Shadows and Shade Box Set

by Amanda Cashure

  Lord Martin’s estate is the closest settlement to the Enchanted Forest, and we’re still half a day’s hard ride away. Being this close earns the Lord yearly compensation from the King, plus an exemption on all taxes, and since we haven’t had any trouble come out of there in years, it’s a deal that makes this estate very rich. The last thing to step from that forest was a wieldron, a stupidly big flying-cat thing. I’m not sure what keeps them from coming out again, though it could possibly be the mist.

  “You –” Cook chides, leaving the kitchen to pluck a head of lettuce from the garden, “– should know better by now. Stop watering that Seed of Trouble.”

  I watch the old woman brush through the overgrown mint, then past the tangle of jasmine on the wall. I’d much rather be amongst the scents down there than chained up here.

  Chomp, the short brown mutt, chases after her, sniffing at her fingers before giving up and disappearing through the gate.

  “I’m naturally amazing, and don't need a Seed to bring that quality out.” She tsks at me so I switch tactics. “Besides, Seeds aren’t even real.”

  “Child, my great-great grandmother talked of Seeds, and I knew better than to question my elders.”

  “Okay, so maybe I’m not amazing, and I’m definitely mortal, so don’t expect anything magical to come from me,” I tell her.

  I’m sure if I had a Seed of Trouble, a magical ability to find mischief wherever I go, I’d do more with it than take the punishment for a flour fight.

  She tutts. “Soot-servants keep their heads down and their hands working.”

  “The world is changing, Cook. I heard they knighted a lady in Fairlarn.”

  “Lord Martin isn’t going to knight you, child. You need to focus on being a valuable soot and stay hidden. Always,” she adds, flicking her hand in a signal that I’ve always translated to ‘get yourself lost.’

  ‘Go on, get. Stay low. Stay out of sight. Don’t come out again until the Manor Lord has slept off his rage.’ Not really something I can do while chained up, but I guess the idea is still the same.

  “I’m getting too old for that, Cook,” I tell her. “Too old for running.”

  “Child, if you’re too old at eighteen, then I’m ancient. Patience, you’ll find your place in the world.”

  “Besides, I don’t want to be knighted – I want to be the queen,” I say, complete with an evil laugh.

  She huffs again and strides back into the kitchen.

  “Don’t go watering that Seed. Stick to the shadows and the shade. One day, you’ll understand that rhyme,” she grumbles, before shutting the door.

  “You’ve never told me the rhyme. Just the shadows and shade part – just my name,” I say.

  I’m convinced there is no rhyme.

  To be honest, I’ve never been any good at staying out of people’s way – at staying hidden in the Manor’s shadows or the garden’s shade. It’s a saying for old women to heed, and Cook knows it drives me mad – that’s why she says it.

  I have tried to keep myself out of trouble. Tried and failed.

  I’ve got this failing thing down to a fine art.

  Four horses and a cart finally weave their way into view along the long dirt road. Not an impressive noble’s carriage, just a cart. It doesn’t even have a driver. The horse is plodding along between the four riders, old and worn out and not a hint of wanting to run off in the short chestnut’s eyes. The cart is uninteresting. Open with a flat bed that’s covered in crates.

  We don’t get many visitors, and the way Lord Martin has been carrying on, I was expecting the King himself.

  I wasn’t interested in the arrival of the King, but the arrival of four unassuming riders that have the power to turn Lord Martin inside out with panic, that’s interesting.

  The riders are all wearing hooded cloaks, the kind that button from chest to waist and flare out over their saddles. The hoods are deep enough that their faces are lost in the darkness. Their mounts are all different, one dapple-gray, one bay, one chestnut, and one black. But all of them have the same brand on their flanks, a series of four points, like four arrows, nested next to each other.

  The procession moves straight past the main gate, not even acknowledging its existence, and pulls to a halt at the back gate. The kitchen garden gate. Here I am, chained to a pole, surrounded by two dozen well-maintained garden beds and a wall to keep the rabbits and sheep out. And there are four badass looking people climbing off their horses on the other side.

