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The carriage had already left the city when the Duke finally leaned forward and extended his hand.
"Get up. We are far enough along."
Elara froze for a moment. She looked at the open palm extended over the floor where she still lay.
After a brief hesitation, she took it carefully and rose.
Her knees ached. The hard floor made no allowances for those who lay too long. Elara settled onto the bench and smoothed her dress, though there was nothing to save: the green silk was hopelessly crushed, its hem stained with dust and dark grease from the wooden frame.
Across from her, Alan sat in silence. He studied her with quiet, frustrated concentration. A complicated puzzle whose pieces would not fit.
Outside, the forest stretched along the road, growing denser by the mile. The trees strobed past with such methodical regularity that the alternating light and shadow made her slightly dizzy. As the road climbed, she could feel the incline through the horses' effort, which now sounded heavier and more muffled. Somewhere behind them, invisible now, the palace stood with its tall towers and long shadow.
"What is your name?" the Duke asked.
"Ara," Elara answered without pause.
The Duke gave the slightest nod.
"Christopher, Duke Esterg." He offered no further explanation. "And this is Count Alan Damd, my assistant."
/"Violet eyes. Esterg."/
Something inside her gave way, though she could not have said why.
Alan inclined his head briefly, his expression held carefully at the point of blankness.
"How did you come to be near the palace?"
A beat of silence followed. Elara felt her shoulders tighten, but she caught the tension in time and forced herself to relax.
/"Do not rush. Rushing is fear."/
She drew a steady breath.
"I am an herbalist." Her fingers closed slightly on the fabric at her knee. A reflex she failed to stop in time. "Someone mentioned a rare plant growing on those slopes. I went to find it, but turned my ankle and realized I could not make it back on my own. So I approached you, Your Grace."
She offered a faint smile, deliberately too smooth.
The carriage jolted over a rut, and outside, a moss-covered stone flashed past the window and vanished behind them.
"An herbalist?" Christopher did not raise his voice. He simply repeated the word with the exact inflection that meant: I hear you, and I believe none of it. "You went to search for rare herbs... without a bag?"
/"Expensive silk. Flawless diction. Herbalists do not speak this way. Even well-bred commoners didn't speak that way."/
Alan turned his gaze to the window, staring at the treetops. He wanted no part as a witness.
/"And she was not limping."/
The Duke studied her face longer than politeness permitted. In his eyes — deep, violet, seeming dark in the carriage's half-light — something sharp surfaced.
"Ara," he said calmly. "Is that your real name?"
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