Closing her hand over the ruby brooch, Meya turned and studied Coris's listless frame. She could hear the faint ticks of the large clock by the fireplace. Time was closing in. At the first opening he had, Gillian would want to talk to her and learn what information she had gleaned. She must make her decision before then.

Meya bit her lips against the pressure. She had been up for most of the night dithering over which side she should choose, and though she herself had offered Gillian help to loot Hadrian Castle for the dowry—which could turn out to be The Axel, her newfound conscience was overriding her survival instincts.

Coris had talked of his own accord, and she had let slip every opening she could use to wheedle out more information. He'd known her for but a day, and yet he had trusted her enough to confide in her. He had once been selfish and spoiled, but ultimately, he had chosen the future of Hadrian's people over his own. Not to mention that the Hadrians had saved Meya and the people of Crosset from the Famine, too.

From the looks of it, Coris did have a heart behind those ribs. If he trusted her, then perhaps she could trust him to help her out? It was better than entrusting her life to bandits that have already killed five of her comrades without shedding so much as a drop of sweat.

But, Gillian—he was a Greeneye, like her. He had told her many things she ought to know about her kind, and he had helped her out with the Lattis collar. He'd even promised to take her to meet his fellow Greeneyes—sort of.

Speaking of which, what did he mean when he said the dowry would ensure Greeneyes could live anywhere? Was he doing all this to carve out a better life for Greeneyes like her?

Why?

Meya couldn't figure out what would make Gillian so discontent with the status quo. Apart from being the village pariah, Meya's life as a Greeneye wasn't that bad. As Meya had insisted time and again to Dad, most of her misfortunes were brought upon her by her own choices, not her eyes.

Sure, it would be delightful if she could walk through the village without being pelted by eggs and insults and tripped into mud puddles by tykes, but it wasn't as if her life would improve much without her glowing eyes.

The trouble with Meya was, despite all appearances, she was quite spoiled and self-centered. She refused to do things she didn't like, or that seemed irrational to her. She hated the responsibility all women would take up to support their families—housework, cooking, handiwork and weaving. And, in trying to avoid her duty, she landed herself into all manners of trouble.

For instance, working in the fields back when Crosset law still forbade women from working, because it would anger Freda and cause a famine—and actually causing a famine. It was as if Freda had wanted to ram her point home.

A famine that resulted in one hanged bailiff, one disgraced Lord, and a nobleman kidnapped and almost ransomed for food.

Come to think of it, Lord Crosset did mention that Arinel's betrothed was the one who was kidnapped.

So, indirectly, she caused Coris's kidnapping?

Meya turned back to beam the snoozing Coris a silent apology as she recalled more of the famine. Farmer Armorheim had led the kidnapping squad back then, under (the now dead) Bailiff Johnsy's orders. He said Coris had narrowly escaped.

When asked how a chubby little boy managed to slip free of a dozen grown men armed with crossbows and pitchforks, however, Draken would fall silent and avoid Meya's large, glowing green eyes. Then, he would continue that after he escaped, Coris nobly asked Baron Kellis to share food to help Crosset survive the winter.

But how? What had happened back there? Why wouldn't Draken tell them?

Meya shook her head out of it. She could think about Coris's mysterious escape later. Once she had gotten rid of this poison within her.

Meya glanced down at her chest. Underneath the fair skin over her heart was a thin, tapering oval patch, like a petal-shaped birthmark.

Yesterday, before entering Hadrian, they stopped by to see Old Angus, Trunt's Greeneye friend. Apothecarist by day and Poisoner by night, he had everyone in the entourage drink water with a single black seed in it. The seed of the Moonflower, he called it.

The parasitic flower would bloom in the body of the host, one petal at a time, for one moon cycle. Once it had fully bloomed, it would secrete a poison that would kill its host. It was a Nostran army poison. Mercenary type. It was obvious Angus told her all this because there was little chance of her finding an antidote here in Latakia.

On the other hand, Arinel chose the poisonous Snow Fern spores for Gillian and his men. The Snow Fern was the Crosset Clan's symbol, and the Crosset Green dye was derived from its crushed spores. As the Snow Fern could only be grown up north in Icemeet and imported to Crosset, finding a cure in the central-west would be near impossible. The secret to collecting and neutralizing the spores for use in clothing also lay with the Crosset Clan's dyer alone.

But, back to the present—what should Meya choose? She liked Coris. Very much, indeed. He was a kind, gentle, amusing lad. And she loathed the thought of betraying him. But Gillian was a Greeneye, the first one she had ever known, and she didn't want to betray him as well.

Still, she couldn't stomach Gillian's style of operating. Was it necessary to kill all those people? Being a fellow Greeneye didn't stop Gillian poisoning her along with the others in the entourage, either.

Perhaps the best Meya could do was to give Coris a heads-up, whatever Gillian planned to do, and leave it to their smart brains to duke it out. Make it a fair duel. Yet, how could she warn Coris without alerting Gillian?

