“There’s a place in these woods,” Brella began, her voice taking on the timbre of a storyteller. She had a musical, deep sort of voice, more bassoon than flute, resonant through her broad shoulders. “A nexus kind of place called ‘the Between.’ It’s fair folk territory. We cross a blood gate to enter, and once we’re there the fae take us where we need to go. They’re no threat to us while we’re in the forest.”

“Wait.” James raised a finger. “Blood gate?”

“It’s not as unpleasant as it sounds,” Vel assured him. “It’s a gift. Our family’s blood allows us to pass through this forest unharmed and then enter the Between. We’ve been able to do it for generations.”

“That’s all well and good for you,” Scratch objected. “But what about us? We’re not related to you.”

Brella paused before answering, and when she finally spoke, she didn’t meet Scratch’s eye.

“We’ll form a blood bond. We’ll slice our hands and hold them together. That should be enough to get you in and out.”

Scratch nodded, choosing not to press. There certainly was more to this. Brella’s determined foot-focused gaze gave that much away.

“And how long until we get to this ‘Between?’”

“Ten days.” Vel held up the appropriate amount of fingers. “Once we’re in the Between, it’s only a day. Then, we’ll be in Koravia. Hopefully, we’ll be wherever Frances is. And then,” he gestured to the two bedraggled King’s Guards, one of whom was equipped only with cutlery. “You do your thing.”

Scratch narrowed her eyes. “Our thing?”

James cleared his throat. “Before we get ahead of ourselves, does this mean the fair folk will leave us alone?”

“Until we need them, yes,” Vel confirmed. “We’re safe.”

“Jolly good. Hoorah. But what of the bandits?”

The seamstress, thankfully, had enough awareness to look a bit chagrinned. “That, uh, we figured would also fall under the heading of ‘your thing.’”

Scratch sighed. “Of course.” Gods, she was wrecked. She was running on two hours of sleep, and the adrenaline of her daring escape was beginning to seep away. Now that she no longer had to be actively afraid, her mind had room for other things: anger, mostly. Yesterday, she was ready to claim her deserved knighthood. Now, she was rescuing the lost princess of a country that had used her for her skill and rejected her for everything else. A country that—oh yes—planned to execute her for a crime she didn’t commit without even the dignity of a trial.

It was a good thing she had a knife. She was ready to stab something.

“Scratch?”

“Hmm?” She blinked out of her red haze. James was staring.

“You all right?”

“Sure, Jamie. Peachy.”

He crossed his arms, muttering something that sounded like “Well I haven’t done anything.”