Jennifer A.Nielsen

I was thirteen when I’d been sent from my father’s home, still young enough to excuse his flaws as my own failures of understanding. I’d been young enough then to love him despite his coldness, and to pretend that he cared for me too. After three years,

Someone grabbed me from behind, and a blade pressed against my neck. “No,” a voice hissed. “You’re no longer giving the orders, Princess. Drop your knife.”

His hair was a darker shade of brown than mine, and closely cropped on the sides, but longer on top with a fringe of hair near his forehead that I suspected was often out of place. If he were a higher form of life than a Corack, his strong, square jawline might have been considered attractive. His brown eyes were striking, with thick lashes that gave them prominence, I’d give him that much. Something was familiar about those eyes, though I couldn’t place the memory. But I would, eventually.

“Enjoying this?” My tone was as bitter as I felt.

“I’d rather search a bear.”

“I wish you would. If I’d known this was coming, I’d have brought one along.”

“But you didn’t know, because we outsmarted you.” For the first time, he looked directly at me. His smile was triumphant. Arrogant. It wouldn’t look that way during his execution. He pointed to my boots. “Remove them.”

“You do it.” All the easier to kick him if he got into the right position.

And that’s when the memory nagged at me again. There had been a Simon years ago, when I was a child. That boy lived at Woodcourt as a servant, and had been one of the rare children near my own age I ever saw. We hadn’t been friends, my father never would have allowed that. But we were … something like friends. It didn’t matter anyway. This couldn’t be that scraggly boy. That was impossible. Wasn’t it?

On my right thigh, he paused.

“What’s that?”