Page 53 of A Dagger in the Ivy

A blush creeps into my cheeks at his words, and I quickly avert my gaze, feeling suddenly self-conscious under his intense scrutiny. I don’t entirely trust this man, but there is something about the way he looks at me that disarms me. With practiced ease, he steps behind me, securing the necklace around my neck with deft fingers. I shiver at his touch, a rush of warmth flooding through me as the cool metal settles against my skin. After he secures the clasp, he steps around to face me, his gaze lingering for a moment longer before he takes my hand in his, pressing a gentle kiss to my knuckles. “I must depart shortly, but know that you will be in my thoughts.”

I return his gaze, a flutter of uncertainty stirring within me as I watch him go. Despite his assurances, a nagging doubt lingers in the back of my mind, a whisper of unease that refuses to be ignored. But for now, I push it aside, choosing instead to bask in the warmth of his thoughtfulness and hope I don’t come to regret my decision to trust him.

It isn’t until after my daily lesson with Ezra that I realize I should return the gesture and get Torbin a gift. The gesture, if genuine, was sweet, but there is the possibility that it was a test. Beyond that, if any of the courtiers know that Torbin had presented me with a token of affection, there could very well be the expectation that I reciprocate. I know how rumors can snake their way through castle walls, and I needto make sure I play my part as the caring future bride.

I haven’t even stepped foot outside the castle walls—except for the night I wandered in my sleep—so it would be a good opportunity to travel downhill to see what the town has to offer. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to find a worthy gift in town, but I might as well start my search. Even if I do find something, I won’t be able to gift it to Torbin for a while. By the time he returns from his hunting trip, I will have left for my regiment duties. The thought of returning to my usual routine fills me with a thrill.

I long to have Nadya come with me, but she’s wandered off again. Indira fetches a cape for me, and my Royal Ward, Sir Holden, escorts me to find Master Zimmerman, who orders the carriage driver to bring me to the town center. I’m actually surprised how easy it is to make the arrangements without anyone questioning my requests. When I get to the carriage, I notice that Sir Holden is prepared to come with me.

“Is this really necessary?” I gather the material of the cape as Master Zimmerman opens the carriage door for me. “No offense to Sir Holden, but I’m merely shopping. I highly doubt it to be a dangerous mission.”

“I’m afraid the king insists, Your Highness.”

I don’t feel like arguing, so I give the chamberlain a nod and climb into the carriage.

The route downhill is bumpy, and I say a silent thanks to the gods that I didn’t eat a big lunch that would have been jostled out of me by the time I reached my destination. The closer we get to the town center, the more passersby begin to pay attention to the carriage. The crowd becomes denser, and I begin to worry that I will have to push my way through a swarm.

Maybe itisa good idea that Sir Holden is with me.

Once I disembark from the carriage, I navigate the bustling streets of downtown Ivystone, finding myself immersed in a whirlwind of activity. The street market is alive with vibrant colors and enticing aromas, drawing me in with its lively energy. Vendors call out to passersby, their voices blending into a symphony of sound that fills the air. There are a few citizens following me, no doubt curious as to whatI’m doing in town, but Sir Holden walks a step behind me, watching me and everyone near me.

The scent of spices and freshly baked bread wafts through the air, mingling with the fragrance of flowers and the tang of metal from nearby blacksmiths. It’s a heady mix that tickles my senses and stirs something within me. A familiarity of being around the people. An escape from being a watched princess trapped in a castle with no sense of freedom.

I weave my way through the crowds, taking in the colorful banners fluttering in the breeze. Some of the people mill about, not paying me any mind, their voices rising and falling in a melodic cadence that fills the air with a sense of vitality. Stalls line the streets, their displays overflowing with a dizzying array of goods. From handcrafted trinkets to exotic spices, there’s something here for everyone. I’m like a child in a sweets shop, my gaze darting from one stall to the next as I search for the perfect gift for Torbin.

Amidst the chaos, I spot a stall adorned with leather goods, and I get an idea. A vendor stands behind the counter, his weathered hands rubbing oil on a pair of gloves. I approach the stall, my eyes drawn to a pair of hunting gloves crafted from the finest supple, dark-brown leather, with reinforced stitching along the seams, ensuring durability for rigorous use. Each glove features an adjustable strap at the wrist, secured with a polished brass buckle, allowing a customized fit.

At the sight of me, the vendor’s eyes widen. He bows and then straightens his clothes. “What can I get you, Your Highness?”

“May I see those?” I point to the gloves, giving him a friendly smile.

He hands them to me, inclining his head. “A wise choice.”

I turn the gloves over in my hands. The palms are lightly padded for added protection and grip, while the fingers remain flexible, enabling dexterous movements. Intricate embossing along the cuffs adds a touch of sophistication, with a subtle pattern of intertwined ivy leaves, symbolizing strength and resilience.

“They’re perfect,” I tell him. “How much?”

I give him more than he asks, to which he bows in gratitude, and I make my way back through the bustling streets with the gloves wrappedin paper. Around me, the crowd has grown, the noise and chatter becoming louder. It seems I’ve drawn a lot of attention to myself, and the worry begins to gnaw on my nerves.

“Stand back,” Sir Holden calls out, stretching his long, muscular arms to the side, trying to create a barrier between me and the surging crowd.

The press of bodies becomes overwhelming. I feel myself being pushed and jostled. Sir Holden pushes back on the crowd, trying to maintain some order, but it’s no use. The sea of people surges between us, and before I know it, we are separated.

“Sir Holden!” I call out, but my voice is lost in the cacophony. I try to rise on the toes of my shoes for a better view, but I can’t see him anymore. “Sir Holden!”

Panic begins to set in as more people come at me from all sides, their faces a blur of confusion and fear. Shouts and the sound of shuffling feet fill the air.

I try to move my way out of the crowd, but just when I think I’ve broken free from the throng, I spot a group of people coming my way, their faces contorted into sneers. As desperation fills my lungs, I spot an alleyway to my right. I don’t know where it goes, but I decide to slip through it, hoping it will provide a moment’s respite. Or maybe I can round the corner and make my way back to the carriage. I push my way into the narrow passage, my heart pounding in my chest.

But as I travel the length of it, I realize it’s a dead end. The walls loom high above me, offering no escape. I turn around, only to find two sneering men blocking my path. One has his lip curled upward in a smirk, his eyes narrowed and gleaming as if he’s dissecting me with his gaze. The other tilts his head slightly, brows raised, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip, a glint of something unsettling flickering in his eyes.

“What’s the rush, little lady?” The long-faced man looks me up and down. “Fancy clothes, pretty cape. It’d be a shame to stain it with blood.”

“Stay back,” I warn. “Or you’ll have to answer to the prince.”

Recognition alights in his eyes. “Well, look what we’ve got here,Giles. The fucking Princess of Delasurvia.” He stretches out his shoulders, one at a time, as he takes two slow steps toward me.

“I hear she’s got a thing for the criminals fleeing Dulcamar. Wants to let them into our lands so they can steal our houses and fuck our wives.” Giles clutches the handle of a piker knife, advancing beside his friend. “We can’t have that, can we, Peter?”

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