Every time she was now assigned a task involving his regiment, she froze with fear. She did everything she could to avoid them, at the expense of some of the only friendships she ever had. But she didn’t know if Bassett knew she had fingered him, or what the rest of the regiment knew at all. That uncertainty was a danger all too familiar, as it had been her companion for half her life.

The only advantage of this servant’s life was supposed to be anonymity, and she had foolishly thrown that away. Her honest deed had made her an enemy of some of the most powerful men in the castle. Thinking on it too much led to fits of panic, and she physically ached from being constantly on edge. She flirted with the idea of running away again, out of Nottingham entirely, but the reality of that dream was so much harder than the dream itself. Over the years she had stashed enough coin aside to travel south, but it was useless without knowing where to go. She only had a single bit of rumor, overheard years ago, that implied a Burel had made it to France. She didn’t know if it was a brother, a cousin, her mother, or an absolute lie—and it didn’t matter. “France” was as useful as “the moon” without better information. The world was full of hungry mouths in need, and she would just be another beggar. There was terror in taking her chances on the road, terror of the unknown. At least here, she knew the terrain.

A palpable relief overcame her as she entered the stables and realized Jon Bassett was not there. Only Reginold and Bolt sat on the ground, preparing their packs, and they greeted her warmly.

“Arable, my darling, what wonderful timing, perhaps you’ll help us settle this philosophical quandary!” Reginold twisted the tips of his moustache tight and rolled up to his feet, extending one hand for her.

“Hi, Bellara,” Bolt grinned, looking away.

“Hi, Tolb.” She kicked at his good leg, causing him to snicker silently and twist. Reginold and Bolt often included her in their antics, ever since they discovered they could make her laugh. She also suspected Bolt had taken a bit of a liking to her, despite his being a few years younger. She rarely saw them anymore. And she had only herself to blame.

“We were discussing death,” Reginold said dramatically, his eyebrows dancing. “Not the kindest subject for your ladylike lady-ears, but we’ll skip the grisly parts. More specifically, we were discussing the inestimable mystery of what happens after the grisly part. What happens to the soul.”

He accentuated that by sheathing a sword, and proceeded to buckle it to his horse’s saddle.

“You either go to heaven or you go to hell,” Arable answered cautiously, certain there would be some clever linguistic trap awaiting her.