The jolt that went through Esme shook her so badly that she half leapt, half tumbled away from the window. She was leaving. She would go out of the tower and into the revel below. Her palms dampened at the thought, but her heart raced at the thought of seeing the knight, of tasting the dark air.
“When do we leave?”
Margaret shook her head. “We are not leaving. We will simply have to do without Anne. You will stay here and hope the wimple is enough. It is too dangerous. There are too many lights in the field.”
“Margaret, look.” Esme pulled the wimple aside, giving her maid full view of the horrible bruises on her neck.
Margaret bit her lip. Esme pounced.
“My father will want to see me tomorrow. If he becomes suspicious—if he notices the bruising—I don’t know how I’ll explain it. Please, Margaret. Taking this risk may be the only way to protect us both.” Though she was creating arguments meant to convince her maid, the truth in her words made her shudder.
Margaret rubbed her forehead. “I can’t think. . . .”
Esme stepped forward. “Anne knows more about what has happened to me than anyone else. It was her own daughter who wrought this curse. She knows the danger involved with leaving the tower. We’ve always trusted her before. I am inclined to trust her now. With or without you, I am going to see Anne.”
Margaret nodded miserably. “I’ll get you my spare cloak.”
Esme turned back to the window. Her terror and excitement were so great that the night itself seemed to quiver. The fire-haired knight was gone, and she was surprised at the disappointment that lurched through her. Had she really been so hopeful of meeting him? She really should stop wishing for impossible things.
She was about to venture out of her tower for the first time in more than a year. After overcoming that impossibility, meeting a knight seemed trifling.
Margaret returned with her arms full of gray-dyed wool. While Esme ignored her heart, chattering in her chest like a set of teeth, Margaret draped the cloak around her and fastened it at the neck. Between the concealing wimple and the hood, she was well disguised.
“See? I might as well be invisible!” she crowed.
“You may be hidden, but you’re not protected,” Margaret warned. “We still have to get past the crowd, which won’t be easy.”
The truth in Margaret’s words stole part of Esme’s glee. Her tongue was too thick and pasty in her mouth to speak, so Esme nodded, but she wasn’t sure Margaret could see the movement beneath the hood of the cloak.
“It isn’t too late to change your mind,” Margaret whispered.
The words unglued Esme’s tongue. “Don’t be silly.” She hoped her bluffed confidence wasn’t transparent. With a firm step, she strode toward her chamber door, telling herself that it was no different from going down to the dining hall for dinner. “Just—you go ahead and make sure there aren’t torches lit. As long as there’s no direct light, I’ll be safe.”
With her lip caught between her teeth, Margaret turned and scurried into the hall.
“No torches,” she called softly.
Esme breathed a sigh of relief and followed the scurrying of Margaret’s little mouse footsteps. There was a small door off to one side of the hall at the bottom of the stairs. A door that led outside.
“Is anyone there?” she whispered.
“It’s likely to be guarded,” Margaret whispered back. “There may be torches as well. Or lanterns. If we’re lucky, it will be lanterns.”
Margaret stepped around Esme and pushed open the door. The night was so close that Esme found herself rooted to the floor, temporarily more plant than person. After all, she did not move from her assigned place, the way the rest of the world did. But she wanted to. She wanted to.
The desire to be out was strong enough to unstick her feet and propel her forward, until she had nearly smacked into Margaret’s back.
“Two ladies headed alone into that madness?” The guard’s voice was thick with drinking, his words slumping against one another so that Esme could barely understand him. No one had ever spoken to her like this before, and it took her a moment to realize that—to him—she appeared to be nothing more than a well-hooded lady’s maid. A lamp dangled limply from the guard’s fingers, and Esme shied away from it. “You two need a chaperone, mebbe?”
“There’s plenty of eyes out there without adding yours,” Margaret answered in a flippant voice that Esme had never heard her use before. “Now let us pass.”
“Only if you save me a dance,” the guard wheedled.
“If your legs will still hold you up, it would be my pleasure,” Margaret answered. She swept past him, reaching back to grab a fold of Esme’s cloak and towing her along in her wake. Esme let herself be pulled forward, though she swung a wide berth around the flickering puddle of lamplight.
Once the black night air had settled around her, Esme had to resist the urge to laugh. Her terror had left with the lamplight, and all she saw spread out in front of her was the endless expanse of darkness beyond the fires in the field. It had been too long since she had wrapped her fingers around this much freedom. Out here, she could walk instead of pace—she could run, even.
At least until the sun came up.
Ahead of her, Margaret froze, swearing an oath the likes of which Esme had never heard pass her lips.
“What?” Esme spun around, certain that she’d wandered into some sort of light. She waited for the clawing hands of her shadow to latch themselves onto her neck—or worse. There were so many weapons nearby. The grass was littered with them and there was barely an arm or leg visible that didn’t have some sort of blade strapped to it.
But the darkness was total. The shadow didn’t come.
“Margaret!” A man, made somehow handsomer by the scar crossing his forehead, rushed forward and grabbed Margaret’s arm. Esme ducked low into her cloak, and Margaret stepped away from her, putting enough distance between them that Esme at least had a hope of staying hidden.
“I’ve been waiting for you all night!” Margaret’s suitor exclaimed—for it was obvious by the way his hand lingered at her waist that he was more than a passing acquaintance.
“I can’t stay,” Margaret said. “I’m with my . . . cousin. Rosalie.”
Esme resisted the urge to sigh. She had never seen such a terrible liar.
“She’ll be fine for a moment. Come on—one turn around the fire. You promised,” he said, cheerfully dragging Margaret away by the arm.
Esme could see Margaret’s face, terrified and confused, mirroring Esme’s own feelings exactly. There was danger in being alone and danger in allowing Margaret’s beau close enough to discover who she was. Esme shivered as the urge to run after Margaret crawled across her skin. Before she could take so much as a single calming breath, she felt a hand against her shoulder.
“Pardon me, miss—”
She glanced over her shoulder at the voice and found herself standing a single step from the knight. Her knight.
“Y-yes?” she stammered. She knew there was only a moment before Margaret pulled herself from her sweetheart’s grasp and came flying back to fetch her.
His eyes widened. “Is it you?” he whispered.
Panicked, Esme tugged the hood farther around her face, but it was too late. He had seen. He knew.
“It is you.”
“Please. Please don’t say anything.”
“I won’t. I swear it.” He was a knight—his oath was binding. Esme tingled with relief.
“I thought you couldn’t leave the tower,” he said, keeping his voice low.
“I can—I mean, I don’t. I haven’t in so long, but it’s—I’m . . .” Her stammering infuriated her. She sounded like a madwoman.
“You’re cursed,” he whispered. “That’s what they say, at least.”