“Sarah!”
As Martha pushed through the throng, she clutched her shawl tightly around her shoulders. Regret pressed against her chest, thick as the atmosphere in the great hall: the murmur of voices, the clatter of armor, the flicker of torches. Guards moved among the crowd, their spears glinting in the torchlight.
She moved quickly but carefully, gaze scanning every corner, every shadow. Sarah had to be here. She had to be. Her breath quickened with a creeping panic, the kind only a mother knows when a child slips from sight.
“Where are you, child?” she whispered, barely a breath.
“You looking for someone?”
Martha spun. Riven, that damned peddler.
He stepped from the dim, his coat shifting like it had a life of its own, his smile curling at the edges like smoke.
“Perhaps… a girl?”
Martha’s gut twisted. “What do you know, Peddler?”
“Oh, such an interesting girl. Special.” Riven’s tone was playful, but he watched too carefully. “And you—always helping the orphans, the lost ones. A strange little habit…”
He let the words hang, teasing. Tempting.
“They used to call it the Candlemakers’ way, didn’t they?” He paused, a beat. “But that would be… forbidden?”
“Tell me what you know, fool. Did you take her?” Martha’s words were low, edged with danger.
Riven chuckled, his crooked teeth flashing. “Me? Oh no, I am but a humble peddler.” He gestured to the castle around them. “But how careless of you, losing her. And in such a place as this… the Crown always watches closely here.”
Martha stepped closer. “Just tell me what you know.”
Riven tapped his chin, as if considering. “Hmm… perhaps a piece of the Crown’s gold might jog my recollection?”
Martha’s fingers twitched toward her pouch.
“Speak first,” she growled.
Riven grinned. “There was a boy, yes… a boy.”
Martha’s heart jumped. Jory. “Did she go with him?”
“And an elegant lady in black…”
The description hit her like ice water.
Riven let it hang there, his grin widening. “She went with the Lady of the Castle, her highest-ness. You will find your answers there.”
Martha’s breath came fast. Elena. Her fingers closed around the coins in her pouch, ready to pay the Peddler; then she froze.
A giggle. Martha’s heart leapt. She turned, hope surging. Across the room, near the hearth, a child darted behind a chair. Dark curls, that same restless energy. Sarah. Martha shoved past a cluster of villagers, her temples throbbing. She barely registered the voices and the warmth of the fire; her focus narrowed only to the child.
Sarah.
But as she stepped closer, the illusion shattered. Not Sarah. Just a boy, hunched over a crude wooden toy. Martha’s steps faltered. The weight of disappointment hit her harder than she expected. The boy turned, catching sight of her, narrowing his gaze.
“You’re that old woman that hit the girl.”
The words hit Martha harder than a slap. Her chest tightened. The regret, the shame, and the sick feeling in her gut she couldn’t shake. And then, a deeper fear.
The words of the old Candlemaker surfaced in her mind, sharp and insistent.
Watch the child. They are after her.
She hadn’t understood it fully then. Hadn’t dared to question it. Now, the weight of those words pressed on her chest like a vice.
A shift in the air. A guard passed close, his armor catching lightly on her sleeve. Martha froze. Her head dipped instinctively while her fingers tightened around her shawl, pulling it close to hide her face. The guard didn’t stop.
His boots struck the stone with steady purpose, vanishing into the press of bodies. But Martha felt it now. The shift, like a trap closing around her.
And then a voice, smooth as a knife, slid from its sheath.
“The Crown’s gold, ma’am.”