Lee’s trials

Seeking shelter

*Thalia*

By the time we reach Larkspur Crossing, my lungs feel lined with river water and my boots make a wet squelching sound with every step.

The old mill bridge rises ahead through the mist, its black iron rails furred with moss. Beyond it, the river bends west, disappearing between thick stands of willow and alder. Eirawen is no longer visible, though the alarm horns still travel over the water in long, mournful bursts.

Lee walks beside me without speaking.

He has kept hold of my hand for nearly two miles. At first it was because the riverbank was slick and the patrol boats were searching the shallows. Now I think he has forgotten he is doing it.

I do not remind him.

"There," he says.

The boat shed crouches beneath a leaning alder at the edge of the old mill grounds. It is barely more than four walls and a roof sagging under wet leaves. One side has fallen inward years ago. The remaining door hangs crookedly on a single hinge.

"Your royal gardeners had terrible taste in emergency hideouts," I say.

Lee looks toward the shed. "They mostly grew roses."

"That explains nothing."

"It explains the alarming number of thorns."

He gives my fingers a weak squeeze, then lets go long enough to pull the rusted key from his pocket.

The key sticks in the lock.

He twists it once. Nothing.

Again.

Still nothing.

I watch his shoulders tighten.

"Move," I say.

"I can do it."

"You have said that about three things tonight. One of them involved swimming through a palace drain."

He gives me a small smile, "I did successfully get us through it."

"You got us soaked, chased, and almost eaten by a crab."

"The crab was very small."

"It had bad intentions."

His mouth twitches.

I take the key from him, press my thumb into the rusted teeth, and call softly to the moss creeping over the lock. It responds reluctantly. This place has been abandoned too long. The weeds are thin from cold rain, the alder roots crowded by old stones.

Still, green threads slip beneath the metal.

The lock gives a little pop.

Lee looks at me. "Show-off."

"You are welcome."

The door groans open.

Inside, the shed smells of damp rope, fish scales, and dust. A narrow boat lies overturned against one wall. Broken oars are stacked in a corner. A small cast-iron stove squats beneath a rusted chimney pipe.

There is also a row of battered wooden lockers.

Lee goes straight to the third one.

He fits the key into its lock, pauses, then looks at me.

"Nessa said there might be food."

"After our evening, I am willing to marry whoever put food in that locker."

"I should be jealous."

"You should be useful and open it."

He does.

The locker contains two wool blankets, a tin kettle, a box of storm matches sealed in wax, three packets of dried oats, a jar of honey, a canvas pouch of tea leaves, and a bundle of clothes tied with twine.

Lee stares at it.

"Your grandmother really did prepare for everything," I say.

"It is possible my entire family has survived on the quiet competence of women who work for us."

"Possible?"

"All right. Certain."

He pulls out the clothes. Two sets of plain trousers and shirts, old but dry, along with a dark green coat that looks as if it belonged to somebody broader through the shoulders than Lee.

There is a smaller bundle underneath.

He unwraps it slowly.

A folded scrap of paper falls into his lap.

The writing is faded, but his face tells me he recognizes it before he reads it.

"What is it?" I ask.

He does not answer at first.

The rain drums softly against the roof. Somewhere outside, the river knocks driftwood against the bridge supports.

Finally, he holds the paper out.

It is a note in hurried, slanted handwriting.

‘For the child who still believes walls are interesting. Do not take the lower path after rain. The current is stronger than it looks.’

There is no signature.

There does not need to be.

Lee runs his thumb over the words.

"My father used to leave notes for me," he says. His voice is careful, as if he has taken something fragile into his hands. "I was always getting lost in the palace."

"You were rescuing ducks."

"One duck."

"That we know of."

His eyes stay on the note. "He would hide things where he thought I might find them. A sweet in a book. A coin in my boots. Once he put a live frog in my desk drawer."

"That is not a gift. That is a threat."

"He said the frog seemed lonely."

"Your father sounds exhausting."

A short laugh comes out of him. It fades quickly.

He folds the paper and places it inside his shirt, beside the letter from the river archive. His fingers linger over the spot.

I look away while he changes.

The shed is too small for privacy, so I face the broken wall and pull the wet shirt over my head. My shoulder protests sharply. I hiss through my teeth and pause.

"You're hurt," Lee says.

"I told you, my shoulder."

"You said it hurt. You did not say you were injured."

"I did not fall off a cliff. I got pulled through a tunnel by a river."

"That sounds medically concerning."

I tug on the dry shirt from the locker. It is rough brown linen and smells faintly of cedar. Better than river water.

When I turn around, Lee is wearing the green coat. It is too large on him, the sleeves hanging over his wrists. His hair is still wet, curling around his ears and forehead.

He looks younger like this.

Not Prince Lyrian Swiftarrow, heir-shaped problem of Eirawen. Just Lee, cold and tired, standing in an old shed with a packet of oats in one hand.

"Sit down," he says.

"I'm fine."

"Thalia."

The way he says my name makes arguing feel foolish, which is irritating.

I sit on an overturned crate.

He kneels in front of me and carefully rolls up the sleeve of my borrowed shirt. A bruise has started to bloom over the top of my shoulder, purple and green against my skin.

His mouth tightens.

"It is ugly," I say.

"It looks painful."

"You should see the other river."

He does not smile.

I regret the joke.

Lee reaches into the locker again and finds a small tin of salve. He unscrews the lid, smells it, then looks at me. "I think it is for bruises."

"You think?"

"It smells of mint and something aggressively floral."

I lift a brow, "That is a very royal medical assessment."

"I have been trained by the best."

"Your grandfather's healer?"

"Nessa's grandmother, mostly."

His fingers brush my shoulder as he spreads the salve over the bruise.

The touch is gentle. Almost reverent.

I watch his bent head. Water drips from the ends of his curls onto the dusty floor. He has not looked at me properly since we left the reeds. He has been checking paths, listening for boats, counting the sound of horns in the distance.

"Lee."

"Hm?"

"You can stop pretending you are all right."

His hand stills.

"I wasn't pretending."

"That is worse."

He sits back on his heels, salve tin loose in one hand.

The shed feels smaller. Rain taps steadily above us. His blue eyes flick to the door, then the river, then down to the floor.

"I keep thinking I should go back," he says.

The words are so quiet I nearly miss them.

"For Fealor?"

"For Nessa. For Edris. For everyone." He rubs one hand over his face. "Fileas is there. He has the council. He has the guards. I left Grandfather sick in his bed and ran through a drainage tunnel because I found a letter that may mean nothing."

"It does not mean nothing."

"It might be a trap."

"Yes."

He looks at me sharply.

I shrug with one shoulder, then regret it immediately. "It might be. It could also be real. Those are both possible."

"You have a gift for comfort."

"I am trying to prevent you from becoming a prince-shaped puddle on this floor."

His laugh is brief and tired.

Then he says, "If my father is alive, and I find him, what happens? We bring him back to a city where his brother has taken control? Where somebody poisoned the roots under the palace? He has no memory, perhaps. He could be hurt. He could hate me for dragging him home."

The last part comes out harder than the rest.

I lean forward.

"Why would he hate you?"

Lee looks down at the salve tin.

"Because I was supposed to be there," he says. "The night he disappeared."

My stomach tightens.

He has never told me that.

"What happened?"