Chapter 171 Feathers and Flight
Chapter 171 Feathers and Flight
Through the carriage glass, the world softened and melted at the edges; the forests dissolving into pale specters and the hills like lumbering beasts wrapped in shrouds of white. The pace of the wheels was slowing again, grinding and crunching the ice that had frozen stiff overnight into humps and ridges sharp enough to set the teeth on edge.Lady Elena Avalon remained in a perfect posture in the center of the carriage compartment. Court life for many years had taught her that posture was the primary defense, and where it could be seen, the defense must be impenetrable.
The four maids were placed directly across from the noble, motionless and watchful. Isen, the eldest, sat perfectly still and stared at Elena with unblinking intent. No detail was hidden from her all-seeing gaze.
Mareth, meanwhile, lolled back against the side of the coach, with one slender finger tracing a carved pattern into the wood. She was always at liberty to retract a stiletto from the depths of her cloak and use it for good, in the manner of a battlefield skirmish. Lysa, the silent, always unseen, never unnoticed, was closest. Like a viper ready to strike with venomous certainty, Caerin’s fingers idly traced patterns across her garments.
Outside, the caravan master rode on with the king’s escort. 20 guards and a captain. They liked to call themselves protectors—agents of the crown.
Jailers, Elena thought silently, the word bitter but hidden deep where no voice could betray it.
She would never speak it aloud.
The carriage rocked again.
Isen glanced toward her. “You should rest, m’lady.”
“I will rest when we cross Avalon’s border,” Elena replied gently.
Caerin’s mouth twitched. “That may be some time.”
A thin smile touched Elena’s lips.
“Yes,” she said. “So I have noticed.”
Her fingers traced the edge of her cloak, and for a moment she allowed herself to think of her family. Of Eldric’s steady strength. Of Seraphine’s quiet wisdom and the children. Of letters she had written and never received answers to.
Intercepted, almost certainly.
Every mile they traveled south felt like walking down a hallway filled with locked doors, with someone else holding the keys. The caravan crept along in maddening slowness, hooves scraping over the ice, voices echoing through the cold.
Mareth let out a soft sigh as the whole group stopped again. “Another lord requesting the honor to host?”
Elena barely moved her lips. “Probably. And another favor hidden in polite words.”
The door swung open, and winter swept inside. Captain Dorian Hale stepped in, snow clinging to his cloak. He bowed. “M’lady. Lord Hatherin offers his hall for as long as the storm lasts.”
Caerin, once the door clicked shut, muttered in mockery, “As long as it lasts, huh.”
Elena gave a graceful nod. “We’ll accept his kindness—but only for a little while.”
She stayed two days.
Long enough to avoid insult.
Not long enough to become a possession.
When they departed again, the caravan master rode close to her window, reins held tight in gloved hands.
Galen Varr’s voice carried careful authority as he spoke through the window.
“M’lady, the horses strain more with each league. Winter travel demands patience. At our next stop, we may need several days—perhaps longer. I may need to acquire new carriages or replace teams.”
Elena turned her head slightly, studying him through the frost-blurred glass.
“New carriages?” she remarked with slight irony. “Or a new excuse for more delays?”
His jaw stiffened.
“For your protection, Lady,” he responded.
Of course.
Safety. Always safety.
Necessity. Always necessity.
Intention. Never intention.
She gave a delicate smile, an expression as natural and impenetrable as a mirror on the wall.
“We’ll find a way to move fast and keep safe,” she said. “The realm doesn’t wait for anyone, Master Varr—not even for winter.”
He bowed, but he didn’t promise a thing.
Lysa leaned in, once he’d ridden ahead inside the carriage. “He’s dragging this out,” she whispered.
Elena nodded, voice low. “Yeah. He thinks I won’t catch on.”
Isen’s tone stayed steady. “Maybe someone commanded him to slow you down.”
Elena shut her eyes for a moment. “I know.”
Prosperaterra waited up ahead. The name pressed against her heart, heavy.
If those lords decided to “host” her, this journey could turn into the worst golden cage. Sure, they’d call it a celebration, but she’d be trapped—months, maybe even years.
She wasn’t about to let that happen.
But she couldn’t just ride off with a handful of maids as guards, either. Winter roads would swallow them whole, and politics demanded she play along, at least for now.
So she waited.
And planned.
