you something to eat.’
‘I have money,’ said Rhosmari, but Martin shook his head.
‘I told you,’ he said. ‘The debt is mine.’ He gestured to the seats. ‘Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back.’
Inside the compartment the air smelled stale, but at least it was warm. Rhosmari took a seat by the window, as far as she could get from the humans sharing the train with them, and let her pack slide to the floor at her feet. At first she was a little unnerved by the speed with which the countryside flashed by, but soon she began to find it comforting. Surely now it would be impossible for the Blackwings to catch up with them.
Soon Martin returned, holding two small loaves covered in filmy wrapping. He gave one to her and sat down, casually crossing one leg over the other, as though he had ridden a train many times before. Rhosmari unwrapped her loaf and pried off the top to find it stuffed with a generous portion of white meat, some surprisingly fresh-looking greens, and a scattering of dried berries. Where had it come from? She gave Martin a questioning look, but he had already bitten into his own loaf, and she was too famished to wait any longer. She spread her hands out in blessing and began to eat.
‘Why did you do that?’ asked Martin, and Rhosmari nearly dropped the bread before she remembered that this was not her mother’s table.
‘Do what?’ she answered, when her mouth was clear. She knew there was nothing actually wrong with talking during a meal, but still she could not help feeling uncomfortable and even a little guilty.
‘That gesture you made before you ate. I’ve never seen anyone do that before. What does it mean?’
How could she answer, without explaining that she was one of the Children of Rhys? ‘It’s a tradition,’ she said at last, ‘that my mother taught me. A way to show gratitude that we have something to eat.’
‘Ah,’ said Martin, but to her relief he did not press her further. They finished their meal in silence, and Rhosmari was just brushing the last crumbs from her skirt when the door at the end of the compartment opened and a brisk-looking man stepped in. ‘Ticket, please,’ he said to the woman on his right, and began working his way down the aisle towards them.
Martin reached into his jacket. Rhosmari stooped to look for her own ticket, but Martin was already holding out two cards for the man’s inspection.
‘But I—’ she began, only to be silenced by Martin’s warning look. As soon as the man handed back the tickets and moved on, Martin gave Rhosmari a conspiratorial smile and flicked the cards with a finger. At once they turned blank, and he tucked them back into his pocket.
So he had tricked the man? Rhosmari was speechless. She knew that male faeries had a special talent for changing the shapes of things, but she had not realised it could be used so deceitfully.
‘Oh, come now,’ said Martin. ‘Don’t look so shocked. You ate that sandwich I gave you readily enough.’
So he had stolen their dinner, too. Rhosmari felt as though she had swallowed a handful of dust. But what could she do? The food was gone now, and she had no idea where it had come from. She pressed her lips together and looked away.
Martin gave a short laugh. ‘Are you really so virtuous? How it must gall you to serve the Empress. Or…do you?’
Rhosmari glanced at him warily. ‘Do you?’
‘What do you think?’ He raised his brows at her. ‘Would the Blackwings be trying to kill me if I did?’
‘Kill you! Why?’
‘Because the Empress commanded it,’ he said. ‘Why else? She ordered me to kill someone. I told her I would rather not. And when she tried to force my obedience and found she could no longer do so, she declared me a traitor and a spy.’
Rhosmari’s fingers tightened on the arms of her seat. Could no longer do so. If Martin was free of the Empress’s control, then he must have touched the Stone of Naming. But how, and when? Did she dare ask,
‘I have money,’ said Rhosmari, but Martin shook his head.
‘I told you,’ he said. ‘The debt is mine.’ He gestured to the seats. ‘Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back.’
Inside the compartment the air smelled stale, but at least it was warm. Rhosmari took a seat by the window, as far as she could get from the humans sharing the train with them, and let her pack slide to the floor at her feet. At first she was a little unnerved by the speed with which the countryside flashed by, but soon she began to find it comforting. Surely now it would be impossible for the Blackwings to catch up with them.
Soon Martin returned, holding two small loaves covered in filmy wrapping. He gave one to her and sat down, casually crossing one leg over the other, as though he had ridden a train many times before. Rhosmari unwrapped her loaf and pried off the top to find it stuffed with a generous portion of white meat, some surprisingly fresh-looking greens, and a scattering of dried berries. Where had it come from? She gave Martin a questioning look, but he had already bitten into his own loaf, and she was too famished to wait any longer. She spread her hands out in blessing and began to eat.
‘Why did you do that?’ asked Martin, and Rhosmari nearly dropped the bread before she remembered that this was not her mother’s table.
‘Do what?’ she answered, when her mouth was clear. She knew there was nothing actually wrong with talking during a meal, but still she could not help feeling uncomfortable and even a little guilty.
‘That gesture you made before you ate. I’ve never seen anyone do that before. What does it mean?’
How could she answer, without explaining that she was one of the Children of Rhys? ‘It’s a tradition,’ she said at last, ‘that my mother taught me. A way to show gratitude that we have something to eat.’
‘Ah,’ said Martin, but to her relief he did not press her further. They finished their meal in silence, and Rhosmari was just brushing the last crumbs from her skirt when the door at the end of the compartment opened and a brisk-looking man stepped in. ‘Ticket, please,’ he said to the woman on his right, and began working his way down the aisle towards them.
Martin reached into his jacket. Rhosmari stooped to look for her own ticket, but Martin was already holding out two cards for the man’s inspection.
‘But I—’ she began, only to be silenced by Martin’s warning look. As soon as the man handed back the tickets and moved on, Martin gave Rhosmari a conspiratorial smile and flicked the cards with a finger. At once they turned blank, and he tucked them back into his pocket.
So he had tricked the man? Rhosmari was speechless. She knew that male faeries had a special talent for changing the shapes of things, but she had not realised it could be used so deceitfully.
‘Oh, come now,’ said Martin. ‘Don’t look so shocked. You ate that sandwich I gave you readily enough.’
So he had stolen their dinner, too. Rhosmari felt as though she had swallowed a handful of dust. But what could she do? The food was gone now, and she had no idea where it had come from. She pressed her lips together and looked away.
Martin gave a short laugh. ‘Are you really so virtuous? How it must gall you to serve the Empress. Or…do you?’
Rhosmari glanced at him warily. ‘Do you?’
‘What do you think?’ He raised his brows at her. ‘Would the Blackwings be trying to kill me if I did?’
‘Kill you! Why?’
‘Because the Empress commanded it,’ he said. ‘Why else? She ordered me to kill someone. I told her I would rather not. And when she tried to force my obedience and found she could no longer do so, she declared me a traitor and a spy.’
Rhosmari’s fingers tightened on the arms of her seat. Could no longer do so. If Martin was free of the Empress’s control, then he must have touched the Stone of Naming. But how, and when? Did she dare ask,
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