  They dismount, step into the garden, and toss back their hoods.

  Gods.

  Or what gods would look like if they ever cared to walk around this part of the world.

  That’s all I’ve got.

  These four are gods.

  Well, not actual gods, I don’t think. I imagine those are kind of sparkly. These guys are just hot-as-melted-chocolate and give me goosebumps – which is not my normal reaction to anyone. So, if not gods, maybe some kind of mythical creatures.

  They walk single file into the garden, each one a few paces behind the other in too neat an order to be random. Maybe it’s their perfect neatness that makes me look at them in turn, cataloging each one like I would bulls ready for market, in reverse, because for very obvious reasons, the last guy catches my eye first. Everything about him screams nightmare, helped by the still raw-looking gash clean across his face. All of the way from the left side of his forehead, over his nose, and down onto his right cheek. It’s hard to look past that detail, even if everything else about him is flawless, from the depths of his dark eyes to his mountain-crushing size and the way he walks like the world is going to get out of his way. The guy is scarred – yes, but he could never be considered bad looking.

  In a quick flurry of movement, the third guy tugs off leather riding gloves, flicks back his cloak, and stows them in the inside pocket. Flurry isn’t even the right word, that makes me think of a snowflake. No, Three has the same kind of quick grace as a snake when it strikes. His face narrows down to a manicured mo-beard combo, and lips that look pleased about something even though he’s not smiling. Like the universe will bend to his desires, and with hair like that, it probably does. It’s dark and long, and not scruffy long or needs-a-cut long, but any woman would be jealous long. I didn’t even know someone could pay enough money to get silver strands put through their hair.

  They don’t say anything as they move through the garden, and it’s a little unnerving just watching them. I wouldn’t say they’re sneaking around, the way Four walks is more like thundering, but clearly they came here with a plan.

  A plan that the second guy looks ready to break. He bounces on the balls of his feet as he moves, like the whole world is a toy he can’t wait to play with. His intense blue eyes scan the garden with child-like mischief which softens his I-could-smash-you size. Running a hand through his short hair, hair that shimmers with a hint of gold, and looking like he’s deliberately stepping on the mossy stones lining the drain. I think slipping over would actually entertain him.

  The guy in the lead glances back, giving Two a stern look, complete with tense jaw and narrowed golden eyes. Two steps back into line, all without any of them breaking their pace.

  One has broken my concentration though – or my brain – his very existence makes it hard for me to breathe. So, something must be broken. Maybe the air. Air broken.

  I mean, there is still air, it’s rustling through the garden, teasing Three’s long locks into tiny knots, but it doesn’t dare touch One’s short dark hair.

  He swings his gaze across the garden, then settles his attention on the kitchen door.

  I find myself leaning forward, trying to get a better look at them.

  Stop it, I tell myself. Bad news, that’s what I’m looking at right now. Bad news with really, really good looks. Intense, break a girl’s heart, good looks.

  Which is the weirdest thing I’ve ever thought while sitting on top of Lord Martin’s torture post, and adds to my theory that t
here is something otherworldly about these guys. Like a magic spell or something. Is there such a thing as get-drunk-without-drinking magic?

  Does Cook have a Lose-Your-Inhibitions-Seed in one of her great-great-grandmother’s stories?

  That’s how I feel, slightly giddy and way too curious.

  Between them, they have multiple swords and a few bows. Which means they’re wandering in through our kitchen garden with more weapons than our estate’s whole armoury. This is a pretty uninhabitable part of the realm, but that’s a lot of muscle that they’re walking around with. Wherever they’ve come from is a lot more dangerous than here.

  They’re practically underneath me when Three looks up and notices me for the first time. He cocks his head a little to the side, a crease of either confusion or surprise pulling across his brow. Or maybe that’s just the sun in his eyes… except, the sun is in my eyes, not his.

  Yes, Shade, he’s looking at you.

  As if on cue, the rest of them stop and stare up at me.

