It’s been three days since my disastrous escape attempt. Logan spends most of his time fiddling with circuitry and ink-stained plans. I spend most of my time sharpening weapons and practicing how to run a man through the heart while I do my best to forget the awful wet sucking sound a sword makes when it pulls free of a body. We have little to do with each other until the evenings when he sets aside his work, I put down the swords, and we sit on his tiny porch eating supper and watching the sun bleed itself out over the ramparts of the Wall.
We talk about Dad. Oliver. Sparring techniques. The fact that neither of us has a clue what’s in the package and why Dad refused to deliver it. We talk about anything but the strange almost-kiss we shared the night I tried to go over the Wall. Its unspoken significance presses against my heart, making it hard to look at Logan without yearning for something I know neither of us really want.
Logan made it plain years ago that romance wasn’t an option. And I’m a different girl from the starry-eyed fifteen-year-old who thought she was in love. The almost-kiss was nothing more than too much emotion, too much tension, and a split second of dropping my guard. It won’t happen again.
Over breakfast, Logan announces that we need to go into town for supplies. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t require me to come along. But with guards watching the cottage day and night, leaving me home alone is a risk he isn’t willing to take.
I don’t bother arguing. I’m eager to get away from the small confines of Logan’s house, and I’m surprised to realize I look forward to spending the day shopping for supplies with him. We’ve somehow worked our way into a tentative truce, and it feels nice to walk next to him down the pressed dirt road leading into town.
Logan’s cottage is nestled in between his neighbor’s apple orchard and a planting field owned by one of the wealthy merchants from Center Square. Last year, the merchant planted corn, and the broken stubs of the harvested plants still poke through the ground like jagged teeth. A guard rises up out of the cornfield as we pass, and another steps out of the orchard. I mutter something under my breath.
“Don’t antagonize them,” Logan says, nudging me with his shoulder.
“Maybe they should worry about antagonizing us.”
He laughs, and the sound makes my skin tingle. I’m suddenly aware of how his shoulders fill his cloak. How his hair glows like honey in the morning sunlight. The tingle racing along my skin becomes an almost painful need I don’t know how to fill.
“You have no idea how to be diplomatic, do you?” he asks, but there’s no judgment in his voice.
“What’s the use in being diplomatic? I’d rather just pull my weapon and wing it.” I nudge his shoulder back, and warmth spreads through me as he winks and leaves his arm pressed against mine as we walk.
We leave the cornfield behind, the guard from the orchard trailing us by about twenty yards. I’d like to turn around and tell him exactly what I think about his stupid job and his stupid boss.
Logan seems to sense my intentions because he slides his hand onto the small of my back, presses gently, and says, “Remember, sometimes diplomacy is the better side of warfare.”
The heat of his hand feels like tiny sparks racing through me. “Diplomacy is a lot easier to accomplish if you’ve got your foe on his knees hoping you don’t lop off his head.”
“Do you really have to go into every situation with nothing but your wits and your knife?” he asks.
“Do you really have to go into every situation with more caution than a grandmother crossing Market Square?”
“It’s called a well-reasoned plan.” His hand slides away, and I shiver.
The dirt road gives way to the mud-caked cobblestones of South Edge. The fetid, rotting smell of trash heaps lies ripe on the morning air, and the few people who are outside of their miserable dwellings scuttle along the street with their eyes on their feet. Another guard steps out from behind a weather-worn house, his hand on the hilt of his sword as he watches us pass.
Clearly, the Commander expects us to run. To somehow sneak over the Wall without his knowledge, take his precious missing property, and disappear. It’s not a half bad idea. If Dad thought the package was something the Commander shouldn’t have, I’m not about to bring it back to Baalboden. Keeping my voice low, I say, “Maybe we should sneak out of the city.”
Logan makes a choked noise. “No.”
“But I don’t like the idea of traveling with the guards.”
“And I don’t like the idea of getting caught committing treason.”
I slide my knife free and hold it beneath my cloak as we enter the main stretch of South Edge. Not that I expect danger in broad daylight, especially with the obvious presence of guards at our backs, but I’m not going to risk it. Logan’s hand is on his sword hilt, his eyes constantly scraping over our surroundings, looking for threats. We both know the real threat resides in the stone-and-steel compound rising out of the northern edge of the city.
“We need to travel without guards. Dad risked everything to keep that package from the Commander. We can’t bring it back,” I say quietly.
