She had learned afterward that his name was Heiryn. He’d left the next day, sent home in shame. Soon, the only mention of his name was in the story of how Scratch had earned hers.

Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Scratch woke at dawn. The fresh blue light of early sunrise tinted the campsite, washing it in dew-damp refreshment. She greedily sucked in the morning air like cool, cleansing water.

Brella slept beside her, her brown skin glowing faintly in the morning light. She looked younger while she slept, her face smoothed of the little tics and tensions that shaped it into something sharper. Her freckles stood out like bits of spice on a pound cake. There were so many, some crossing the friendly border between skin and the darker, softer expanse of lip. Scratch couldn’t help but think of stubborn shoots that sprouted between cobblestones, nature so wild it burst even in the inhospitable landscape of the Royal City.

Umbrella Shae wasn’t a fighter. She was a brewer, and she was sleeping on the forest floor on day two of the rescue mission for a kidnapped princess. A dangerous mission, one touched by conspiracy and unknown threat. Still, if Brella was to be believed, she was determined to bring Frances back, and to do it herself.

Why? Yes, Brella’s sister was the princess’s lover, but there had to be more to it. Brella was strong-jawed and fierce. Charitably, Scratch could conclude that Brella was doing the work because no one else would. Still, even if Scratch had been prone to such generous conclusions, it was a stretch. There had to be a simpler answer. Unfortunately—and infuriatingly—it seemed to be just out of reach, a butterfly mockingly darting inches beyond her grip.

The bright crack of a twig splitting by the tree line cut through her butterfly-crushing thoughts. She scrambled to her feet, then crashed to the ground with an unceremonious thud and a very undignified shriek. She was still in her bedroll.

“I feel so much better knowing I’m traveling with a real-life King’s Guard solider.” James grinned at her from his seat between the exposed roots of a thick, old oak. “You’re a true inspiration.”

“Shut it.” She rubbed her bonked rear as she made her way over. “Are you reading?”

“Yup.” He closed the book he had been paging through and laid it in his lap. “Don’t be cross. No one is coming for us in this glen. I half expect a kindly bird to fly down with a little cake for me.”

“What is it?”

He shamelessly handed over the clothbound, pale blue book.

“Really, James? The Centaur and His Boy again? You know, the same thing happens every time you read it.”

“Yes, well, I like what happens. And maybe something different will happen this time around.” There was a wink to his voice. “There are fae about.”

“Don’t remind me.”