Curse of the Wolf King - Tessonja Odette Page 0,45

ambassador has excellent taste.

Setting aside my new findings, I open the wardrobe and investigate the shelf above the dresses. There I find three pairs of boots. All are far more durable than mine are, made from supple black leather and lined with fur. The soles are wide and textured for traction. I try one on, doubting they’ll fit, but I find they are close enough. The ambassador, it seems, has long narrow feet, making them just slightly too long for me. I fetch a second pair of hose from the drawer, which will hopefully help me fill the extra space in the boots, and then take out the same dark green dress and gray cloak I wore yesterday. As I pull the dress over my head, I feel a rush of panic at the thought that my unusual style of clothing could draw even more attention than I like. Luckily, the cloak will cover most of the dress, leaving nothing but the hem of my skirt visible. The caplet, hat, and gloves are modern enough.

Fully dressed and feeling much like an armored soldier ready for war, I do what I do every time I prepare to leave home and enter town—I go to the window. Unlike my view from the townhouse, here I see nothing but mountains and trees. All at once, my anxiety dissolves beneath my awe as I take in the frosted treetops, the gently falling snow, the pale sky brightening beneath the rising sun. Then, just like yesterday, my attention snags on something in the garden.

There, in the same small courtyard I saw him in yesterday, sits the king—my newly named Elliot Rochester. This time, I know it’s him, for that hunched posture and unruly mane of hair can no longer be mistaken for anyone else. I peer closer, studying the hang of his head, the slump of his shoulders. His fingers clasp something small and red.

A rose petal.

My mouth feels suddenly dry; seeing him in the garden holds a whole new significance that was not there yesterday. Because today I know the truth—that he holds not a simple petal, but a day. Another day ticked off his life. Another day closer to the curse coming to claim him.

It’s enough to draw a lump rising to my throat, but I swallow it down. I have enough of my own to worry about.

He turns his head, and in yet another echo of the day before, he seems to be looking right at me. This time, however, I don’t dart away. He doesn’t avert his gaze either, which doesn’t surprise me; I doubt last night’s lesson has yet to sink in. So I hold up my hand and offer him a curt wave. He slowly straightens his shoulders, lifts his head a little higher. Then returns the gesture.

Under my breath, I say, “Time for phase one.”

The morning is still early by the time I reach the market square, making the sidewalks easy enough to navigate. Luckily, I’ve yet to be intercepted by anyone I know. However, I’ll need to speak to at least one undesirable person before my visit in Vernon is done, but I can’t stand to think of that just yet. There’s another meeting I’m determined to orchestrate first.

As I near the bookshop, I can almost smell the paper calling to me, hear the books whispering my name. My heart yearns to answer. The pain of turning away from the shop and crossing the street instead feels like the deepest betrayal. But I didn’t come to Vernon for books.

Stopping outside the unfinished Verity Hotel, I take a deep breath. I have no clue if this part of my plan will prove successful, but I must try. Wrapping my false persona tightly around me, I open the door and enter. Sounds of hammers immediately fall upon my ears, the ground beneath my feet coated in sawdust and debris. I knew the hotel was unfinished, but I hadn’t expected it to be in this much disarray. From the outside, it looks nearly done.

I follow the sounds of construction but see no sign of anyone. “Hello,” I call out. “I need to speak with someone.” The pounding of hammers is my only answer, so I continue to follow the sounds. Finally, I step into a wide-open space where the work is amplified to a roar. Every inch of the towering perimeter is lined with scaffolding from floor to ceiling, crawling with bodies busy at work. Some are painting while others