~Florence

  “...rence…Florence….” Something firm and warm lightly grips my shoulder, and I flinch. “Lady Florence!”

  My eyes snap open.

  Oh. I’m nearly home.

  Sir Thorne moves back to his seat across from me in the hired carriage. “You drifted off immediately,” he says. Though his face is hidden in his cowl, I can almost imagine his furrowed brow. “You shouldn’t have requested we meet tonight if you were this exhausted.”

  I blearily think back to the building we had inspected, the property on the corner of Rosemary Row and Flint Street, and shake my head while smiling at my memory of the place. “I disagree, Sir Thorne. To me, it was worth it.”

  I can’t help smiling—once I stepped inside, I could immediately imagine what our cafe would look like. Could look like.

  “Do you ever allow yourself to rest, Lady Florence?” he asks.

  No, I think immediately. If there is time to rest, then there is time to think. If there is time to think, then there is time for my idle mind to wander into the hellscape. I must keep myself occupied so that doesn’t happen...I must.

  But I’ve waited too long to reply. “You push yourself too hard, my lady,” he says decidedly.

  My lady.

  This isn’t the first time he has called me ‘my lady’ instead of ‘m’lady,’ but my foggy mind is too tired to think deeper about it at the moment.

  “I’m fine,” I say instead.

  Another few moments of silence go by until he says, softly, “If you say so.”

  Then, we arrive at a spot away from the main gates where I can slip out and through the small gate the servants use. Mary should be waiting for me so we can walk in together, as if we’re coming back from a late-night errand for ‘our mistress.’

  She wasn’t happy about agreeing to do so, but I gave her no choice.

  “Take care, Lady Florence,” Sir Thorne tells me as he takes my hand and helps me out of the carriage. “And take a few days, at least, to think it over before getting back to me.”

  I nod my head in agreement. “Goodnight, Sir Thorne.”

  He bows over my hand in return, then hops back into the carriage.

  Thankfully, Mary and I make it back inside the walls. She helps me bathe—I nod off again in the tub—and get ready for bed.

  I fight to stay awake, intending to write down my thoughts about the property, but sleep claims me instead.

  Morning comes too soon. Thankfully, I already have a plan. On my way to class, I stop by Vanilla Court Coffee Cafe and purchase a thermos of sweetened coffee to take to my classes.

  Sure enough, it invigorates me, keeping me awake and alert throughout my morning lectures. When I purchased the thermos, the proprietor said I would be able to refill it for a discount, which gave me the idea to come back after classes. It makes sense—I have so much more to do!

  Not only is there the extra coursework to complete, but today I write down my thoughts about the cafe property, then I read a bit about running a business, practice a few advanced spells, and page through a well-worn copy of a book about dragons I checked out from the campus library.

  From what the other ladies in class have chatted about, I've gathered that this routine would likely be quite boring to others, yet I’m not bored at all. My hungry brain eagerly eats up every single new thing I learn, no matter what it is.

  There was nothing in the hellscape, after all. Nothing to read, nothing to help me occupy my mind. Then again, there wasn’t much time for my mind to wander, not with how much I had to focus on surviving. But if there had been some sort of respite in that awful place, perhaps a safe cave where I could’ve rested, what could I have done to pass the time?

  A shiver runs down my spine—I do not want to think about it!

  Instead, I happily recall the praise from my teachers, all of whom had been privately informed about my predicament. While it wasn’t entirely uncommon for students to attend a year or two later than expected due to illness or other reasons, I am the oldest student ever to have enrolled in the introductory classes at the Royal Academy. Most of my teachers seem to have expected me to be somewhat slow, or even stupid, and were shocked when that wasn’t the case.

  I had always been a good student when I was a girl, and loved to read, so it was easy to slide back into that role—I liked it. I enjoy being studious. And all the studying I did before the start of the semester definitely paid off. But the teachers’ expectations weren’t the only challenge I faced.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  While my age has never been announced, it was not difficult for the other students to figure out how old I am. Even though they have never ridiculed me to my face, I feel it all the same in the way they ignore me during group work and discussions, or the sidelong glances in the hallway, and the whispers in the back of the classroom.

  I am a spectacle to them. An anomaly. Chronologically, I’m five years older than my classmates in the introductory classes, so they view me as an old maid. But, inside, I’m intimidated by them. I keep to myself and don’t speak unless I must. I never learned how to interact with groups of young ladies, and there is definitely a technique involved that I have yet to master. Then, there are the young men. For some reason, the class seating is divided by gender, so females are usually on the right side of the room and males are on the left. To them, I’m somewhat of a…challenge. I’ve been doing my best to ignore them, sitting as far away as I can.