  Four is the first to drop his gaze again, disinterested. I adjust my weight, just a little, but enough to inadvertently make the chain hanging from my wrist clink. Four’s gaze shoots sharply up again, and he looks scary-satisfied with what he sees. Not smiling – not sure his face even knows how to do that – but there’s something in the creases around his eyes that make him look pleased.

  However, One is far from pleased, and his frown deepens into the look of someone calculating a reaction that is not going to benefit me at all.

  I hold my breath for a beat, then realize that while he looks like he’s planning something, he hasn’t moved to do anything about it. So, I lean a little further forward, letting my legs hang down either side of the timber for balance.

  “How’s it going?” I ask.

  I sound like an idiot.

  I’ve made trips into town, to get supplies or to sell stock. I’ve had conversations with people I’ve never met before. But four flawless guys dressed in finer clothes than even the Manor Lord owns, and looking like they exist for a higher purpose – nope, I’ve never spoken to these kind of strangers before.

  Two runs his fingers through his hair, shaking off the stalemate between pissed-off One and pleased Four, then offers me a blue-eyed smile.

  “Enjoying the view?” he asks.

  He jumps lightly onto the edge of the raised garden bed, then takes a long stride to step from one bed to the next. The man’s as nimble as a cat. A really big cat that obviously has a deal with gravity – because it’s got little effect on him.

  He’s still not as tall as I am from my torture-post vantage point, and he has to stand on tiptoes to try to see my view.

  “Oh, yeah. Can see the whole world from up here,” I say, but halfway through my sentence, One sharply clears his throat, the kind of noise that hints at an order, and Two hops down from the garden.

  He bounces a little on the balls of his feet before stepping back into line.

  “Stop playing with the mortal,” One says.

  “The mortal heard that,” I mutter.

  Two chuckles, but not at me – at the way the guy in the lead stiffens. Like I’m grating on his nerves. And here I thought I only annoyed the crap out of Lord Martin.

  “Locked up, not deaf,” I say, giving my chain a hard shake that fills the garden with a clunky-metal tune.

  One’s posture hardens. Which doubles my heartbeat, I never thought someone’s posture could go from stiff to hard. And there’s no returning to smiling from this end of the feelings for Shade spectrum.

  “Get the damn remnant,” Four growls, pushing through the group.

  And he’s scary when he growls, he’s freaking scary when he’s not growling. He sidles up next to One, but Three hangs back – watching and observing with a kind of curious look on his face.

  I’m about to argue that I’m hardly remnant of anything but getting my ass kicked when it dawns on me that I have nothing to do with what they’re after. As Four pushes through the garden beds, his attention on One, I shuffle out across my support beam to lay flat on my belly.

  “What’s out there?” I ask Two, nodding toward the world, because these four sure don’t come from this realm.

  Wherever they breed guys that stop the breath in your throat, it’s far away from here.

  “Enough, peasant,” Four grunts.

  I let my eyes rest on his, determined not to look away and determined not to look at his scar. His irises are black. Might-be-about-to-kill-me black. And as soon as that crosses my mind, it’s really hard to keep my cool.

  I smile big at him, too big, faking-being-calm big.

  “No, can’t you see? I’m a pheasant,” I say.

  Am I nuts? Who calls themselves a pheasant?

  My mouth and my head have never really agreed on much. Usually they disagree loudly and at awkward times. Like now.

  Two makes a coughing noise, tries to hold it in, then gives up. Grabbing his belly, he laughs so hard he has to sit on the edge of the garden bed.

  One growls, getting his comrade back into line with the deadly rumble, then he looks up at me, really looking. Running his gaze from my probably dishevelled blond hair – it was pulled into a tight band, but I don’t blame it for becoming a disaster after the morning I’ve had – down my plain and poor clothing, all the way to my boots hooked around the wooden beam as I try to keep myself from falling. Then he pulls his gaze back to mine. Not just looking at me, like Jake does when he says hello, and sure not glowering at me like Lord Martin does, but really trying to see who I am.