By dusk, they halted at a roadside inn, its lanterns glowing weakly through the falling snow. Guards dismounted gratefully. Stable boys ran to the teams.
Captain Hale approached again.
“The men require rest,” he said. “The horses more so.”
“Only for supper here,” Elena replied smoothly. “No longer. We can camp out tonight.”
He hesitated—then bowed.
Within an hour, the caravan rolled again, lanterns swinging as darkness swallowed the road.
The movement was soon restored.
Only when the distance was made did relief settle over her shoulders like a cloak.
The carriage fell into a steady rhythm.
Outside, snow whispered against the panels.
Inside, quiet settled between the women.
It was Lysa who broke it.
“M’lady.”
Elena looked up.
The girl’s hand emerged slowly from her sleeve, revealing a folded slip of parchment bound with a single black feather.
No seal.
No sigil.
Only the Hawks feather.
Elena inhaled sharply.
Windwatch!
She took it cautiously and turned it over twice in her hands.
Why now? How had the king’s watchers missed it? Her maids stood wide-eyed; each aware that this small object might change the path of the journey more than any winter storm. Outside, the caravan pushed on, moving southward, the night thickening.
Inside her carriage, Elena Avalon began to read the message. Her mind raced, meticulously dissecting every interaction with noble faces, weighing the smiles and gazes she had received since her journey from the south, searching for the one that held the glint of imminent betrayal. The journey was no longer about getting back home; it had become the complete scheme laid half in shadow, half in carefully placed counters, and Elena meant to know the rules of the gambit before somebody else made them irrevocable.
…
Traveling in winter settled into the infuriating rhythm of halts and muted words.
Ever southward, the caravan snaked through white quiet, halting at the doors of country homes and inns. Every house offered Lady Elena Avalon a cautious smile and almost sickening hospitality. Each owner declared worry over the snow, the road, and her escort.
Each visit felt like the softly sealing of a door behind her.
And under the smooth flow of civilities, a new tune had started to hum-a tune that no herald was expected to announce.
The house of Windwatch had discovered her.
At a minor manor, a folded scrap of paper appeared tucked beneath a silver tray in her chamber, hidden among linen folds no servant should have disturbed. At the second, a stable boy brushed past Isen, carrying a bucket of ash, the black feather tied to its handle so briefly that only trained eyes would have seen it.
The maids adapted quickly.
Isen and Mareth possessed small gifts—Veil-touched whispers that allowed them to reach one another across short distances. Not words, exactly. Impressions. Direction. A sense of here or wait or danger.
It was enough.
They began to map the drops.
A glance toward a shutter.
A pause near a stairwell.
A servant lingering an instant too long near a door.
Each message was read, memorized, and then incinerated or thrown away after it arrived, and it went very quickly.
Windwatch warned to be patient and not to let them hurry her until they were in position.
They wanted her to arrive at a narrow tributary that bent back to the Great Lake of Prosperaterra, to a skiff concealed behind merchant vessels- an escape by water south much faster than the road.
But such a move would be perilous.
Blood drawn would shatter alliances. A scandal might bind her more tightly to the crown than any open captivity.
Elena understood.
So she smiled.
And played her part.
A near-discovery came at Lord Virell’s hall.
Mareth moved through the servants’ passage carrying a tray of steaming tea. Beneath the cloth lay a thin strip of parchment—no more than a sliver—left moments earlier by a kitchen boy who had never met her eyes.
She turned a corner—
—and nearly collided with Captain Hale.
The guard captain’s gaze sharpened instantly.
“What business have you here?” he asked.
Mareth lowered her head just enough to be respectful, not submissive.
“M’lady requested chamomile,” she replied smoothly. “The winter air has taken her throat.”
His eyes lingered on the tray.
For a heartbeat, Elena’s fate balanced on silence.
Then, from the far end of the corridor, Elena’s voice echoed.
“Captain Hale?” he turned, compelled back to his duties. She was at the door of her chamber, swathed in white furs, her face delicately pink. “I am not well this evening,” she murmured. “Please plan on staying an extra day.”
For one quick moment, a fleeting joy crossed his face before it was gone. “Just as you wish, my lady.”
Mareth darted past him from the other side.
Inside, once they were alone, the maids shared a knowing glance. “You are playing with danger,” Isen breathed.
Elena shook her head.
“I buy time,” she said.
And comfort.
