Chapter 12

  Deliveries plus Stowaways

  Later thst morning the mid morning light seeps through the shutters, painting thin gold lines across the room. For once, I’ve slept deeply—no dreams, no restless tossing—just the quiet weight of exhaustion finally giving way to rest.

  When I sit up, the sounds of the inn waking filter in: chairs scraping, muted conversations in the common room, the clink of mugs being set out. My boots are where I left them, satchel untouched, but the thought of yesterday—the clock, the Baron’s man, Luna in the alley—comes back all at once, settling on my shoulders like an unspoken question.

  Downstairs, the smell of fresh bread rolls and spiced tea greets me. A few regulars nod in recognition, but otherwise leave me be. The innkeeper gives me a practiced smile as I pass the counter.

  It’s a new day. The Baron will see the clock soon. Luna is still out there. And I… I’ve got to decide where to place myself in all this.

  I pause halfway to the common room, my hand brushing against the satchel at my side. The familiar weight stops me cold.

  Wait.

  My brow furrows as I grip the strap tighter, pulling it around to the front. The leather is the same dark brown like i've seen before, but the stitching… the stitching is wrong—crooked in places, almost hurried.

  "I… I didn’t have this," I murmur under my breath, the words tasting strange. Yesterday plays back in my mind—the forge, the delivery preparations, the alley, Luna’s eyes in the mist. Somewhere in that blur, i never put this satchel down… but I also never remember picking it up.

  I lift the flap, peering inside.

  Whatever’s in here could explain a lot—or open a door I might wish I’d left shut.

  My hand freezes on the flap as the memory clicks into place.

  Right—Gerrick had shoved a satchel into my arms yesterdayvmorning before I’d even left the shop. "For carrying the good stuff," he’d said, rushing to pack his own. The stitching wasn’t wrong—it was just his, worn and repaired in a hurry over the years.

  I exhale slowly, easing the flap closed. No mystery. No theft. Just me being too caught up in last night’s events to remember the small details.

  Still, I can’t shake the odd sense that my mind’s been running ahead of me lately, chasing too many threads at once—the Baron’s commission, Luna’s watching eyes, the wagons…

  From the common room, the sound of a chair scraping across the floor breaks my train of thought. Someone mutters about the Baron in a hushed, bitter tone.

  I keep my pace steady, as if im just passing through on my way out, but my ears tune sharply to the voices at the table near the wall.

  Two men sit hunched over their mugs, speaking low but with a tension that cuts through the morning haze.

  "—told you, Blackwood’s moving them faster now," one says, his tone sharp with unease. "Three wagons this week alone, and not all from the same place."

  "Aye, but it’s not our concern," the other mutters, though it sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself. "Keep talking about it and you’ll draw the wrong ears."

  There’s a pause, then the first man leans in closer. "Someone saw one break down outside the west road. Heard crying from inside. Didn’t dare get close, but…"—his voice drops even lower—"…it weren’t goods in there."*

  I pass the doorway to the street just as the second man hisses, "Stop. You want us both to disappear?"

  The morning light hits me as I step outside, their words still turning in my mind.

  I turn away from the street that would lead west, tightening my grip on the satchel. As much as I want to follow that thread, the thought of leaving Gerrick to face the Baron—or his men—alone doesn’t sit right.

  The walk to the shop is brisk, the streets still waking. Merchants are just beginning to set up their stalls, and the air carries the scent of baking bread and faint coal smoke. By the time I reach Gerrick’s door, the front shutters are already open, warm light spilling onto the cobbles.Inside, Gerrick is hunched over the crate, making final adjustments to the padding around the clock. He glances up as I step in, relief washing over his face.

  "There you are. Was starting to think you’d overslept." He pats the side of the crate. "She’s ready. Just needs careful hands on the way to the estate."

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  I notice he’s dressed a touch sharper now—cleaner apron, hair combed back—as if bracing himself for the Baron’s scrutiny.

  I help Gerrick secure the crate onto the back of a stout, two-wheeled delivery wagon, then climb up beside him on the bench. The morning air is crisp, the road just damp enough from last night’s mist to darken the dirt.

  Springvale’s streets are quieter at this hour, most folks still settling into the day’s work. The wagon creaks and rattles as we pass the last row of houses, the open countryside slowly replacing cobblestone with packed earth.

  It’s as we're clearing the final marker stone—the one that marks the official edge of the city—that I catch the faintest flicker of movement in my peripheral vision.

  A dark blur slips from the hedgerow, quick and low. I turn my head just in time to see her—Luna—dart across the short stretch of open ground. In one fluid motion, she slides under the edge of the tarp covering spare wood planks and tools at the back of the wagon.

  I glance at Gerrick, but he’s focused on the road ahead, muttering to himself about keeping the clock steady over bumps. If he noticed anything, he doesn’t show it.

  The rhythmic clop of the horse’s hooves fills the air, but now im acutely aware of the silent presence hidden just a few feet behind us.

  I settle back on the bench, eyes forward, forcing my expression to stay neutral. If Luna went through the trouble of sneaking into the wagon, there’s a reason—and the last thing I want is to spook her into vanishing again.

  Gerrick keeps talking, mostly to himself, about how he’ll present the clock to the Baron, how the chime will impress even the most jaded noble. I nod in the right places, offering the occasional “Mm” or “Right”, all the while keeping your ears half-tuned to the faintest shift of weight or rustle of fabric from under the tarp.

