The cobblestones bit into Drizella's heels as she pressed herself against rough-hewn stone, the grit of mortar catching at the velvet of her sleeve. Twenty feet ahead, lamplight caught on polished brass - another guard's helmet gleaming as he made his rounds. Her heartbeat kept time with his measured footsteps, each click of his boots against stone marking another second until she could move.
Three more steps and he'll reach the corner. Then eight heartbeats until the next patrol passes the fishmonger's.
She'd mapped their rotations over weeks of careful observation. The guards moved like clockwork, predictable as sunrise - which made them useful for more than just avoiding capture. Every patrol pattern revealed the crown's priorities, each rotation highlighting what they thought worth protecting.
A door creaked somewhere above. Drizella froze, barely breathing as heavy footsteps shuffled across wooden planks. The guard's head tilted up at the sound, and she pressed deeper into her alcove. The rough stone scraped her palm where Lady Tremaine's old scars had left the skin delicate. The sting anchored her, kept her mind from spinning into panic as she counted heartbeats.
One. Two. Three.
The guard moved on. Four more steps until he'd round the corner. Drizella's fingers found the key hanging beneath her bodice, its metal warm against her skin. The maritime codes pressed against her ribs, their presence both comfort and danger.
Now.
She slipped from shadow to shadow, her shoes nearly silent on the worn stone. The guard's footsteps faded behind her as she ducked beneath a low-hanging sign - a wooden shuttle and spindle marking the entrance to the weaver's district. The air changed here, thick with the sharp bite of mordants and the earthy richness of madder root.
Another patrol's torchlight splashed against the walls ahead. Drizella darted left, through a narrow passage between buildings where washing lines criss-crossed overhead. Damp linen dripped onto her shoulder as she pressed through, the fabric's rough touch raising gooseflesh along her neck. The passage opened onto a small courtyard, where three streets converged around a dry fountain.
The Silver Thimble will be ahead on the right, past the chandler's shop. If I time this correctly-
Metal scraped against leather - a sword being drawn. Drizella's heart seized.
"You there! Show yourself!"
The voice came from behind, but its echo bounced between the buildings, making it impossible to pinpoint. Drizella forced her breathing to remain steady as she assessed her options. The main street would lead straight to Elara's shop, but crossing it now meant exposure. The alley to her left disappeared into darkness - a potential escape route, but one that would force her to circle back, wasting precious time.
A torch flared to life behind her, casting her shadow long across the courtyard's stones. The guard's footsteps quickened.
Drizella smiled, her fingers finding the familiar weight of Volume Three beneath her bodice. Sometimes the best hiding place was in plain sight. She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and turned to face the approaching guard with all the affronted dignity her mother had spent years beating into her spine.
Let's see how well you've trained them in court etiquette, Mother dear.
Drizella's fingers glided over the raw wool, cataloging its qualities through practiced touches. Too coarse for the inner court's tastes. Perfect for the merchant class trying to imitate their betters. The afternoon light filtering through the workshop's high windows caught dust motes dancing above the sorting table, and the familiar lanolin scent transported her to countless afternoons spent memorizing textile grades in her father's study.
"You handle that wool like someone who knows its true worth." The voice, cultured and precise, sliced through her concentration.
She turned, maintaining the carefully crafted mask of a merchant's daughter despite the sudden spike of adrenaline. A man blocked the narrow space between sorting tables, his broad shoulders and confident stance claiming far too much territory. His attire spoke of wealth - indigo wool coat, silver buttons, imported leather boots - but something in his bearing whispered of steel beneath silk.
"I should hope so." Drizella kept her tone light, though her mind raced. No guild insignia. No merchant house colors. Who are you really? "One can hardly expect to navigate the market without knowing the difference between spring and autumn shearing."
"Indeed." He stepped closer, forcing her to edge backward or risk brushing against him. "I'm Alistair. And you seem to know far more than wool grades, if the rumors are true. Tell me - what's your assessment of the new Silk Road tariffs?"
A trap. Drizella's fingers found the edge of the sorting table, grounding herself. "That depends entirely on whether you mean the official rates or the ones actually being enforced in the outer harbors."
His eyes narrowed, and he matched her step for step as she tried to circle toward the door. "Enlighten me about both."
"The crown claims twelve percent on raw silk imports." She grabbed a bolt of finished wool, using it as a barrier between them while she moved. "But anyone who's actually dealt with the harbor masters knows they're collecting closer to fifteen, with the difference vanishing into very specific pockets."
"Dangerous knowledge for a merchant's daughter." He reached past her to run his fingers along the wool she held, uncomfortably close. "Especially one who seems to spend so much time in restricted sections of bookshops."
Drizella's heart hammered, but she forced a laugh. "Dangerous? I'd call it practical. The same way it's practical to know that the Silk Guild's own ledgers show them paying only eight percent through their private docks while driving independent merchants out of business with accusations of tariff evasion."
"You're remarkably well-informed." His voice dropped lower, almost intimate. "One might wonder why."
"One might wonder many things." She abandoned the wool and slipped sideways, using a loom as cover. "Like why a man who moves like a soldier is asking questions about silk tariffs while wearing a merchant's clothes."
His smile sharpened. "Perceptive. But you haven't answered my question about-"
Heavy boots thundered on the wooden steps outside. A gruff voice called out, "Guild inspection! Open up!"
Drizella's blood froze. No license. No documentation. And a man who's definitely not what he claims to be. She had seconds to decide - run and draw attention, or...
"Quick." Alistair's hand closed around her wrist, surprisingly warm. "Unless you want to explain to the Guild exactly how you know about those private docks?"
Out of the trap and into the cage. But with the boots nearly at the door, Drizella let him pull her toward the storage closet, her mind already calculating angles for escape if this, too, proved to be a snare.