She could see it in the captain’s posture—the way he relaxed now that she appeared compliant. The caravan master, Galen Varr, echoed the sentiment that evening, praising her wisdom in resting the horses longer.
She smiled.
Inside, she counted days like pilfered coins.
At the following stop, Lysa collected some flowers from the hard border of a garden, her gloved hands patting at the frost and snow to uncover some stems-bitterleaf, winter thyme, and a little pale blue bloom that hadn’t survived well.
‘Medicines?’ Elena whispered.
‘For relief of headaches,’ Lysa replied cheerfully, tucking the small bunch into her saddle bag.
No one said anything.
Journeys required medicine.
Yet even Elena saw the way she selected some leaves as though laying the foundations of some invisible structure.
The messages increased in daring.
One night, a folded fragment arrived hidden inside a scooped-out candle; another time, a groom’s whistle signaled a package dropped at the edge of a carriage wheel and just picked up by the stable cat. Isen had only just begun to hesitate when the king’s agent strode into the stables where she knelt by the horse pretending to tighten its girth, slipping the note into the pocket in the lining of its saddlebag. His bootsteps faltered only inches from her fingers.
“What are you doing?”
“Ensuring my lady’s safety,” she replied evenly.
He studied her and then the saddle.
Then walked on.
When she returned to the carriage, Elena met her gaze with silent approval.
“You see now,” Isen whispered later, “why Windwatch moves in shadows.”
“Yes,” Elena said softly. “Because shadows do not plan to draw swords.”
The plan revealed itself piece by piece.
A river, A hidden ship, A disguised crossing of lake and river.
Windwatch soon began to urge urgency.
But Elena hesitated.
A too-sudden disappearance would spark outrage. The crown’s agents might claim kidnapping, or worse. The realm could fracture before her son even learned she had been moved.
She would not allow blood. Could not allow a scandal.
She would choose the moment carefully.
Snow fell heavier as they neared Prosperaterra’s outer territories.
Caravan Master Varr rode close to her window again.
“The next lord may insist we stay longer,” he warned. “The horses will need it.”
Elena inclined her head graciously.
“Then we shall appear grateful,” she said.
Inside, her thoughts sharpened.
Prosperaterra could become a gilded cage.
She could almost feel the walls rising already.
That night, after supper, she kept Captain Hale and Master Varr occupied with long discussions of route planning and provisions—questions that required charts, calculations, and endless consultation.
Outside, Mareth and Isen moved through the courtyard unnoticed.
A feather waited beneath a loose stone near the well.
They retrieved the folded message seconds before a guard rounded the corner.
Later, as the caravan resumed its journey, Elena watched the lantern light flicker across the snow.
Lysa sat beside her, carefully arranging the herbs she had gathered into small wrapped bundles. The scent of crushed leaves filled the carriage—sharp, clean, faintly bitter.
“Preparing for winter ailments?” Elena asked.
A weak smile tugged at Lysa’s lips. “For whatever comes.”
Elena agreed with a nod of her head.
Ahead, the road turned to the south.
Ahead was Prosperaterra and the river that could take her to freedom, or pull her further into another tangled net.
She unfurled the newest message, the black feather grazing her skin like a vow.
There was no more waiting.
And out in the dark, beyond the lamplit walls of the caravan, Windwatch would be there when she decided.
…
For three days, the campfires burned low and steady, and no one suspected the change taking root among them.
Lysa moved easily between wagons and cookfires, sleeves rolled, hands busy with herbs and winter roots. She had done so before—quietly assisting the cooks when storms made tempers thin—and the men welcomed the warmth she brought to the meals. Bitterleaf steeped into broth, winter thyme crushed into stews, a touch of honeyroot to ease the cold from stiff limbs.
Even the guards praised her work.
Lady Elena ate with them each evening, making certain it was seen.
She drank the broth.
She laughed lightly when one of the younger soldiers claimed her presence made the road feel less cursed.
Nightfall found the women in the darkened confines of the carriage, their conversation in hushed tones.
“Not too much of that,” Isen whispered on the second night, fingers clenched about a warm cup. “We have to be alert when the time is upon us.”
“We rest lightly,” Mareth added.
Elena nodded, though her heart beat faster each time the plan drew closer.
They were nearing Prosperaterra.
One more day, perhaps two, before the dukedom’s reach tightened around them.
