prey for that vulture, to do with as he wished. But I bet you didn’t hear that side of the story, did you?”
Even with no blood running in my veins, I still felt my face heating with chagrin. “I—heard of some missteps, but no true injustices.” Except vaguely, from Reynard…
“No injustices? That’s hilarious. If he weren’t the king’s brother, and just any old minister or duke, he’d be dealt the fate he forced upon all the men who tried to resist his tyranny.”
His fury silenced me this time. It felt personal. Had Uncle Jonquil done something to his family while he was away at war? And if he had, had my father done anything about it since his return?
Probably not. Returning to a post-war kingdom, and a cursed daughter about to expire, Father must have had other priorities over fixing Uncle Jonquil’s individual injustices.
Any urge to defend my family evaporated like mist on a sunny afternoon.
But his words reminded me of Cyrus’s future bride, who’d supplemented her wages by stealing. I’d seen that as further proof of her being the worst choice for queen, and a horrible person who coveted what others had, and robbed them of what they held dear.
But in my last days in Cahraman, Adelaide had revealed how she’d lost her mother, had spent her adolescence homeless and destitute, but had only stolen to survive. She would have never taken important things from those who needed them.
According to his claims, neither would this Robin Hood.
It seemed it was my own uncle who had.
I still wasn’t ready to accept his word on either claim. “Say I believe that none of what you took from the…most fortunate, was for yourself. Why do it for others? What did they give you in return—a cut of the proceeds?”
“The same thing you just gave me for serving in the war.”
“A ‘Thank you?’” I raised a skeptical brow at him. “And that’s enough?”
“It is for me.”
Since I couldn’t see his face, I couldn’t tell how he meant it. Sarcastically? Bitterly? Or, by some improbable chance, honestly, as his tone implied?
No. There had to be another motive for his actions.
“You consider redistributing ill-gotten wealth on the people the same as fighting those who aimed to invade us?”
He rolled his shoulders, an uncaring shrug. “Serving your people is serving your people, the specifics and the scope don’t matter. I do what I can, where I can.”
Those were words befitting the knights errant of centuries past. That rare breed whose lives endured into mythologized tales, who inspired chivalry long after their number had dwindled, and their function had been absorbed into the armed forces. Many had been knighted during the war, and sent back to oversee law and order throughout the kingdom.
But surely this man couldn’t have been one.
“Why not become a sheriff then?” I probed. “Protect the public as part of the police, or in any other lawful capacity?”
“Because the system was corrupted under Prince Jon, and anyone who wanted to do their job was bullied into going along with them, or ousted.”
“Why not—”
“Ghost Girl, any alternatives you’ll suggest, I’ve gone through. This was my last resort, and the only choice that had an effect.”
“I am not a ghost!”
“What else am I supposed to call you?”
I caught my retort in time to actually think it through.
Given his hatred of my uncle, and seemingly for everyone from my end of the hierarchy, I couldn’t tell him who I was. He could take his anger out on me. I couldn’t risk that.
“Well? Who are you?” He gestured to my body. “Judging from our conversation, you’re not some fabled sleeper untouched by the passage of time. You’re contemporary since you’ve heard of me, know the war is over, and you sound like you’re from the capital.” He leaned further over my sleeping form. “You look a tad foreign as well, and from the way you speak, I’d say you lived at court.”
Despite not directly breathing, I felt my breath catch in my tight throat.
If he could tell so much about me, from so little, I couldn’t provide him with any more information, or he would figure out my identity for sure.
Robin Hood of all people couldn’t know I was Princess Fairuza.
So I gave the only safe answer I had, “I don’t know.”
“Don’t know who you are? Or why you’re a ghost—sorry, apparition?”
I could hear the eye-roll in his voice. It was incredibly expressive—tone, pitch, and inflection undulating along each word, like he was singing them. I could transcribe