‹ Prequel: The Pauper Princess
Status: Currently undergoing renovations.
The Game
Twenty-four
"This would go a lot quicker if they’d just let me help,” I complain to Mehta. I had tried a few times to offer my assistance in setting up the tents, but the guards seemed to believe the only task for which I was qualified was washing dishes and clothing.
“You’re in some sort of hurry?” Mehta jokes. I offer her a small smile, but it’s short-lived.
“There’s another one,” I point out. A few yards further into the woods is another dilapidated cottage. We’ve passed several since that first cluster of houses, but we’ve yet to reach the second of the old villages.
“It’s strange, thinking someone used to live there,” Mehta muses.
“They probably died there too,” I mutter. Mehta snorts in a very unladylike way and walks away to where the guards are starting a fire. The fog has rolled in early tonight and everyone is shivering. I grab two cloaks from the carriage before I follow after Mehta.
“Thank you,” Mehta says as I pass her the second cloak. The guard finally gets a decent fire going, only to be called away. I lean forward to build up the fire better.
“The horses are still restless,” Mehta observes. I nod and add another few sticks before leaning back on my hands.
“I told you, it’s the spirits.” Mehta rolls her eyes, having heard enough of my ghost stories over the past few nights. “It’s probably the ones from that house over there,” I say, pointing back to the building we saw only a few minutes ago.
“If I hear one more story from you,” one of the older guards interrupts, “I’m going to tie you up and stuff your mouth with rags.” I try to stifle my laughter, because I know he’s probably means it. He stands directly in front of me, blocking the heat from the fire. “I’m serious, girl. You’re turning these men into a bunch of sniveling babies with your silly wives-tales.”
“Charet, we need more help with the horses,” one of the other guards calls. The man glares at me for a second longer before heading toward the snorts and stamping I’ve come to associate with nervous animals.
“I guess they don’t like my stories,” I sigh once the man has left.
“Perhaps they would be better appreciated in a different setting,” Mehta agrees. I see her watching in the direction the man went. Following her line of sight, I realize I can’t even see him anymore even though he can’t be more than ten yards away if the noise of the horses is any indication.
“I wonder what we’ll be eating tonight,” I say, trying to change the subject to something lighter.
“Oh yes,” Mehta plays along, “I wonder if it will be stew, soup, or stew.” We laugh, having learned several days ago that this was indeed the extent of the guards’ culinary skills.
“You’re in some sort of hurry?” Mehta jokes. I offer her a small smile, but it’s short-lived.
“There’s another one,” I point out. A few yards further into the woods is another dilapidated cottage. We’ve passed several since that first cluster of houses, but we’ve yet to reach the second of the old villages.
“It’s strange, thinking someone used to live there,” Mehta muses.
“They probably died there too,” I mutter. Mehta snorts in a very unladylike way and walks away to where the guards are starting a fire. The fog has rolled in early tonight and everyone is shivering. I grab two cloaks from the carriage before I follow after Mehta.
“Thank you,” Mehta says as I pass her the second cloak. The guard finally gets a decent fire going, only to be called away. I lean forward to build up the fire better.
“The horses are still restless,” Mehta observes. I nod and add another few sticks before leaning back on my hands.
“I told you, it’s the spirits.” Mehta rolls her eyes, having heard enough of my ghost stories over the past few nights. “It’s probably the ones from that house over there,” I say, pointing back to the building we saw only a few minutes ago.
“If I hear one more story from you,” one of the older guards interrupts, “I’m going to tie you up and stuff your mouth with rags.” I try to stifle my laughter, because I know he’s probably means it. He stands directly in front of me, blocking the heat from the fire. “I’m serious, girl. You’re turning these men into a bunch of sniveling babies with your silly wives-tales.”
“Charet, we need more help with the horses,” one of the other guards calls. The man glares at me for a second longer before heading toward the snorts and stamping I’ve come to associate with nervous animals.
“I guess they don’t like my stories,” I sigh once the man has left.
“Perhaps they would be better appreciated in a different setting,” Mehta agrees. I see her watching in the direction the man went. Following her line of sight, I realize I can’t even see him anymore even though he can’t be more than ten yards away if the noise of the horses is any indication.
“I wonder what we’ll be eating tonight,” I say, trying to change the subject to something lighter.
“Oh yes,” Mehta plays along, “I wonder if it will be stew, soup, or stew.” We laugh, having learned several days ago that this was indeed the extent of the guards’ culinary skills.