Gild (The Plated Prisoner #1) - Raven Kennedy Page 0,52

chest presses against my heart, hard and persistent, making it bruise.

And when I see children start to peek out from behind empty crates of garbage or follow us with wide eyes, their clothes little more than threadbare scraps, their faces gaunt with missing meals, cold dirt caked against their cheeks...that press against me digs deeper, bruises harder.

Pulling on the reins, I steer Crisp to cut off Sail, pulling up against the carriage. “My lady!” Sail calls, and I hear Digby curse again as I stop Crisp and jump down, landing harder than I mean to. I nearly slip on the icy mud, but the carriage blocks my fall. It’s still rolling when I wrench open the door, but it jolts to a stop just as I lift myself up.

“My lady, we cannot linger here!” Sail says behind me, but I ignore him as I lift up the velvet seat inside the carriage, my hands digging through my things.

“Get back on your horse.” Digby growls, and I search frantically, shoving aside scarves and extra mittens, looking, looking…

“Got it.”

I back out of the carriage and step down, but our stop in the middle of the street has brought those peering eyes closer, those dark silhouettes converging.

“Get back on your horse,” Digby orders again.

“One second.” I don’t look at him, too busy scanning, searching.

There. Across the street, a group of them are huddled beside a water well, broken buckets and snapped strings littered around the sad-looking water source.

I make my way over, and I hear some of the guards grumbling, some of the saddles in the other carriages asking why we’ve stopped. Then the unmistakable sound of someone jumping off their horse, long, sure strides heading after me.

But I keep going, right for that group of kids. They’re skittish. As soon as they see me coming—or maybe see the guard stalking behind me, two of them dart away, slick steps disappearing into the shadows. But the smallest one, a little girl, maybe four years old, doesn’t run. She stays there in front of the others, watching me as I kneel in front of her.

Twelve in total now, not counting the others that ran, all of them too skinny, too dirty. And their eyes, their eyes are too old for their ages. Their shoulders drooping with a weariness no children should ever hold.

“What’s your name?”

She doesn’t answer me, but her gaze scans over my face, as if she can see the glimmer of my skin beneath the hood.

“Are you a princess?” an older girl asks, but I smile and shake my head. “No. Are you?”

The children all scoff together, trading looks. “You think princesses live in the shanties like street urchins?”

I lower my hood and give her a conspiratorial smile. “Maybe hidden princesses do.”

Several of them gape. “You’re the golden girl! The one the king keeps.”

I open my mouth to answer, but Digby steps in front of me, body tense. “Time to go.”

I nod and stand up, but not before I dip into the velvet pouch. “Alright, you secret princes and princesses. Hold out your hands.”

Sensing what I’m going to do, they all eagerly push their open palms in front of me, shoving each other aside. “None of that,” I reprimand.

One by one, I place a coin in each hand, and they race away as soon as their dirty fingers curl around it. I’m not offended or surprised. When you’re on the streets, you don’t linger. Especially with money or food in your hands. All it takes is a second for someone bigger and meaner to come along to take it from you.

When I reach the quiet, small girl in the front, I press the pouch in her hand, three coins still inside. Her eyes widen at it, and like her body knows what this could mean, her stomach growls loud enough to rival the stray dogs.

I hold a finger to my lips. “Use one, hide one, and give one away,” I whisper. A risk—it’s a risk to give her this much gold. Hell, it’s a risk to give them any at all, but I have to hope she’s savvy enough, smart enough to be safe. The girl nods solemnly at me and then turns and sprints away as fast as her little feet can carry her. Good girl.

“Carriage. Now.”

I straighten up and turn to my guard. Digby wears his anger on his face like some people wear a coat—heavy and dark. I open my mouth to tease him or say something smart, but