Meya shot a wary eye at the door. The easiest option would be to shake Coris awake and confess it all to him here, but she could never be sure if one of the bandits wasn't standing out there with his ear on the keyhole, listening to her every word.

No, she needed to communicate soundlessly. With ink and paper and letters. Then slip the message to Coris without the bandits knowing.

She couldn't read or write. She must sneak out and find someone who could, and find a means to deliver him the message. How could she pull this off?

Meya surveyed the room. Books, shelves, desk, armor, fireplace, clock, wardrobe, paintings—

Meya's gaze settled upon a particular painting, the largest one in the center of the opposite wall. It was a picture of a handsome white greyhound. The dog was draped in a Hadrian Red cloak pinned with numerous medallions. From its collar dangled a golden coin engraved with letters Meya could not read. A scroll of paper was sticking out of the thick leather strip.

A spark lit up in her brain. And she also recalled a vital piece of information Coris had mentioned in passing.

I put it in my mouth and went down the secret passageway in my room.

Grabbing a distinguished candle and lighting it, Meya tiptoed around the room, hugging the walls with her eyes on the flickering flame. After about a quarter of an hour, she noticed the smoke yearning towards the small gap between the stone wall and a painting of a stone arch leading away to an abandoned, overgrown garden. Despite the stress looming over her head pressing down heavier by the minute, Meya creaked a devious grin.

Now to find the one person who could write her a letter.

⏳

The real Arinel was late for work. Usually, scullery maids must be ready at the crack of dawn to prepare breakfast for the lord and his family, but Arinel was exhausted after catering to the lavish evening celebrations, and Gretella allowed her poor lady to sleep in, sending Haselle in her place.

After scolding her nurse (who was also her grandmother) for spoiling her, Arinel dashed out of her room and hurried to the underground kitchen. She was a mere step away from the door when a mysterious hand reached out from the shadows and dragged her down a different hallway.

"Wait—where—" Arinel had barely begun protesting when the being in the bedraggled black cloak pushed open a slab of nondescript wall and slipped pass the gap inside, yanked her in after it, then shut the secret door.

Whirling around in total darkness, Arinel cried in panic, preparing herself for a fight for survival.

"Who are you? What do you wa—?" A rough, sweaty hand clamped over her mouth halfway through her rant, then came a familiar voice.

"Shhh! Lady, it's me; Meya."

Arinel's shock morphed into confusion. Meya freed her mouth. After a moment, the space lit up to reveal gray stone walls flanking a narrow passage leading away behind them. Meya stood before her, holding a candle on a metal stand.

"What are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be with Coris?" Arinel demanded in a desperate whisper, but Meya wasn't paying much attention.

"He's gone back to sleep." The maid answered dismissively as she rummaged in her dress pocket with her free hand. Arinel noticed that under the ragged black cloak she had worn during the journey, she already had on a beautiful red-and-gold silk dress, and her hair was braided; she was dressed for breakfast but was using the cloak as camouflage.

Handing Arinel a piece of torn parchment and a pencil, Meya continued, her voice strained and urgent. "Listen, I don't have much time. I need you to write me a letter. Now."

"What?" Arinel found it impossible to keep up. Meya explained in a rush, still panting hard.

"I think I know what the bandits are looking for. I need to warn Coris."

"Warn him? But aren't you working for Gillian?" The brusque explanation only served to confuse Arinel further. Meya was getting desperate. Rolling her eyes at the ceiling with a growl in her throat, she waved her hand in frustration.

"I'll answer your questions later. Just write down what I say quick." Steering Lady Crosset by the shoulders, Meya turned Arinel away to face the wall then began dictating, raising her candle so its light fell upon the parchment, "From Arinel. Me and my folk—"

"Should be I and my men—" Arinel objected as she wrote, moving the parchment to avoid the space between bricks, writing as neatly as she could on the craggy surface.

"Whatever." Meya rolled her eyes, but complied nonetheless. "I and my men forced to steal dowry. Bandits disguised as guards. Don't put up fight or hide dowry. We and bandits poisoned each other and need antidote in one month."

Arinel scribbled as fast as she could while correcting Meya's childish, peasant-like vocabulary and grammar. Meya might not care, but if she wanted to keep her cover, then she'd better send a message Coris will believe was written by an educated noblewoman.

"Very well. Done." Arinel flourished the last letter and inked the last dot. Before she could hand it over, Meya swept it right out of her fingers, swift and silent as a gust of wind.

"Didn't know nobles could write so fast." She noted in that same flat, dry tone. Once she had stuffed the note into her generous cleavage, Meya bolted away into the dark with nothing more than a harried word of gratitude.

"Now, get out of here quick. Thanks!"

By the time Arinel spun around to look, Meya had already vanished, her soft but rapid footsteps echoing further and further up in the tower above, headed towards the Great Hall.