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stairwell. A sob of lost
faith ached in my chest.
    The scuffling from outside indicated my
assassin was attempting to climb to the lattice. A booted foot
appeared in the corner. Soon only a frail wooden frame would bar me
from death. Then an idea formed, prying past my frantic fear.
    Running to the window, I acted before I fear
paralyzed me. I jabbed the dagger through a gap, driving it deep
into the boot. The man sucked in breath and muttered a curse, but
my hope of him giving himself away died when he grabbed the
window’s edge.
    My single weapon still imbedded in his boot,
I leapt to collect the remaining two.
    The lattice creaked as he forced it. A sharp
crack of snapping wood announced the release. The broken remains
skittered across the floorboards.
    Gathering the knives to me, I turned to find
him half in the window, a shifting black shadow against the blurred
night sky.
    I screamed.
    He hesitated, half in and half hanging out in
the night. When no sounds of rescue came, he pulled his last leg
through the ruined window.
    Panic threatened to close my throat, but I
fought it. Running to the door, my remaining avenue of rescue, I
pressed my back to the wood, pounding at it with the hilt of a
dagger.
    The sound echoed below, reverberating through
my spine. Still the man continued to advance, slowed by his injured
foot.
    Realizing no help would come, I straightened
my shoulders. Adjusting my grip on my knives, I solidified my
stance as Bryn taught me mere hours before and prepared to meet my
end fighting.
    A raspy laugh interrupted. “I shall enjoy
this, minx. Ver did not say you would have fire. I like women with
fight.”
    My blood turned to ice, frozen by my
brother’s name. Believing he had reason to want me dead and knowing
I would die were two different realities.
    The man lunged.
    Instinct brought up my fisted hand. The blade
twisted in my grip, inflicting minimal damage, yet it was enough to
drive him back for a moment. He cursed as he stumbled away.
    Both of us were blind in the darkness. He
thrashed about, seeking me. Something scraped my face.
    I jumped back, stepped on the edge of my
smock, and fell to the floor, shoulder striking the door.
    “Maid Verity?” a male voice queried
distantly.
    “Help!” I yelled. I had lost the assailant’s
location, but I could hear someone moving about in the middle of
the room.
    The bolt shifted. Hope rose. I inched along
the wall attempting to get out of the door’s path as it opened. The
flickering light of a lantern pushed back the night. Sudden
exhaustion pressed against my chest.
    “My …” The man cut off in a gasp. “Verity?
Speak. Where are you?” I recognized the voice. It wasn’t the
guard.
    “Sir Hirion?”
    Light blinded me. I struggled to my feet and
toward the source.
    “Are you whole?” he asked as I plowed into
him.
    The light shifted as he set the lantern on
the table. Hirion served my father for many years before Verdon
claimed the title and his loyalty. I knew him to be a harsh man,
but I needed comfort, assurance that this nightmare was over. He
held me awkwardly, turning so our backs were to the room.
    “Is he restrained?” I stepped away. Hirion’s
familiar features cast into stark relief by the lantern’s glow.
    Concern registered in his eyes. “Nay, he is
dead.”
    “Dead?”
    “Aye.”
    “I killed him?” I pushed at his shoulder
enough to see a pool of red soaking into the warped boards.
Convulsions shook me. I struggled to keep still.
    His eyebrows lowered. “Perhaps you should
sit.” He attempted to guide me toward my bed. I fought him.
    “I need to speak to Lord Silvanticus.” He at
least should know of the would-be assassin’s employer. He would
protect me until Bryn returned.
    “You can’t. He is not here. He and his three
advisors left last evening. Only his soldiers and their commander
remain. If you want to speak with Sir Mowbray, I can fetch him. As
it is, I think it wise to fetch your companion and inform Verdon