The giantess exhaled a belabored breath. “I really need to figure out a way to get you fired, Lena. You’re gods-damned irritating.”
“It’s why you love me,” the guardswoman replied, but Bercola’s eyes were fixed on Lydia. “So you’re the new recruit.”
Before Lydia could answer, someone said, “I was under the impression we had a sufficient number of guards in our employ, Lord Calorian.”
Turning, Lydia found a young woman standing in the doorway, Killian behind her. She wore a high-necked gown, the amber velvet identical in color to her wide eyes. Her dark blonde hair was twisted back from her face, spilling down her back in thick ringlets that would’ve been the envy of any patrician girl in Celendor. Her skin was the color of sand, her cheeks rounded, and her small nose slightly upturned above bow-shaped lips. She was a good foot shorter than Lydia, her narrow waist and generous curves emphasized by the cut of her dress. She was lovely, but what struck Lydia was that she was regal. Undoubtedly, this was Princess Malahi.
In response to the Princess’s query, Killian only shrugged. “I’m merely attempting to compensate for your recent decisions, Highness.”
“Is that the reason?” Malahi’s voice was light, but her eyes narrowed as she looked Lydia over. “What’s your name, girl?”
“Lydia, Your Highness.” She bowed, noting as she did that the other girl was wearing boots, suggesting this wasn’t a jaunt down the corridor. Straightening, she added, “I’m pleased to be in your service.”
Malahi inclined her head. “And I thank you for it. May the Six keep us both safe.”
Without another word, she started down the corridor, Lena and Gwen hurrying to get ahead. Bercola and the rest of the guardswomen followed, but Killian caught hold of Lydia, his hand encircling her bare wrist.
“Against my better judgment, we’re going into the city to tour the crown shelters,” he said in a hushed voice, his eyes locked on hers. “You see anything, anything at all, that seems not right, you tell me.”
She nodded, the warmth of his hand against her skin capturing her focus. This was the first time she’d seen him since they’d parted ways at the Calorian manor, and though she had accumulated a hundred questions to ask him, she felt reluctant to break the silence hanging over the corridor.
“You should be wearing gloves,” he said. “Just in case.”
“I’ll buy a pair as soon as I get a chance.”
Killian nodded. But he didn’t let go of her, his other hand slipping into the pocket of his trousers as though to retrieve something. He swallowed and looked at his feet. “I—”
“Captain! Carriage is being brought around!” Lena’s voice carried down the corridor, and Killian simultaneously let go of Lydia’s arm and jerked his hand out of his pocket. Taking a long step back, he scrubbed a hand through his hair, looking anywhere but at her.
“I should go,” Lydia murmured, his obvious agitation triggering her own.
Killian nodded, but as she started down the corridor he called, “Lydia.”
She stopped and looked over her shoulder, seeing his throat move as he swallowed. But all he said was, “Be safe.” Then he opened the door behind him and disappeared.
31
KILLIAN
There were more pressing matters, none the least convincing Malahi that to go into the city was an unnecessary risk, but Killian found himself backtracking into Malahi’s rooms. Shutting the door and flipping the latch so a servant wouldn’t catch him, he hurried to the massive closet containing her clothing, pulling out a drawer that had to have held at least three dozen pairs of gloves. He dug around, finally extracting a pair of black riding gloves, which he tucked into his belt.
As he rose to his feet, his eyes landed on one of the heavy chests containing some of Malahi’s jewelry. Opening one, he lifted out trays of jewels, searching for something that would suit his purpose, finally catching sight of the glint of silver near the bottom. Malahi never wore silver, gold as much an emblem of the Rowenes house as the scorpion courtesy of the mines on their lands, so the absence of a silver chain wouldn’t be noticed.
Unlike the ring burning a hole in his pocket.
32
LYDIA
It was raining.
A frigid wind drove the fat droplets against her face with such force that it felt like being struck by pebbles of ice. Her hair and clothes were drenched, and freezing water dribbled down her back, her skin prickled with goose bumps. Worst of all, the cold was making her nose