One more chance to move freely.
It was the final night, and a stark wind whipped the limbs of trees as if they were nothing more than a bundle of bones. Camp was made in a stand of pines. The snow beneath their boots and wagon wheels was packed firm. The flicker of lanterns was reflected off metal and canvas as the aroma of Lysa’s cooking wafted through the woods.
The men ate heartily.
Guards laughed.
Captain Hale spoke at length with Caravan Master Varr about horse teams and the need for longer rests ahead.
Elena listened, smiling faintly, her mind elsewhere.
After supper, she excused herself early.
The women followed soon after.
They spoke little that night.
No one needed reminders.
Sleep came heavy.
At first, it was subtle—a yawn here, a guard leaning against a tree there. Then silence thickened, deeper than any normal camp rest. One by one, the sentries slumped, their breaths slow and even. A man’s spear slipped from his hand and fell softly into the snow.
Inside the carriage, Elena felt her pulse hammer.
“It begins,” Isen whispered.
They moved quickly.
The two maids had already tiptoed out to the hitching posts, boots soft upon the ground. With cold fingers fumbling, they harnessed the lead horses into the wagon, the leather of their harnesses squeaking, the iron bits of their bridles clinking quietly.
Every noise was deafening in the stillness of the night.
Mareth and Caerin padded among the still figures of sleeping men and eased them to create a path for the carriage. A lone guard mumbled in his sleep, and Elena jumped, but he seemed only to sink deeper.
It was harder work than any of them expected.
The men were heavy. Their armor heavier.
Snow clung to cloaks and gloves.
Finally, the wagon rolled forward.
No shouted alarm followed.
No horn sounded.
They drove straight out of camp, wheels carving clean lines through the snow.
Behind them, five saddled horses followed, tethered and riderless.
The trail would be obvious.
They did not slow.
Two hours later, the horses’ breath steaming in the cold, they reached the clearing.
A hawk’s cry cut through the night.
From the trees emerged two figures cloaked in dark green, faces hidden beneath fur-lined hoods. They bowed deeply to Elena without a word.
Windwatch.
Trunks were transferred swiftly from the wagon to the waiting horses. The women dismounted the carriage, hands shaking from cold and adrenaline, and mounted the fresh steeds.
“South,” one of the men murmured.
They did not linger.
The wagon turned north, driven hard, its tracks meant to mislead any pursuit.
“Ride!” Elena pushed her horse, and her muscles were screaming to hold her pace. The trees seemed to pull them in. The first sounds of pursuit reached them on the edge of the dawn-hooves. Voices shouted distant words on the wind through the trees, men on horseback. Elena’s breath caught in her chest, strained and tight. It had been years since she had ridden hard, through the snow, pushing through branches that raked her cloak and pulled at her hair.
“I can hear them.” Caerin breathed, “Press on,” Isen answered. They rode through until the trees broke, revealing the few figures standing on the other side – men in green, a bow resting on each shoulder, one of them raised a hand, holding aloft his hat with a hawk’s feather.
Windwatch’s man.
They waved the women onward without stopping.
Only after they passed did the wind rise suddenly, fierce and cold. Snow lifted into the air, swirling across the trail in a white veil that erased tracks as quickly as they formed.
Elena dared not look back.
Her heart pounded, every breath a struggle.
She was no longer young.
Every mile demanded more than she wished to give in and rest.
Yet she rode.
She had to.
Prosperaterra’s shadow still lay too close behind them, and she knew even the lake belonged to that dukedom’s influence.
Freedom was not yet certain.
Not until the river carried her beyond its reach.
They reached the barge at last.
It lay hidden along a narrow stretch of river, lanterns dimmed, hull dark against the snowbound banks.
Hands reached for reins as soon as they arrived.
“Quickly, m’lady,” a voice urged.
Horses were led aboard, tack stripped and tossed into the water where it vanished beneath the current. Cloaks and silks disappeared into hidden compartments as peasant garments were pressed into their hands.
“Change,” Isen said gently.
Elena hesitated only a moment before removing her furs, exchanging them for coarse wool that smelled faintly of smoke and river mud.
Below deck, trunks were concealed, weapons wrapped in canvas, identities folded away.
Above, ropes loosened.
No more than fifteen minutes passed before the barge pushed free from the bank.
The river carried them silently downstream toward the lake.