“No, we can’t. But we can’t go over the Wall. Or through the gate. The Commander will be expecting both. And there isn’t another way out.”
“Then maybe you need to look at other options.”
He gets the faraway look in his eye that I now associate with hours of scribbling incomprehensible sketches while muttering to himself like a crazy man. I snap my fingers in front of his face. He jerks to attention and says, “You’re right. I need other options. Which means I have to extend today’s trip a bit.”
“No problem.”
He smiles at me, and our eyes linger one each other for a moment before I look away, pleased that he trusts me as an equal.
The guards behind us melt away as we swing into Lower Market, but it isn’t long before I realize a tall cloaked man is stalking us. I point him out to Logan as we take the main road running west, stepping around a woman and her children who shoo chickens into a crate held by their Protector.
“I see him,” Logan says. “Looks like Melkin. I guess this close to the gate, the Commander feels he needs a tracker following us. Just in case.”
I glance at Melkin’s scarecrow-thin form. “He doesn’t look like much.”
“With your dad out in the Wasteland, Melkin is the best tracker at the Commander’s disposal.”
“I guess we should take that as a compliment.”
He laughs and grabs my elbow as a fast-moving wagon lumbers by, forcing us to quickly step aside.
“So, what’s the plan today?” I ask.
“The plan is you stay with Oliver while I evade our followers and gather supplies.”
I yank my elbow free. “I don’t think so.”
“I’m leaving you with Oliver for the day, Rachel. We have nothing more to discuss.”
“We have plenty to discuss,” I say. “I don’t want to be stuck inside Oliver’s tent all day. I’m an equal part in this whole thing, and I want to help you find supplies.”
“Well, you can’t.”
I feel my face settle into mutinous lines. Does he really think telling me I can’t do something is going to stop me? When I remain silent, Logan glances at me and frowns.
“Listen,” he says. “The things I need to find aren’t at respectable establishments.”
I lift my chin and stare him down. “You’re acting like poor, delicate Rachel must be kept away from even a hint of danger.”
He laughs, tries to choke it back when he sees my face, and then laughs some more.
“Delicate? You could wipe the cobblestones with just about anyone in Baalboden. I’d hardly call that delicate.”
“What do you mean, just about?” I’ve worked far too hard on my sparring skills to take that kind of insult lying down. “I can get the best of anyone who comes at me.”
“You can’t get the best of me.”
“Try me, and you’ll be singing a different tune. If I let you keep your lungs.”
His smile is a slow journey of warmth that lights up his face and lingers in his eyes. “I’m going to take you up on that.”
My stupid traitorous mouth smiles back before I remember I’m mad at him. Quickly wiping all expression from my face, I tap my foot on the cobblestones.
He leans closer and says, “I don’t undervalue you, Rachel.”
“Then why not take me with you?”
“Because I need the kind of supplies an upstanding merchant won’t sell me. And the place I’m going to is also home to some people who sound like they might be plotting against the Commander.”
“Really?” I bounce on my toes as I think of what a group like that might do for us if we decide to escape early.
He whips his hand into the air and says sternly, “I’m not getting involved with them, and neither are you. Getting caught up in that is a good way to ensure neither of us ever gets to leave Baalboden to search for your dad.”
“Good point. But still—”
“I’m already on this group’s radar, but you don’t have to be.”
“Fine. But I still think—”
“If we get caught, who goes looking for Jared?” He reaches out and takes my hand. I slide my fingers between his without thinking, press his calloused palm against my own and study the fierce purpose burning in his eyes. “If I get seen doing business with traitors, I alone will take the blame. You’ll still be able to leave.”
My lingering irritation dissolves, replaced by gratitude and something deeper. Something that tightens my chest and makes my heart hurt. I’ve misjudged him. Badly. His protectiveness toward Dad is eclipsed only by his unwavering commitment to protect me.
I don’t deserve it. I don’t, but he can’t see that. He takes his responsibilities seriously, and now that I’m part of his burden, he’d face the dungeons rather than let me down.
The heat between our palms seems to scorch me, and staring into his eyes makes me feel like all my secrets are slowly rising to the surface, whispering my truth without my permission.
Pulling my hand free, I step back and look down. “Thank you.” The words are inadequate, but if I open my mouth again, I’m afraid of what I’ll say. Instead, I quietly follow him to Oliver’s tent, the imprint of his palm on mine lingering long after the heat of his skin fades away.