  The only class I enjoy is the one with Professor Windemere.

  Would I still choose to be here had the king not ordered me to attend? Probably, but mostly because it hadn’t seemed likely that my father had planned to hire me a governess or private tutor.

  But it would be nice if the gossip stopped.

  After I finish my work, I eat dinner in my room, per my routine, then dress in my practice outfit. Despite the late hour, I still have so much energy! Remembering the chill from the evening before, I grab a cloak before I head out for my run to the practice yard.

  Winter is approaching, and with it, the Winter Masquerade. Maybe I should see if Sir Thorne knows how to dance. Perhaps he’d be willing to practice with me…

  ?????

  ~Russo, Kirva

  Russo sank into the chair behind him, his mouth open in shock. He didn’t even know where to begin, which was an unfamiliar place to be for someone who was accustomed to knowing everything.

  Ursula. It was Ursula.

  But she was imprisoned beneath the castle now, along with her husband, on charges of murder. Murder of the young prince. According to Yans, the charges were false—his mistress and lord were entirely innocent. He claimed they'd been set up.

  “Saintess, lend me strength,” he said quietly, staring at the letter on the desk.

  How could he…where could he even begin? He didn’t have time to go back to Dorandia to discuss it with his king. This was urgent. It had to be taken care of now. Today, if possible.

  Perhaps he could…

  “Yans, tell me everything you know. Absolutely everything,” he said suddenly in Kirvan, startling the old man holding a tea tray. First, though, he needed to see. “I need a mirror, or a bowl of water. Now.”

  Yans, who had just set down the tray, shakily made his way back out of the room and eventually returned with an old silver hand mirror.

  “Will this do?”

  Russo nodded. He took the pen that hopefully belonged to Ursula and recited a tracking spell, waiting with uncharacteristic impatience as the spell took hold. He chatted with Yans while the mirror fogged, searching for Ursula, then slowly cleared as it narrowed in on her location.

  She was alive, at least. If she weren’t, the mirror would not reveal anything but darkness. Still, it was almost too dark to see her, in the Belly of the Beast.

  “SOLAR MINIM,” he whispered, and Ursula’s head snapped up in the mirror as his view of her brightened ever so slightly. Could she hear him? Did she know she was being watched?

  Her lips started to move, but he could not read them. Then, tears started to fall down her grimy face, leaving pale rivers in their wake. “SONAR MINIM.”

  Instantly, he could hear her rough whisper.

  “Hágan, please. My husband, Hágan. Please. Please. Save him, please. Hágan, oh Hágan.” She wiped her face with the back of her equally grubby hand. When he saw the mana-binding manacle on her wrist, he jerked back involuntarily. “He’s nearly dead. Please save him. My Hágan. Please. Please.”

  He could listen no more. Her voice, but a whisper, was dry and ragged, as though torn by a thousand screams and beyond repair.

  “Master Hágan,” Yans cried. He had overheard Ursual. “Poor Master Hágan!”

  Russo moved the mirror—based on Ursula’s position, it was possible to get an idea of where her husband might be, but only if he wasn’t too far from her.

  “Yans,” Russo called to the distressed man, “is this man Master Hágan? No?”

  He moved the mirror to the cell on her other side. No, not him. To the cell across from her.

  “Is this Master Hágan?”

  Yans gasped, then nodded, immediately overcome by tears at the sight of his master. Indeed, it was a gruesome sight. Russo was able to move his view closer to Hágan and determine he still lived, but…barely. He was motionless, except for the faintest movement of his chest with each shallow breath.

  Russo had to get both of them out as quickly as possible—Hágan would not last long. They would immediately have to flee, which meant Russo had to pack up everything of interest in the house now. He also could not, in good conscience, leave Yans behind. The old man would only be questioned by the palace…a process that he would not likely survive.

  Though Russo wasn’t crafty, he knew a lot—a fact his younger brother relied too heavily upon. Of the two of them, Russo had an almost perfect memory, which he used now to find solutions to the many intersecting problems. He combed through stories—both fanciful and true, gossip, books he had read, and anything he had ever heard of that might be helpful in plotting an escape from prison, followed by fleeing a country.

  By the time his first cup of tea had grown cold, a rough draft of the plan was already complete.

  “Yans,” he said. “These are the things I am going to need…”

  What? A prison break??? From our Saintly man, High Cleric Russo?!?! Who saw this coming?? Also....is Florence turning into a caffeine junkie?! ??

  ????

  xo??kb