I had never heard the house breathe like that.
Not in all my years of pacing its corridors, memorizing the creak of every board, the sigh of every door, the wheeze of old vents in winter. Tonight, the manor sounded like a sleeping beast that might wake if I put my foot down too hard.
The tapestry fell closed behind me with a soft whisper.
I stood in the narrow passage for a heartbeat, letting my eyes adjust. The air was colder here, spiced with damp stone, dust, and old soot. Faint drafts curled along the floor, carrying the ghost of scents from other lives—bread from the kitchens, wine from the cellars, smoke, sweat, horses, rain.
The Moonbrand warmed beneath my palm.
“Just a little farther,” I whispered to it, or to myself. “We’re not free yet.”
I moved.
The servants’ passage bent twice, low and narrow, then opened into a tiny landing with a rickety ladder leading down. I descended carefully, boots finding each rung by memory, bundle bumping lightly against my ribs beneath my cloak. The book inside felt like a heartbeat of its own.
At the bottom, the world widened into the shell of the glass corridor.
Moonlight flooded through warped panes overhead in pale ribbons, silvering the old flagstones and the dead vines clinging to the walls. Frost crusted along the edges of the glass like lace.
And at the far end, waiting in the fractured light—
Emerson.
He was already cloaked, hood shadowing his face, but I would have known his stance anywhere. Shoulders squared, weight balanced like he was ready to punch or run, whichever the world demanded first. When he saw me, some of that tension melted.
“You’re on time,” he breathed.
“Of course I am,” I said. My voice came out thinner than I liked. “I wasn’t going to let you escape without me.”
He huffed a laugh, quiet but real. Up close, I could see how tired he looked—faint shadows beneath his eyes, jaw more hollow, hair mussed like he hadn’t bothered with a comb for once. Fear suited him worse than anger.
“Are you sure?” he asked, low. “Last chance to change your mind and marry a man who thinks of you as good silk.”
My stomach twisted.
“Let’s go,” I said. “Before I remember how to be obedient.”
That earned me a grin. It was brief, bright, and sharp with love.
“Right,” he said. “Here’s how this works.”
He pulled a folded scrap of parchment from his sleeve and flattened it against the wall—my stolen sketch of the southern gate, smudged now from his fingers. In the moonlight, the lines looked faint and ghostly, but I knew every stroke. I had traced them too often not to.
“Here,” he said, tapping the inner wall. “Guard post. Two men inside, two outside. They switch at the top of the hour. Uncle says they get lazy half an hour after the change—they think no one’s watching yet.”
“Do they know you?” I asked.
“Some do.” He tapped again, farther along the path. “But not the one I paid. He’s barely more than a boy and new to the estate. The others think he’s just too eager and stupid to be a threat. That makes him useful.”
“And the river gate itself?” I ran my finger along the little arch I’d drawn where the wall dipped. “Still rusted?”
He nodded. “Partially. Enough that they don’t expect anyone but smugglers to care. They built a newer dock closer to town; this one’s just used for refuse and quiet deals. There’ll be a boat tied beneath the arch. Two small horses stabled under the far bank.”
“You’ve thought of everything,” I said.
He shook his head. “I’ve thought of enough to make us dangerous. There’s a difference.”
The Moonbrand pulsed once, a quiet thrum beneath my skin. Dangerous.
“What about Father?” I asked, barely moving my lips around the word.
“Council with the generals,” Emerson said. “Dinner, then strategy. He’ll keep them talking half the night about patrol routes and supply lines just to avoid being alone with his own thoughts.”
“And Dorian?”
A muscle jumped in Emerson’s jaw.
“Dorian’s at the officers’ table, making himself indispensable,” he said. “He won’t leave our father’s side tonight if he can help it. He wants to be the first to hear about every decision, every troop movement. Every weakness.”
So he wouldn’t be near my wing.
He wouldn’t be near this corridor.
He wouldn’t be near the gate.
The knowledge soothed and soured at the same time. Some foolish, furious part of me wanted him here just so I could throw my escape in his face.
“Alora,” Emerson said gently.
I looked up.
“You ready?” he asked.
No.
“Yes,” I said.
He smiled again, quick and fierce. “Then we run.”
We moved like ghosts.
Emerson took the lead, steps sure and silent along routes he’d learned by sneaking when we were younger and by listening when he was older. We slipped from the glass corridor into another servant hall, then down a back stair that smelled like old potatoes and coal dust.
At the first corner, he reached back without looking and closed his hand around mine.
He didn’t have to.
He did anyway.
We dodged past the scullery when voices rose within, laughter and the clatter of plates. We paused once in a shallow alcove while two guards strode by, boots ringing on stone. I held my breath, cloak hood pulled low, pulse pounding in my throat. Emerson’s fingers tightened just enough to remind me he was there.
When their footsteps faded, we moved again.
The nearer we came to the lower levels, the damper the air grew. The faint roar of the river, usually just a murmur beneath the world, swelled with every turn. It was like walking down the inside of a throat toward a heartbeat.