  A noise, almost a grunt, escapes from Four, as if he’s asking a question. As if he’s trying to fight his way into our locked eyes.

  One rests his hand on Four’s shoulder in response, but his attention remains on me. This isn’t anger, like I had thought. This is something else, something…

  I lose that train of thought the minute his lips part and sound rolls off his tongue.

  “Ask her what she’s doing up there,” he says.

  Immediately, Three repeats the question, “Do share what it is you’re doing up there?”

  There’s a pressure to his voice, deep and hypnotic and drawing me in. The man hasn’t moved from his casual stance at the back, right next to the broccoli.

  My mouth opens, everything ready to tumble out, when a little figure dashes into the garden.

  Alfie. All of three years old and covered in flour.

  Alfie, tiny, scared, and probably still running from Lord Martin’s wrath. And Lord Martin is undoubtedly on his way here right now. Storming up behind the kid while these four scary-ass men are in front of him.

  I lift my weight off the pole, pulling my feet underneath me. Poised. Calculating my chances of launching from here and kicking at least one of them in the head. Not Two – he seems nice. But if scary-ass Four moves in Alfie’s direction, I’m going to discover real quick whether the rumor that dislocating your thumb can get you out of shackles is true or not.

  Four turns, completely facing me as if I said something to get his attention – which I didn’t. He balls, then flexes his fists, each knuckle audibly cracking.

  Like he’s ready to fight, or is even challenging me.

  “You, first,” I say.

  Poor Alfie is still too close, confused and frozen by the gate.

  So, I’m not relaxing until the big guy with the scar backs off. I’m also not going to be the one to start the fight – I’m pretty sure I’m too scared to do anything that stupid.

  Four stops clenching his fists and kind of smiles. Whatever is going through his mind softens his features and makes me question why I thought he was going to hurt the kid in the first place.

  “Be gone, child,” One’s order cuts through the tension.

  But he doesn’t look back, just waves his hand.

  Alfie turns tail and runs off, safe. Good.

  Now I’m back to being alone with four guys staring up at me. I lower my weight onto the beam. My hear
t slows.

  “What are you doing up there?” One repeats.

  Right, I was being interrogated – I remember now.

  Shade, answer with something respectful...

  “I’m waiting out my sentence. Kids having fun is against the Manor’s laws,” I blurt.

  Shut up, I tell myself.

  Lord Martin has to be marching this way right now, from some unseen direction. I can’t risk him hearing me say things like that.

  “Fun?” Two asks.

  I try to shrug it off – personally, Alfie and Bella’s mischief has not been very fun for me or my prospects for a future, but that’s not something I want to get into a conversation about.

  “What kind of fun?” Two presses.

  “Not pissing-in-the-lemonade-bottle type fun,” I assure him.

  He seems like the type to swap out lemon juice for urine, and I know from experience that watching horrible people unknowingly drink their own pee is rather satisfying.

  But I’m not going into the details of how I know that trick works, with him. He’s laughing too hard to hear me, anyway.

  “I’ll make her talk sense. You do want to cooperate,” Three says, the light catching the silver in his long hair.

  Two urges wash over me – to get down, possibly even in the beg-for-mercy position, and to tell him every-damn-thing he wants to know.

  Unquestionably. Again. All this guy has to do is talk – and I obey.

  “No. No need,” One begins, stopping me – and I hadn’t even realized I‘d swung a leg over to climb down.

  All four of them turn sharply toward the gateway into the rose garden, their movements coordinated. If any of them even thought about drawing a sword, I’m pretty damn sure the rest would follow so closely it would be like watching the Soot day battle-dance in Drayden. Precision and perfection.

  I have enough time to wonder what has caught their attention before Lord Martin bursts into view.

  “Welcome,” the Lord declares, trying to act like a delighted host.

  But I know Lord Martin, and he looks scared.

  “We’ll eat first,” One says.

  Lord Martin swallows hard, wiping away the sheen of sweat on his forehead. It’s odd to think of the man cowering inside the Manor, in a closet or something, but that’s exactly the impression I have right now.