  Once or twice, I think I catch the sound of controlled breathing—light, measured, like someone used to hiding.

  The road bends ahead, and the first glimpse of Baron Blackwood’s estate appears in the distance—a tall, stone structure framed by high walls and banners that hang motionless in the still morning air.

  I can feel the tension in the air tighten, though im not sure if it’s mine… or hers.

  I keep my eyes on the road, letting the minutes stretch without even a glance over my shoulder. If Luna’s hidden herself in the wagon, she’s doing it with purpose—and prying now could ruin whatever she’s set in motion.

  Gerrick remains oblivious, guiding the horse with one hand and gesturing toward the looming estate walls with the other. “Blackwood’s place,” he says, as though I could miss it. The structure rises higher with every turn of the wheels, the gates flanked by guards in black and silver, halberds resting but eyes sharp.

  As we approach, Gerrick slows the wagon, giving the guards a genial wave. One steps forward, scanning the cargo with a practiced eye. “Delivery for the Baron,” Gerrick announces, voice firm.

  The guard glances toward the crate, then back at Gerrick. “You’re expected. Move along.”

  The gates groan open, revealing the estate’s broad courtyard paved in pale stone. Servants move briskly in the background, and somewhere deeper in the grounds, I hear the faint clip of booted feet on tile.

  I feel the wagon roll under the shadow of the gates, the tarp in the back shifting ever so slightly with the movement. She’s still there.

  I keep my attention fixed more on the weight and silence behind me than on Gerrick’s chatter or the guards’ stone-faced stares. The wagon rolls through the courtyard, and one of the guards steps forward, motioning with two fingers."Around back," he says curtly. "The Baron prefers tradesmen use the service entry."

  Gerrick gives an obliging nod, clicking his tongue for the horse to move. The wagon turns, following a narrow path that skirts the outer garden wall. The manor’s main grandeur fades here—stone less polished, ivy creeping higher, fewer servants in sight.It’s in that brief stretch between watchful eyes that it happens.

  From the corner of my vision, the tarp at the rear shifts—just enough for a slim, dark shape to slip free. Luna lands lightly on the packed earth, tail low, and without a sound, darts across the short grass to the manicured bushes that line the manor’s western wall.

  By the time I glance back fully, she’s gone from sight, swallowed by the green. No movement, no sound—only the faint sway of leaves where she passed.

  Gerrick doesn’t notice a thing, his focus locked on maneuvering the wagon toward the back entry.

  I say nothing, keeping my eyes forward as though nothing at all happened. Gerrick hums under his breath, completely unaware, guiding the wagon to a halt by the rear loading bay.

  Two servants emerge from a side door, one tall and thin with a clipboard, the other shorter and stockier, clearly here to provide muscle. They spare only a passing glance at I before focusing on Gerrick and the crate.

  While they begin discussing where the clock will be placed for the Baron’s inspection, I let my gaze drift—subtly—toward the edge of the gardens.

  For a long moment, there’s nothing. Then, in the far corner where the bushes give way to a small maintenance door in the wall, I catch it: a flicker of movement, the barest shadow slipping along the stone. Luna.

  She’s keeping low, hugging the edges, and when one of the servants shifts their weight to glance that way, she freezes so completely she might as well vanish into the greenery.

  I can’t tell yet if she’s heading for the manor itself… or away from it.

  I force myself to keep my posture loose, hands resting casually on my knees as Gerrick oversees the careful unloading of the crate.

  The servants move it with slow, deliberate precision, their murmured instructions echoing softly in the enclosed yard.

  Then, drifting over the muted sounds of work, I catch it—faint, muffled, almost swallowed by the manor walls.

  "No more…"

  It’s a woman’s voice, strained, thick with desperation. The words are too soft for anyone else here to notice, but they cut clean through the air to me.

  I don’t move, don’t turn my head. I let my eyes settle on a spot in the cobblestone, letting the moment slide past as far as anyone watching is concerned. But my ears… my ears are locked on that distant voice.

  When it doesn’t come again, the silence feels heavier than before.

  Luna’s sudden interest in the manor. The wagons. That cry.

  It’s all starting to feel like pieces of the same puzzle.

  The crate is barely inside before a second guard appears from within the manor, his black-and-silver livery crisp, his tone clipped.

  "Gerrick. The Baron would like a word. Please, follow me. Your—" His eyes slide toward me, narrowing slightly as if weighing my place here. "…ser—""Apprentice," Gerrick cuts in quickly, stepping forward before the guard can finish. He gives me a sidelong glance and a faint smirk. "Right. Apprentice can come too."

  The guard’s gaze lingers on me for a beat longer than is comfortable, but he finally gives a small, stiff nod. "Very well. This way."

  I fall into step beside Gerrick as we're led through a side corridor of the manor. The air inside is cooler, the faint scent of polished wood and oil lamps drifting from the hallways. Above, the ceiling arches high, lined with faded paintings of stern-looking men and women in finery.

  I keep my head forward, but my thoughts are racing. If Luna’s still in here somewhere, she’s behind these walls now. And that voice I heard…

  The guard turns sharply, guiding you both toward a set of double doors at the end of the corridor. He raps once, then pushes them open.

  "The Baron will see you now."