Elena stood at the narrow window, watching the snowy shore slide away.
Her pulse still raced, not only from the ride but from the knowledge that the true danger had only shifted—not ended.
Behind them rode the king’s men.
Ahead waited waters claimed by Prosperaterra.
And somewhere beyond that lay Avalon… and whatever storm her return would unleash.
She closed her eyes briefly, steadying herself as the barge turned into the current.
For the first time in months, she no longer felt she was unescorted.
She was finding freedom.
…
The barge slid downstream with the patience of a thing that had done this all its life—quiet, heavy, unhurried, as if the river were its only master. It rode low in the water, burdened by barrels, sacks, and the hidden weight of chests that had once been noble luggage and were now only cargo stowed beneath tarps and rope.
On deck, the Windwatch crew behaved like any other rivermen: shoulders hunched, mouths tight against the cold, hands steady on oars that dipped and rose with practiced rhythm. Their faces gave little away. Their voices stayed low. When they spoke at all, it was in the blunt, weathered cadence of peasantry.
Belowdecks, the women sat in cramped, dim darkness, smelling of damp wool and old wood.
Lady Elena Avalon—now merely “the old mistress” in coarse gray—kept her hands folded as though still at tea, though her pulse refused to settle. The peasant clothing itched at her neck. The braid at her shoulder felt wrong without the weight of her usual pins. The ring on her finger—simple silver, unadorned—was the only indulgence she had refused to surrender.
She had been adamant that it stay.
Not for pride-
For identity.
If that had to go, she wasn’t sure how to retain a sense of self beneath layers of deception.
Her ladies waited: Isen was as solid as rock; Mareth, wary and listening, her ears cocked toward the sound of anything more than breathing; Lysa and Caerin huddled, their arms around each other for heat. Lysa’s bag was by her knees, bulging with herbs picked on the trail-winter thyme, bitterleaf, more of the brown stalks wrapped in cloth. Lysa was still as a stone; she had said nothing since fleeing, and her hands worked on, sorting and bundling with the intensity of someone trying to keep her courage contained.
Above them, the river widened. The current slowed. The air changed—brackish and open—carrying the faint scent of lake-water even before it could be seen.
The Great Lake of Prosperaterra waited like a mirror of iron.
And to reach it, they had to pass the town.
…
It began as a misting rain just before the bend, then thickened into a freezing drizzle that turned every exposed surface slick and miserable. The world became a blur of gray water and slate sky. Roofs in the riverside town shone darkly. Smoke from chimneys clung low, beaten down by the damp.
The Windwatch captain—an unremarkable man called Corin for the day—raised a hand, and the oars slowed.
“Easy,” he murmured. “Casual.”
Elena wanted to strike him for it.
Every instinct in her urged speed. Every breath told her to push the boat hard, to flee into the lake’s open breadth where pursuit might be outrun.
But speed drew eyes.
Eyes drew questions.
So the barge approached the town’s dock like any other poor vessel with too much load and too little luck.
Lanterns burned weakly under awnings. The dockhands moved reluctantly, shoulders hunched against the rain. A pair of guards stood under the eaves of a warehouse, cloaks pulled high, their expressions sour with cold discomfort.
One of them shouted, “Hold there!”
Corin nodded obediently and angled the barge in. The hull bumped the dock with a dull thud. Rope flew up. Hands caught it. They tied off quickly, the movements so ordinary they became invisible.
The guards came aboard with the lethargy of men who would rather be anywhere else.
Rain dripped from their helms.
“What’s your business?” the taller one demanded, though his eyes kept slipping toward the tavern door across the dock.
“Grain,” Corin said, gesturing to sacks. “Barrels. Some wool. Going through to the lake.”
“Any passengers?”
Corin jerked his chin toward the covered hatch. “Old women. Sickly. Don’t like the rain.”
The guard made a face as if the very thought offended him.
He stomped down the steps halfway, peered into the dim, and saw exactly what Windwatch wished him to see: hunched figures in plain cloth, faces turned away, coughing politely as if to apologize for existing.
Isen forced a small wheeze at the right moment.
Lysa sniffled theatrically.
Elena kept her head bowed and let her shoulders tremble, not with fear but with the effort of restraint.
The guard lingered perhaps two heartbeats longer than necessary. Then the cold rain ran down his neck, and he cursed softly.
