hobbies guaranteed to send Mother into an early grave if she found out.

In moments like this, my hodgepodge of disreputable talents comes in handy.

With a nod to Otis, a brawny, crooked-nosed guard with a kind heart, I slip past the gates, moonlight casting eerie shadows in the darkness as I hurry toward the tree where Barney is tethered. After patting the gelding on the neck, I check the cart for the food, as well as the riding tack I’ll use for the return trip from Beckkrun, before climbing onto the front ledge and snapping the reins.

The clip-clop of Barney’s hooves harmonizes with the low hum of insects and hiccupping nightbird calls as we journey along the familiar dirt trail. Like always, the bumpy route bounces me up and down and takes a toll on my ass. I only learned to ride and drive a wagon a few years ago, and opportunities to practice my form rarely present themselves.

Once we round the last corner, the faint lights of Beckkrun beckon. Laughter and raucous music pour from the Happy Dragon Tavern as we enter the village. I cast a longing glance at the tavern window and wish I could join them, but the risk is too high. If someone recognized me and reported back to my mother, she’d freak out. I cringe to think of the extreme steps that might follow. A lock on the outside of my door? An around-the-clock guard stationed inside my room? No more nighttime excursions for sure.

Suppressing a shudder, I dismount, tie the reins of Barney’s bridle to a post, and scan the perimeter for Royce. The tavern door swings open, and a boy who can’t be older than fourteen strides out. Though I’ve never seen him before, his mop of curly brown hair and his expressive brown eyes strike me as familiar.

“Lady Lark?” I slip into the shadows when he approaches. “Is that you?”

Alarm ripples through me. ‘How do you know my name?”

He moves toward me with slow, deliberate steps, like I’m a wild animal on the verge of getting spooked. “I’m Luke, Royce’s son. My father couldn’t come tonight, so he sent me.”

I almost laugh out loud at my paranoia. “Oh, hello. Yes, I’m Lark.” Luke shakes my extended hand with a grin. Now that I’m soaking in his smile, I can’t believe I didn’t recognize the resemblance. Luke’s almost a carbon copy of his father, albeit with more hair, fewer wrinkles, and a smaller nose. “Is he all right?”

Luke releases my hand. “Just a stomach bug. He’ll be fine in a day or two. Mother’s fussing over him.”

“Well, please tell your father I hope he feels better soon.”

He nods, brushing a lock of curly hair out of his eyes. “Thank you. I will, milady.”

“Please, call me Lark. All my friends do.” By friends, I mean the handful of guards I’ve befriended over the years.

Luke’s grin returns. His easygoing nature is contagious. “All right then. Lark it is.”

“I can’t stay long but let me give you this.” I fish the coin-filled leather pouch from my pocket and hand him the bundle. “For the food pantry. Royce mentioned more families in need, so there’s extra. I hope it’s enough.”

As he hefts the bag in his palm, his face lights up. “More than enough. Thank you.”

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