Mia didn’t make it far.

  The ship bucked, tossing her against the wall.

  She cried out in pain, grabbing her cheek where an exposed nail had torn the flesh. Blood wet her palm, flowing down her arm.

  Hand on her face, she slumped to the ground.

  Stomach retching, disoriented, she scrambled to get to her feet.

  Stupid. She should never have left the room.

  If she was going to sneak around, she couldn’t be screaming and hollering where anyone could hear. No. She shouldn’t be sneaking around at all. Follow the rules, that was the first lesson every maid learned. The second was don’t ask questions. And, the third was to be blind, deaf, and dumb to things that you shouldn’t see.

  Did Mia see the young duke having a dalliance with a maid in the gardens? No. All she saw in the gardens were the blooming rose bushes and a pretty butterfly.

  The sea messed with her judgment.

  Living in safety had dulled her senses.

  She glanced up and down the hall, breathing a sigh of relief when no one appeared.

  Back to the room, now.

  What little courage she’d scraped together had deserted her. She braced her hand on the floor, pushing to her feet, wincing at the pain in her wrist and ankle.

  Mia didn’t dare to think about the state of her face. If it scarred… she laughed, the sound low, weak, and broken.

  Why was it so hard to do the right thing?

  The door of her room loomed, calling to her, promising safety. Turning back wasn’t losing, it wasn’t betraying the Duchess. It was wiser to wait. She was being strategic. Yes, that was it. She was waiting until the storm passed, until it was safer and she was less likely to be caught. By then, someone more suited would have stepped forward and handled it.

  Mia didn’t dare to examine her logic.

  She struggled to her feet. Her left ankle and wrist ached.

  How would she explain her injuries?

  How bad was the wound on her face?

  Would it scar?

  No man wanted a scarred wife.

  This is what happens to people who break rules.

  Mia hobbled back to her room, just a few steps from the door–she froze.

  “Ho, a rat out of its cage.”

  Mia didn’t know the soldier who spoke, but she knew the knight who stood beside him. Sir Benson, his face always scowling, made the scar on his cheek scarier. “What are you doing?”

  Her head dipped in a bow. “Sir Benson.” Mia thought about lying. She didn’t want to get in trouble, but she dismissed that thought. She didn’t want to be a liar. Lying was shameful. The Duchess despised dishonesty. “I needed to see the young lady, but the ship was too unsteady, so I was going back inside.”

  The soldier scowled.

  She took a step closer to her door, but the ship sabotaged her. It rocked. She splayed her legs to stay standing, but her ankle gave out, and she crumpled.

  Sir Benson’s head tilted to the side, his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Inside.”

  She nodded; all her courage had scattered, and she was sure she’d never find it again. She scurried forward, too scared to stand.

  Stupid. So, stupid. They were hiding the slaves on the ship from the young lady, but there was no way they could hide it from all the knights and the soldiers. Someone with power was behind this trip. That’s what she’d missed, the reason for her unease.

  She squeaked, clutching at her dress as a strong hand hooked under her arm and pulled her up.

  “Easy.”

  His calm voice terrified her more. Mia couldn’t read anything from her face, but her instincts screamed not to speak, not to breathe.

  Two steps to the door, but it felt like a lifetime. Her racing heart threatened to pound through her chest, and she’d lost the battle with her tears.

  He sighed. “Open the door,” Sir Benson said.

  “Yes.” She hopped forward, relieved when he let go of her. Her hand shook, sweaty fingers slipping as she tried to slide the latch back.

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  Once.

  Twice.

  A dry laugh sliced the silence.

  Her eyes darted up, wincing at the smile on the soldier's face.

  Again, she fumbled.

  She whimpered as the latch slipped free, throwing herself into the room, ignoring how her ankle protested.

  Sir Benson filled the doorway, glancing at Beatrice, who’d woken from the commotion. “Stay inside your room until the storm is over. If you go above deck, you’ll end up overboard.”

  Why wasn’t Beatrice sleeping? Hadn’t she taken sleeping pills? Mia turned towards Beatrice, trying to implore her with her eyes, begging her to stay silent, but Beatrice’s face was smug.

  Mia opened her mouth, but the words wouldn’t come out.

  “Good day, Sir Benson,” Beatrice said.

  She tried again, “You're right, no telling what can happen in weather like this.” Her voice was low, weak, and cracked as she spoke.” She limped forward, trying to get him to take a step back. She had to do something before Beatrice spoke.

  “Coward.”

  Mia’s eyes closed, her face contorting. “Food! With the storm, what about food?” Her laugh was high-pitched and unnatural. Tears steamed down her face, blurring her vision. No. Idiot. Previously, the crew had provided food and water, despite the bad weather.

  The bed creaked.

