Page 168 of Sword & Sacrifice

Emmaline stomped out from behind the dressing screen, arms crossed over the plump, pillowy breasts spilling out of the bodice. “Give me something else,” she demanded, glowering at the wardrobe.

“Sorry, princess, but all of them have that enchantment,” Echo explained, hazel eyes dancing with delight. They cupped their hands in front of their own flat chest. “How else do you think I’m going to please my customers when I don’t have any natural assets?”

Emmaline’s lips pinched in a tight, displeased line. “I’ve told you not to call me princess.”

“Should I call you queen instead?” they asked, waggling their eyebrows. “Since you’re on such good terms with a king and all. Are we expecting wedding bells in the future?”

Emmaline sputtered at the absurd suggestion. “Silas is my friend. There’s nothing like that between us.”

“Great, so I have less competition.”

“I … what?”

Echo placed their hands firmly on Emmaline’s shoulders. She stared up at them, eyes wide, uncertain of what they intended to do next. Then to her shock, they spun her sharply around and began tying up the laces of her dress. “Don’t look so startled, Em. Who wouldn’t want to marry a king? If he’d have me, of course.”

The words took a moment to register for Emmaline, and once they did, she could hardly contain her laughter. “I highly doubt he has any interest in marrying a pirate!”

“Damn, there goes my retirement plan.” Echo finished lacing her into the dress, then guided her over to a mirror. “What do you think?”

Emmaline examined her reflection: pale blond curls; a thin, upturned nose; and a full, hourglass figure. Certainly no one would recognize her like this. “I look … different.”

“That’s the whole point,” Echo replied. “Hide you in plain sight.” They picked up a satchel and handed it to her. “Carry this for me, will you? Can’t bear to leave everything behind, but I also can’t have both my hands full. In case we have to fight to the death.” They swished their empty hand through the air, wielding an invisible sword against an imaginary opponent. Their real sword was in a sheath at their side, slung low over one hip.

Emmaline hoped they wouldn’t have to use it.

She expected Echo to lead them down the stairs and out of the front of the establishment, but to her surprise, they walked over to the painted-shut window. While Nico had struggled, the window opened easily under Echo’s hands. “Warded,” they explained, tapping the sill to draw Emmaline’s attention to a small symbol carved into the wood. Then they climbed through the window and disappeared over the edge.

Gasping, Emmaline leaned through the opening and searched the ground, expecting to find Echo’s body splattered two-stories below. Nothing. She turned her head, frantically searching for them, only to come face to face with them hanging from the side of the building.

They winked. “Great time for a good luck kiss if you’re feeling generous.”

She blinked at them, too stunned from their position to register the flirtatious comment. At first, she thought they were held up by more magic, but as she squinted through the dark, she realized they were holding onto an iron rung drilled into the brick structure.

“No? Shame. If I die, it’s on you, princess.” Despite their bleak words, they scurried down the side of the building with grace and efficiency, arriving at the bottom without a scratch. They positioned themselves below the window, arms held out. “Well? Are you coming?”

Emmaline glanced behind her at the door that would lead her back into the establishment, wishing they could leave through the front. But she understood why they couldn’t—her father’s men had probably posted guards around the brothel, prepared to capture Rafe the moment they saw him.

Bracing herself against the windowsill, Emmaline carefully crawled over the edge, reaching for the iron rung. Her knee slipped and she inhaled sharply, tightening her hold on the frame. “Echo—” she said, her voice as unsteady as the rest of her.

“I’ve got you.” The words would have been more reassuring from a lesser height.

Emmaline gritted her teeth and leaned the last inch forward, grabbing the iron rung so tightly that her knuckles turned white. It took a few more seconds for her to trust the rung to hold her weight enough to slip one leg out the window. In the darkness, she could only use her toes to find the next rung. When they did, she sighed in relief and allowed her weight to settle on it as she pulled the other half of her body out of the window. Soon, she was clinging to the side of the building, the first step of her descent done.

“You’re doing great,” Echo murmured, keeping their voice low so as not to draw attention from any passersby.

Emmaline did not agree with their assessment. She continued clinging to the first rung she’d grabbed, too nervous to let go. Her hands began to cramp as she strangled the iron for dear life. I can’t simply hang here forever. Either my father’s men will find us, or my hands will give out. Taking a deep breath, she stretched her foot below her, blindly searching for the next rung. When it landed, she removed one hand to repeat the process. Carefully, step by step, she descended, her confidence building with each success.

On the next rung, her foot slipped.

A gasp escaped her, and her hands tightened on the rungs holding her up until the iron bit into her palms and scraped against her skin.

Gentle hands grabbed her waist. “I’ve got you,” Echo said again, this time much closer.

Emmaline tilted her head over her shoulder. She was still a few feet above the ground, but she’d made it so much further than she’d realized. Loosening her grip, she climbed down the last few steps, Echo’s hands holding her steady. When she reached the ground, she turned around and gazed up into their hazel eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Echo stared down at her for a moment, their mouth parted as if they wanted to say something else. After a few seconds of silence, they cleared their throat and said, “Right, well, time to run.” Then they grabbed Emmaline’s hand and dragged her toward the street.

The crowds in the street offered plenty of cover for their escape. Scantily clad women called out their services. Drunken sailors roared with laughter or sang sea shanties at the tops of their lungs. Musicians performed, their instruments clashing and mingling as they competed for the biggest audience.