Page 80 of Reign

The chamber door creaked. I sighed with relief, hoping that meant the knight was satisfied and leaving.

Pulling away from Bash’s chest, I gazed upward. He gave me a small smile, but kindness radiated from his eyes. For a second, I faltered—forgetting my fear and feeling nothing more than the urge to kiss him.

“Do you think it’s safe to leave?” I whispered, before I did something that could lose me my friend.

Bash’s eyes flitted from side to side as he listened, then he nodded sharply.

“Though I’m quite enjoying breaking my neck in here,” he said with a wink.

I knew he was jesting, but his grip didn’t loosen around my back. If anything, I felt as if he was pulling me closer.

The door swung open, and candlelight flooded the space—dazzling my eyes, now they’d grown accustomed to the dark.

“Quick. Go!” Jane exclaimed.

I clambered out of the closet, tripping over my own feet. Emma nimbly appeared from beneath the bed, while Margaret slipped out from behind the curtain—dust and cobwebs thrown into the air as the old fabric swished.

Bash grunted, finally stretching out.

“When shall we all meet again?” he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Come to the Anchor after sundown on the Sabbath day,” Margaret uttered. “That’ll give me time to gather useful spells.”

As we left the brothel, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the knight slamming that wretched wanted poster onto the bar. My stomach knotted.

Bash noticed my gaze had snagged on the parchment and threw an arm around my shoulder, comforting me in the only way he knew how when no words could.

Yet he didn’t know I stared at that wanted poster with dread in my eyes, not because I believed that beast had killed a sister I didn’t have, but because I feared my furry friend was nearby and vulnerable.

As we stepped out into the thunderous weather, I prayed for two things.

That the Lord’s knights would never find me, and that Fitzroy would be pleased with my army of witches.

Eclipsed.

Once again, I found myself waiting in the shelter of Fitzroy’s grand tent as he entertained his military advisers and the lingering esquire. Only one sunrise had passed since I’d unearthed the witches, yet I was desperate to report I’d fulfilled his request.

I waited in the shadowed corner, clutching a piece of plated armor, claiming I needed to size it to Fitzroy’s chest as an excuse to visit. Embarrassingly, I sought his approval; I wanted him to know that I was as capable as any man.

“W-w-when I was a boy,” Bart stammered, as usual. “We were born knowi—”

“Knowing how to fight,” Fitzroy interrupted, his tone laden with impatience. “You’ve shared this unremarkable anecdote before.”

Fitzroy cast a mischievous smirk in my direction as Bart continued to stutter. I peered into my grease pot, suppressing a chuckle that tickled my throat.

Benedict sighed loudly—clearly weary of Bart’s ramblings—while the old man struggled to start a sentence and remember his point by the time he reached the end of it.

“Thanks to the perseverance of the King,” Benedict interrupted, cutting Bart off, “the lords in his Order have sent more soldiers to Cambas. They arrive today.”

Fitzroy scoffed.

“Respect your ruler,” Bart snapped, feebly slamming his wrinkled fist into the table. “Remember, your role in this realm is to be a steadfast servant to your King.”

I lifted my gaze and found Fitzroy watching me. He rolled his eyes as Bart mumbled on, and this time I couldn’t hold back the laughter—it tittered out onto the plate of armor I was polishing.

“What are you snickering at, peasant?” the esquire asked.

My chuckle dried up as heat flushed my face.