up at the sky—little more than one
revolution of the Thurmite moon before the time allowed for
his
WILMA mission expired. All he could do was hope. And move fast, but not so fast that he attracted suspicion.
Head lowered, making the most of his peripheral vision, Hatter huffed along recently visited streets and alleys. At a market stall selling fresh herbs and vegetables, he saw two of Arch’s personal chefs. The sight of them, royal servants out among the common folk, served as a jolt to his senses. How could he have been so remiss? He had searched everywhere for Molly except the royal enclave in which he himself had been living—among the tents of Arch’s personal retinue. He had always assumed that the king would keep Molly close, but that close? He made his way to Arch’s tent at the center of camp, where the threat of being recognized was greater than anywhere else, and had barely begun his hunt when— “Are you in need of work, laborer?”
It was Weaver. He bowed his head to indicate that he was, not wanting to risk letting his voice be heard. “I have some furniture that needs to be moved. I can pay you a necklace of beaded quartz and a hot meal.”
He followed Weaver out of the main thoroughfare to her tent. Swallowing her sobs, she spoke in a desperate whisper.
“They said you’d gone, and I…You were right. You’ve been right all along. I overhead Arch talking about Molly. I should’ve believed you sooner, I—” “Sshh, Weaver. Sshh, you wanted what you thought was best for Molly, for all of us. You have no cause to blame yourself. Do you know where she is?” Weaver stepped back and wiped her cheeks. “I’m not sure. His ministers take turns visiting one of the wives’ tents. I doubt Arch would let them if their business had anything to do with his wives.” “Show me which tent.”
She was about to step out to the street, but he touched her arm to stop her. “How did you recognize me?”
“I’ll always know you. The way you walk is as familiar to me as my own thoughts, even after so many years.”
Hatter nodded. But if she could spot him so easily, others might not have a difficult time of it. Still, there was nothing he could do about it now.
“Show me where Molly’s being kept.”
Weaver, walking ahead of him as instructed, indicated the wives’ tent with a slight turn of the head and continued past. Hatter ducked around to the back, to a small space with enough room only to stake and unstake the tent supports. He tapped his belt buckle, the sabers of his belt snapped open, and he quickly sliced a small gash in the canvas. He tapped his belt buckle again and the sabers retracted. He peered through the slit he’d made into the tent. Among the thirteen wives who lounged on voluptuous pillows and lush silks, he saw her: guarded by a pair of intel ministers, sitting glum and alone in the corner. She was without her homburg and dressed in pink clothes he’d never seen before.
WILMA mission expired. All he could do was hope. And move fast, but not so fast that he attracted suspicion.
Head lowered, making the most of his peripheral vision, Hatter huffed along recently visited streets and alleys. At a market stall selling fresh herbs and vegetables, he saw two of Arch’s personal chefs. The sight of them, royal servants out among the common folk, served as a jolt to his senses. How could he have been so remiss? He had searched everywhere for Molly except the royal enclave in which he himself had been living—among the tents of Arch’s personal retinue. He had always assumed that the king would keep Molly close, but that close? He made his way to Arch’s tent at the center of camp, where the threat of being recognized was greater than anywhere else, and had barely begun his hunt when— “Are you in need of work, laborer?”
It was Weaver. He bowed his head to indicate that he was, not wanting to risk letting his voice be heard. “I have some furniture that needs to be moved. I can pay you a necklace of beaded quartz and a hot meal.”
He followed Weaver out of the main thoroughfare to her tent. Swallowing her sobs, she spoke in a desperate whisper.
“They said you’d gone, and I…You were right. You’ve been right all along. I overhead Arch talking about Molly. I should’ve believed you sooner, I—” “Sshh, Weaver. Sshh, you wanted what you thought was best for Molly, for all of us. You have no cause to blame yourself. Do you know where she is?” Weaver stepped back and wiped her cheeks. “I’m not sure. His ministers take turns visiting one of the wives’ tents. I doubt Arch would let them if their business had anything to do with his wives.” “Show me which tent.”
She was about to step out to the street, but he touched her arm to stop her. “How did you recognize me?”
“I’ll always know you. The way you walk is as familiar to me as my own thoughts, even after so many years.”
Hatter nodded. But if she could spot him so easily, others might not have a difficult time of it. Still, there was nothing he could do about it now.
“Show me where Molly’s being kept.”
Weaver, walking ahead of him as instructed, indicated the wives’ tent with a slight turn of the head and continued past. Hatter ducked around to the back, to a small space with enough room only to stake and unstake the tent supports. He tapped his belt buckle, the sabers of his belt snapped open, and he quickly sliced a small gash in the canvas. He tapped his belt buckle again and the sabers retracted. He peered through the slit he’d made into the tent. Among the thirteen wives who lounged on voluptuous pillows and lush silks, he saw her: guarded by a pair of intel ministers, sitting glum and alone in the corner. She was without her homburg and dressed in pink clothes he’d never seen before.