Light changed too.
The golden wash of wall sconces gave way to smoky lanterns. Then to gaps in the stone where the outside air seeped in, carrying the scent of water and wet earth and something metallic beneath.
At one bend, Emerson stopped and held up a hand.
Voices.
I pressed against the wall with him, heart thudding so hard I could feel it in my fingertips.
“—told you, it’s a simple night,” one voice grumbled. “Just watch the crate drop-off and don’t fall asleep at your post.”
“That’s what worries me,” the younger one said. “Nothing’s ever simple when the duke’s in one of his moods.”
“It’s a dinner, not a battle. Calm down.”
The Moonbrand warmed.
Emerson leaned close enough that his breath brushed my ear. “Inner gate,” he whispered. “We’re almost there.”
“How many?” I mouthed.
He risked the smallest glance around the corner. “Two,” he murmured. “Never just two. The others must be inside. That’s good. Less eyes on the walkway.”
“How do we get past them?” I asked.
“Leave that to me,” he said, and I heard the old mischief creeping into his tone, the kind that used to end with muddy boots and scoldings. “Your job is not to be seen.”
He squeezed my hand one last time and then let go.
The loss of warmth felt like a sudden draft.
Before I could protest, he stepped out into the hall, casual, total ease in every line of his body.
“Evening,” he called.
The two guards stiffened, hands flying toward their weapons before they recognized him.
“Lord Emerson,” the older one said, relaxing into a half-bow. “Didn’t expect to see you down here tonight.”
“I told you,” the younger muttered. “Nothing’s simple.”
Emerson laughed, low and friendly. “You sound like my uncle. He’s been saying that since I was old enough to walk into the kitchens.”
I edged closer to the corner, far enough back that they couldn’t see me, close enough that I could watch.
“What are you doing down here, my lord?” the older guard asked. “Thought you’d be at the officers’ table.”
“I was,” Emerson said. “Too much talk. Not enough air.” He gestured vaguely upward. “All that smoke. I came down to the river gate to clear my head. You know how it is.”
The younger guard frowned. “Is that… allowed?”
“Breathing?” Emerson raised a brow. “I hope so.”
The older one laughed outright at that. “Of course, my lord. We just—orders have been strict lately.”
“Extra patrols,” the younger added. “More eyes on the outer routes. Duke doesn’t want anything slipping in or out unnoticed.”
My skin crawled.
Emerson kept his expression open and unbothered. “I’m not slipping out. Just walking. If I fall in, feel free to fish me out before Father notices.”
The older guard chuckled again. “Very good, my lord. We wouldn’t want the heir drifting into the eastern marsh, would we?”
“Terrible for morale,” Emerson agreed. “Terrible for my hair.”
The younger one snorted despite himself.
The older guard stepped aside, gesturing toward the gate. “Go on, then. We’ll say we saw nothing but a young man taking the air.”
“Much appreciated,” Emerson said lightly.
He walked past them with the easy stride of someone who’d never been stopped in his life.
I waited until his back was safely to them, then moved.
Timing had always been our gift.
As Emerson reached the mid-point between the guards and the low arch that led to the river stairs, I slipped out of the shadows, keeping my cloak tight around me, hood forward, steps quick and silent. The guards’ focus stayed on Emerson’s broad shoulders, on his noble profile in the lamplight.
I was a shadow at the edge of their vision, nothing more.
The Moonbrand felt like a hot coin pressed against my skin.
I passed within arm’s reach of the younger guard. His gaze flicked past me, saw only a servant-shaped blur following the duke’s son at a respectful distance. Not worth noting. Not worth remembering.
And then we were through.
Down a curving stair slick with moss, the sound of the river swelling until it drowned everything else. The stone was wet under my boots; the air was colder here, biting through cloak and wool. We came out beneath the low arch, into the half-open dark.
The river writhed below us, ink-black, flecked with dull silver where the moonlight caught. The old dock jutted out like a broken tooth. A narrow boat bobbed beneath it, tethered to a slimy post.
Two small horses waited beyond, shapes in the darkness, their breath puffing white.
Emerson exhaled. “See?” he said, voice soft with exhilaration. “I told you. Easy.”
“That’s what worries me,” I whispered, echoing the young guard without meaning to.
He shot me a quick, crooked smile. “You’ve been down here more than once, haven’t you?” he said. “You know how to step into the boat without slipping?”
“I learned the hard way,” I said, remembering cold water and a much smaller, shrieker version of myself.
“Then you go first.”
“No,” I said. “You.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Just do it,” I said. “Humor me.”
He rolled his eyes, but there was fondness in it. “Fine. If it makes you feel better.”
It did.
For reasons I didn’t understand, it did.
He clambered down onto the narrow, algae-slick steps, then into the boat with the easy balance of someone who’d grown up near water. The ropes creaked as the boat rocked under his weight.
He turned and held out his hand to me.
“Alora,” he said, smiling in the dark. “Come on.”
My heart lurched.
I stepped toward him.
And the world broke.