“Nothing here,” he said, backing away. “No contraband? No strange goods? No travelers hiding from taxes?”
Corin spread his hands. “If we had coin, we wouldn’t be on this river.”
The taller guard snorted, convinced.
They did the barest of checks—kicked a sack, prodded a barrel lid, glanced at the crude ledger Corin presented. The drizzle made them impatient. Their questions grew fewer, their attention narrowing to warmth and dryness.
Finally, the shorter one waved them off.
“Go on,” he said. “And keep to the lake lanes. Patrols have been jumpy.”
The guards left with visible relief, boots splashing off the deck and back under the awning.
Only when their footsteps faded did Elena allow herself to breathe.
Above, the ropes were cast off at once. The barge pushed away from the dock with unhurried competence, oars dipping again.
“Row steady,” Corin warned. “Not like we’re running.”
Elena’s jaw tightened.
This—this slow obedience—was the cruelest part.
To flee and pretend not to.
…
They reached the open lake by late afternoon.
The Great Lake of Prosperaterra spread wide and flat, its surface broken by cold rain and the faint chop of wind. Shorelines blurred into distant gray. Boats dotted the water—fishing skiffs hugging land, merchant barges farther out, and here and there the lean silhouette of patrol craft cutting lines across the waves.
Corin kept them moving at a modest pace. Too fast would seem eager. Too slow would seem lost.
Elena sat beneath a tarp on deck now, hood up, face turned toward the lake as if she were only another weary traveler.
Then Mareth stiffened.
“Boat to starboard,” she murmured, barely moving her lips.
A patrol craft angled toward them, oars biting the water with purposeful strokes.
“Elena,” Isen whispered. “Remember—small, tired, peasant.”
Elena’s fingers clenched beneath her cloak.
The patrol came alongside, close enough that Elena could smell wet leather and sour ale on the men.
The lead guard called, “You there! Why are you so far from shore?”
Corin lifted his chin with mild annoyance. “Wind pushed us out.”
The guard narrowed his eyes. “Wind pushes everyone. Yet most keep land close. Easier to hide near reeds than out here where patrols see you.”
His gaze moved over the deck—barrels, sacks, bundled wool, and the huddled women.
“Who are they?”
Corin opened his mouth—
—and Lysa began to cry.
Not softly.
Not gracefully.
A raw, embarrassing sound that turned heads at once.
The patrol guard blinked, startled.
“What’s wrong with her?” he snapped.
Isen did not look up. She kept her voice flat, tired, resentful. “She got scared.”
“Scared of what?”
Lysa wiped at her face with her sleeve—like a servant girl who had never owned a proper cloth—and blurted, in a thick, uneducated slur utterly unlike her usual speech, “A boat came by earlier—had a lad on it. He said ugly things. Tried to put hands where they don’t belong.”
The guard’s posture shifted. Interest replaced suspicion.
“Assault?” he demanded, suddenly alert.
Mareth drew her hood tighter, shrinking away as if men were all the same threat.
Corin seized the opening. “We moved away from shore because of it. Didn’t want another run-in. The lad was drunk. Said he’d—” He spat into the lake, disgusted. “We almost drew knives.”
Lysa sobbed harder, face hidden. “I ain’t never—” she gasped. “I told him my brothers’d gut him—”
The guards’ attention locked on her, not on Elena.
The lead patrolman grimaced. “Did you recognize the boat?”
“No,” Isen said. “Rain was bad. Colors run.”
The patrolman’s gaze swept the barge again, but now his thoughts were elsewhere—hunting some imagined villain, not searching for hidden nobility.
One of the guards chuckled cruelly. “Should’ve stayed in town, girl.”
Lysa’s cry sharpened, wounded pride perfectly performed.
Elena kept her eyes down. Rage burned beneath her ribs, not at the words—she had heard worse at court—but at the necessity of hearing them in silence.
The patrolman spat. “Keep to the lanes. And if you see the boat again, report at the west dock.”
Corin nodded humbly.
The patrol craft moved on.
Only when it had slid into the rain did Lysa’s sobbing cease as abruptly as a snuffed candle.
She sniffed once, then looked up with calm, sharp eyes.
Elena met her gaze.
For a heartbeat, the lady of Avalon saw the steel beneath the peasant mask.
“Clever,” Elena murmured.
Lysa lowered her head, suddenly young again. “Thank you, m’lady.”