Page 56 of Bride of the Midnight Prince

With a grim set of my mouth, I force my wooden legs into motion. I find my cart, hidden in the bushes, and pull a crossbow and a length of rope out from a hidden compartment. I don’t know how much time I have, and I refuse to give voice to the fear humming in the back of my throat. I duck back into the Wood to set my trap.

I pick the first oak I come to on the Path—they are friendly to humans—and scurry up its boughs. My hands scrape against rough bark, my fingernails straining as I dig them into bark and hoist myself up. I unfasten the crossbow from my belt and set it carefully on one of the branches, aimed where I will direct my quarry.

I take myolleasmeared boots and stomp them deep into the ground right next to where I want this pursuer to walk. The length of rope I coat in dirt and half-bury across the path. I leave several different lengths to guarantee my pursuer won’t miss it. Then I fasten them carefully to my crossbow with a few special knots I picked up for this exact sort of thing. I’m desperately careful not to trigger it as I climb down.

If anyone steps on these ropes, the trap I’ve rigged is sensitive enough that it’ll shoot them.

Then I’m forcing my quaking limbs back into a run.

It is a long stretch of misery before I finally make it back to the prince’s estate. I wash myself off in the creek quickly, the cold turning my pulsing limbs numb. Then I change clothes, shake out my hair, and climb back into my window.

I yank the blanket over my head and rub it into my hair, hoping to disguise any Faerieland scents before—

Voices from the hallway.

I stiffen.

“Nat!” comes Edvear’s voice.

Dread pools in my gut.

“I’ve got it,” growls Rahk in return. “Don’t wake him.”

“This is hisjob. This is what we hired him for.”

My door is flung open and candlelight flickers into my dark space. I wince, pretending to wake up. “Sir?”

A short silhouette with curly hair and goat horns fills the space. “The master requires your service.”

I get up, rubbing my eyes. “I thought the master was at a ball. Has he come home earl—”

The words halt on my tongue. There, sitting on the foot of his bed, is Prince Rahk. He still wears his ball finery, but his hair is in disarray, his boots coated in mud. There is a streak of dirt across his forehead, and a long cloak is clasped at his throat. Not the cloak he wore to the ball.

A stripe of crimson soaks through a torn sleeve.

Every drop of blood drains from my face.

Rahk looks up from his wound and sees me. He immediately glares at his steward. “Edvear, leave him alone. He looks as though he’s never seen blood before. Go back to bed, Nat.”

But Edvear presses a bowl with rags into my hands.

“Edvear—” growls Rahk.

“He needs to learn.”

“I will learn,” I say quickly, forcing the words out around the horror choking my throat. “What happened?”

“It’s not your place to ask questions,” snaps Edvear.

“Sorry.” I set the bowl down on the vanity, going to the basin to pour water into the bowl. I wet a cloth and wring it out. When I approach the prince, he’s still glaring at his steward.

“Take my boots and make sure they get cleaned,” he orders Edvear.

“I can do that, master,” I say quickly. “Once I’m done—”

“Edvear can do it.”

Edvear bristles but picks up the filthy shoes that the prince kicks off. He’s gone a second later, leaving me alone with Rahk.

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