Page 72 of The Dead Queen

I sigh. “Could we all just be nice, please?”

The men appraise each other, but quit their bickering.

When Tristan unlocks the door to the room, we all stop and stare. The tiny space has a single, lopsided bed with a ratty pillow and a stained blanket … and nothing else. Dust covers the narrow sliver of floor in front of the door.

“Is it too late to opt for the pigs?” Tristan asks.

“Not for you,” Hunter mumbles.

“I don’t care which of you gets the other side of the bed, just don’t kick me in the night.” I drop onto it and a cloud of dust billows up. I move to cover myself with the blanket, then think better of it. I kick the musty-smelling thing off the bed along with the questionable pillow. Then I pull my cloak over my face to sleep.

From beneath the cover of my cloak, I hear the men wrestle over the pillow and blanket. They argue in hushed tones.

“You’re taking the floor,” Hunter says.

“Nice try. I think I’ve slept on enough floors these past weeks to last a lifetime.”

“If you don’t commit crimes like spying and attempted murder, then you won’t have that problem.”

I can almost hear the shrug in Tristan’s voice. “I’d expect a southerner to understand the necessity of subterfuge and killing one’s enemies.”

“Stooop!” I groan.

They tussle a little more, but eventually someone jumps onto the mattress next to me. I poke my head out from under my cloak. It’s Tristan, smiling ruefully at Hunter, who’s clearly contemplating murder from his spot on the floor. He unstraps his bronze sword and lays it lovingly in a corner. Then he uses the filthy blanket to polish the day’s grime from his copper-plated gauntlets.

“He’s high-maintenance, that one,” Tristan mumbles next to me. “Can’t even just lie down like a normal person with all that glitter on.”

“Swords and armor aren’t exactly comfortable to sleep in.”

“Then why wear it in the first place?” the Wolf scoffs. “He looks like a prized turkey, chest all puffed out and feathers shining.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever seen a prized turkey in armor before.”

“No?” Tristan gives me a wicked grin. “And here I thought we just escaped at least a dozen of them.”

I swat his arm and Hunter scowls in our direction. He lies down on the ground, bunching the pillow under his head.

“Goodnight,” I say into the darkness.

Chapter 23

In the morning, the tavern keeper’s wife serves us each a bowl of mushy porridge before we head back out onto the road. Hunter insists I ride with him on Marigold again, which I don’t mind.

After a night of lying awake beside Tristan, I need distance. We never touched, but that didn’t stop my mind from wandering. Now I can’t stop thinking about the rise and fall of his broad chest as he slept beside me. Or the scent of cedar and salt that he left on the bedsheets.

Sunlight makes dappled patterns along the frost-covered forest floor. Everything looks like magic in this light. Our breath mingles, caught in the chill air. The dewy trees drip, and the horses’ hooves crunch along the leaf-covered ground. I could almost believe we’re just three normal travelers, out on a morning ride.

I pull my heavy red cloak tighter around my shoulders, grateful for its warmth. It’s a good thing we escaped Caerwen before the start of winter. Even now, in mid-autumn, the wind is bitter and the night temperatures drop dangerously. But as long as the sun holds out during the day and we keep moving, we should make it to the border before the weather changes for the worse.

Behind me, Hunter sighs. “I’m ready for this whole blasted thing to be over. To find safe harbor somewhere people aren’t constantly trying to kill us.”

“Or bow to us,” I offer.

He nods, thinking. “Maybe a port town along the western coast would be nice. That sounds far enough from Caerwen.”

“Maybe.” My voice doesn’t sound convincing. There’s no corner of the realm far enough to escape the Fox King’s toxic reach.

His voice is lighthearted again, optimistic. “I could be a fisherman, I think.”