Page 11 of Bride of the Midnight Prince

“What are those voices?” the man asks from behind me.

His question startles me. I’ve learned to thoroughly ignore the voices in the Wood. I don’t even hear them anymore. Now that he mentions them, however, their whispers crawl up my spine.

“Come to me, my darling. I have loved none but you.”

“He never forgives. He will require your blood for what you have done to him.”

One quieter than the rest slides along my skin:“I know what you did, Katherine Vandermore. It will catch up to you some day. You know it will.”

“Ignore those,” I say briskly. “Some say they are the voices of those lost in the Wood. Others say it is the Wood itself, laying claim to the souls who traverse her Paths. Personally, I am convinced they are squirrels that have learned to talk for the sole purpose of spooking rational people like you and me. When you’ve been in the Wood as much as I have, you learn they cannot hurt you.”

At my words, all four of my passengers visibly relax—only to stiffen as a loud voice roars: “Who over yonder doth pass into Ymer’s dominion?”

I grin and wave. “Hullo Ymer!”

The old troll sits just off the Path, plopped on muddy ground. He is the size of a very large carriage and thrice as heavy, with thick, flabby arms, a rocklike hide, and tattered clothes that leave his rotund belly exposed. His face is gnarled, knobby, and arranged in a grumpy frown. In one hand, he grips a club bigger than me. “You again! You thin legged, disrespectful, toothy elf! Ymer has a boiling pot ready for you. Supper will be a delicious elf soup!”

Elizabeth draws back, a squeak escaping the hand she slaps over her mouth.

“You’re right,” I call back, keeping Bartholomew on the Path. “Ymer the Indefatigable, please pardon the disrespect. But you won’t be boiling me today—and I’m not an elf. Sorry if that ruins your plans for the evening.”

“Ymer will eat you raw instead!” roars the troll, surging upright and swinging his club.

It’s the child who screams now, practically splitting my head open with the noise. Bartholomew whinnies nervously.

“He can’t touch us,” I say quickly to my passengers. “Not while we’re on the Path. Go bother someone else, Ymer!”

“One of these days, you will be Ymer’s dinner!” he roars as we pass him, heading toward the border.

“No, I won’t!” I shout. “See you next time!”

We make good time, despite the dark, and the moment we spill out of the forest into an open field, my chest loosens a fraction. Enough that I can start to feel the exhaustion and weakness weighing down my muscles. But this night is far from over.

I pull the cart to a stop and motion for everyone to get out. I feed Bartholomew another carrot, rubbing her muzzle as I tell my charges climbing out of the cart: “This is as far as I can take you. There’s a bag of provisions for each of you. We are in the kingdom of Harbright, west of Aursailles and south of Osremer. If you walk straight from here for a few miles over the rise, through these farm fields, you’ll get to the city Ashbourne. You can go further west about fifteen miles to Shurtlon and the cheapest stages to the coast are there. I would recommend getting as far away from here as you can. Fae don’t like being in the human world, so the deeper into it you can get, the less likely they’ll follow.”

When Elizabeth turns pale with alarm, I add quickly, “I’ve never had anyone be followed into the human world before. I simply say this in an overabundance of caution. In each of your sacks, there’s enough food to last five days, if you ration it, and enough coin for one ticket for the stage. I wish I could do more, but—”

The older woman steps forward and immediately covers my fidgeting hand with hers. “You’ve done more than enough, dear. Thank you for giving us a future. You are a saint.”

My lips tighten. I look away as I scratch the back of my neck.

The man helps me hide the cart beneath its customary pile of brush at the edge of the forest while his wife speaks to Elizabeth, who nods and tries to fight back tears. I force myself to ignore the stab of guilt that traces through my blood. If only I could have gotten them all out faster. If only I could carry more refugees with me each raid, instead of leaving so many behind!

My mind immediately goes to the slave woman who was so afraid of what would happen if Elizabeth disappeared. The woman who reminded me of Mama.

I’ll get her out. I swear it.

I’m mounting up my horse, my usual hatred rising at leaving them here in this field with nothing but a little food and a shockingly pitiful amount of coin. If I had my inheritance, I could give them money enough for clothes, an inn, food, a comfortable journey to wherever they decide to go.

Instead, I lean in close to Bartholomew and kick her into a gallop.

This night is never going to be over.

I take my usual path to the city and then dismount to avoid straining my horse too much. “Good girl,” I keep mumbling under my breath as she sniffs my coat for more treats. I give her every last carrot I have. “Such a good girl.”

When I finally knock the special sequence on my home’s backdoor after handing Bartholomew off to Charles, the stable hand who doesn’t ask questions, it swings open so fast it nearly clonks me in the nose.

“Kat! Where have youbeen?” Mary hisses. Her usually pristine red bun has a few loose, frizzy curls, her pretty face flushed like she’s been standing over a stove for the better part of the day. “Saints—look at you! You’re disgusting!”

---