Page 25 of The King's Man 4

He pins me with a raised brow. “Hide behind me.”

From the shadows of the large oaks comes the cracking of twigs underfoot, coming fast. My gaze sweeps urgently back to Quin, and snaps to the darkened pit. The one with the empty coffin... I grimace, toss Quin’s cane into the pit, and tug at him. “Forgive me, your majesty.”

We roll into the pit, Quin’s quick thinking cushioning our fall. The gust protecting us dissipates and I scramble off him to push open the lid. “Get in.”

He sighs, and rushes rose-scented air through the coffin. Then he whips off his cloak and lines the box. “After you.”

I don’t need telling twice. I cram myself to one side; Quin slides in, half on top of me, and pulls the lid over us. “They may check inside,” he warns.

“Act dead.”

He shifts and we’re barely a puff of air from being plastered together from legs to heavily breathing chests. Already our noses graze. I press against his with a whispered growl. “That’s not acting dead.”

I tense at the muffled sounds overhead, and Quin bumps the back of his knuckles against mine.We’ll be fine.

A barked “Check the coffin.”

I hold my breath and sink the back of my fingers between Quin’s, desperate for continued reassurance. He squeezes.

I wait for the inevitable sounds of feet landing in the pit beside us, the sudden movement of the coffin lid...

“Uniform’s still there, sir.”

I release my breath in a whoosh before capturing it again. They’ve checked the neighbouring coffin first.

“Good, good. These damn graverobbers are the bane of my existence but they would’ve left emptyhanded this time. I recall this lot getting buried. Not a precious thing went with them.”

“Are we sure they’re robbers? Why these graves?”

“Of course it’s robbers. These graves are the freshest, much easier to dig up recently turned earth.” There’s a pause, and then, “Cover them up. Let’s help track the bastards down.”

“How did they get in?”

“New ward spells. My idea—easy to get in, hard to get out.”

I expel my breath again, and whisper, “Graverobbers?” I thought people were too concerned about stirring up spirits. But I suppose there are always exceptions. Or they do it anyway, out of necessity.

“More likely from the north,” Quin says. “They don’t have the same fear.”

Rose lingers in the wood around us, and I’m glad for it—it takes me a few deeper inhales to normalise my breathing. “How’d you scent the air?”

“Thank all those petal-filled baths I have.”

“Best use of roses ever.”

“Never to be repeated.”

We’re quiet again. It was dark before, but as more soil surrounds us, the darkness seems to deepen. Quin’s slight shifts sound louder and my skin prickles. The ticklish point where our noses tap seems to radiate across my cheeks, my brow, my lips.

Quin’s breath curls over my jaw, too softly. I tense in the darkness. The thickening air makes it almost impossible to breathe. It’s the coffin making my chest tight.

When I no longer hear the sounds of dirt raining over us, I whisper, “How long do we wait?”

“They won’t give up looking for a while. An hour. Two.”

“In here? Like this?”

He speaks softly against my lips, “Does this closeness bother you?”

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