  Mia’s shoulders slumped. She’d failed, she knew it. “Please. Please, don’t speak.”

  Beatrice misunderstood. She thought Mia was afraid of losing her position or the repercussions she’d face for hiding the information from the young lady.

  “Sir Benson. I have something to report.”

  Mia sat hard on the ground at Sir Benson’s feet. Turning to look at Beatrice, she wore an ugly, contorted expression.

  She wasn’t unaware of Beatrice’s dislike for her. The number of personal maids for the young lady was limited, and Mia’s background should have excluded her from being one. If she weren’t skilled at styling hair, she’d still be a scullery maid.

  “Don’t,” Mia said, voice small and broken. “Please, don’t.” You don’t know what you're doing. Mia searched for the words that would keep Beatrice quiet.

  Cheeks sunken, eyes hollow, hair stringy, Beatrice looked frightful, but the gleam in her eyes made it clear she hadn’t given up on life. She hadn’t given up on advancing her position. Beatrice was always more confident and braver than she had any right to be.

  Mia turned desperate eyes to Sir Benson, begging him to walk away. Looking up, she grabbed at his pants.

  In his eyes, she saw pity. For a moment, hope fluttered in her chest, but he looked away. Sir Benson gave them a chance, but that moment of kindness had passed.

  “Oh?” Sir Benson asked, turning his attention to Beatrice. “What’s that?” His sword slid from the scabbard, resting on Mia’s neck, a silent threat to keep silent.

  It wasn’t necessary; words had deserted her.

  “If I’d been healthier, I would have visited the young lady myself, but as you can see, the trip hasn’t been kind to me.” Beatrice smoothed a hand over her hair with an ingratiating smile. “Mia refused to report the matter, using her illness as an excuse, but thankfully, you came, allowing me to right a wrong.”

  “Idiot.” The soldier's words were low. Mia might have imagined them if Sir Benson hadn't reacted, sending a look over his shoulder. The blade pressed closer to her neck.

  She drew in a sharp breath, her eyes fixed on the gleaming metal.

  The soldier rolled his eyes before walking away.

  Mia watched, her mind racing.

  Sir Benson’s rank and title were the highest on the ship apart from the young lady. A common soldier wouldn’t dare behave in such a manner.

  “I believe someone is using this vessel to smuggle slaves, and I want to report the matter to the young lady.” Beatrice was out of breath by the time she finished speaking, her chest puffed out with pride.

  “That was your last chance.” Sir Benson sheathed his sword. “You,” he said, using his chin to point at Mia. “Change into pants if you own a pair. Anything of value, tie it to your body, leaving only a few coins in your pocket. If you have a heavy cloak, wear it.” He pulled out a danger and dropped it at her feet. “Keep that clutched in your hands. Don’t…hesitate to use it. And from this moment on, pray to every deity you know. Pray that you are spared.” He emptied a potion on her head, the pain in her face, wrist, and ankles disappearing.

  Mia had questions. What was going to happen to her? Why wasn’t he giving the same instructions to Beatrice? Why did he look regretful? They swam around in her mind, but none of them passed her mouth.

  This was a hand held out to her again.

  Mia sprang up, pulling her suitcase from beneath the bed. She ignored modesty, stripping down.

  “What?” Beatrice asked, her voice high.

  Dumb. Why couldn’t she just stay quiet?

  The thought was unkind, so she pushed it away. Beatrice didn’t know better. She was childish and wanted to look good in front of the young lady.

  No, none of that mattered.

  Mia pulled on both pairs of pants she owned. She used a long scarf to band her chest and another to secure her money and the brooch to her stomach. Next, she put on two shirts. One more form-fitting and the other baggy, almost like a man's shirt.

  “Sir Benson, it’s not my place to say this, but I believe the young lady would disapprove.”

  He gave a hollow smile. “We’ll find out, won't we?”

  Several soldiers appeared at the door. Sir Harris led the. His handsome face still wore a kind expression, but for the first time, she noticed how cold his eyes were.

  Mia looked at his calm expression before dropping her eyes to the floor. He knew.

  The world tilted beneath her feet, fracturing.

  Chivalry and noblesse oblige. She knew it was childish, but now she knew it was also a lie.

  If Sir Harris knew, then the young lady knew.

  The young lady’s safe houses were little more than bait to the desperate.

  If the young lady knew, the Duke knew.

  The Duke's approval and other territories allowing the safe houses to operate meant that other nobles were involved.

  If the Duke knew, the Duchess knew.

  All the Duchess's work in the slums was to create an image that they’d never be involved in the slave trade.

  Mia didn’t dare to think anymore. The threads of her life unravelled, leaving her tossing in a storm, but unlike the Conqueror, Mia's chances of making it out were slim.

  “Take them to the deck.”