The heavy tread of guild boots thundered up the workshop stairs. Drizella's heart seized. Through the slats in the shutters, she caught the metallic glint of official badges.
"Inside. Now." Alistair's fingers locked around her wrist, yanking her toward a narrow door between towering shelves of wool. The storage closet swallowed them in darkness that smelled of lanolin and cedar.
Her back hit rough wooden planks as Alistair pulled the door shut. The space was barely wide enough for one person, let alone two. His chest pressed against hers with each breath, the fine wool of his merchant's coat scratching her palms. If he's truly working with the royal guard, this is the perfect chance to arrest me. She held herself rigid, measuring each inhale.
Heavy footsteps entered the workshop. "Guild inspection! Everyone stop what you're doing!"
Drizella's fingers curled into Alistair's coat. Through gaps in the wooden slats, she watched three inspectors fan out across the workshop floor. Their polished badges caught the late afternoon light as they began upending baskets of raw wool, checking for contraband dyes.
"My lords, please—" Elara's voice wavered. "I have all the proper documentation—"
"Silence! Continue your work. We'll determine what's proper."
The closet was so cramped that every slight movement pressed them closer together. Alistair's breath stirred her hair. The heat of him seeped through her bodice, and she became intensely aware of the stolen book pressed between them. One wrong move and he'll feel it. She tried to shift away, but there was nowhere to go.
A floorboard creaked directly outside their hiding spot. Drizella held her breath. Alistair's hand found her waist in the darkness, steadying her. The touch sent an unwanted shiver down her spine.
"What's in here?" The inspector's voice was too close.
"Just storage, my lord. Raw wool waiting to be processed." Elara's footsteps approached. "Would you like to see the washing vats instead? That's where we prepare—"
"Open it."
Drizella's heart hammered. Alistair's fingers tightened on her waist. She could feel his pulse racing too, belying his calm facade. He's afraid. Whatever game he's playing, he can't afford to be caught here either.
The door handle rattled. Drizella pressed herself harder against the back wall, trying to become one with the wooden planks. Alistair shifted to shield her with his body, his face buried in her hair.
"It's locked," the inspector growled. "Where's the key?"
"Oh dear," Elara's voice dripped with manufactured dismay. "I must have left it at home. My old mind, you see. But I can bring it first thing tomorrow—"
"Break it open."
"My lords, please! That wool is worth a fortune. The dust and debris would ruin it. I'll fetch the key right now—"
A long pause. Drizella could practically hear the inspector's thoughts churning. Breaking down a door would mean paperwork, explanations to superiors. And if they found nothing...
"Two hours," the inspector barked. "Bring that key to the guild hall, or we'll do more than break down a door."
The footsteps retreated. Drizella remained frozen, counting her heartbeats until the workshop door slammed shut. Only then did she realize she'd been clutching Alistair's coat so tightly her fingers ached.
He made no move to step away. "That was close," he murmured against her hair. His thumb traced small circles on her waist, a gesture too intimate for strangers.
Drizella placed her palms flat against his chest and pushed. "Too close." She kept her voice steady despite her racing pulse. "I believe it's time for you to let go."
The door clicked shut behind Alistair, each measured footstep fading down the wooden stairs until silence filled Elara's workshop once more. Drizella's shoulders remained tense, her breath caught between relief and lingering wariness. The scent of wool and indigo dye hung thick in the air, mingling with the ghost of Alistair's cedar-and-leather cologne that still clung to her sleeve where they'd pressed together in the storage closet.
"My lady." Elara's voice cut through the quiet, sharp as scissors through silk. The weaver's fingers twisted in her madder-stained apron, leaving crimson smudges like dried blood. "There's something you need to know about that man."
Drizella's stomach clenched. She forced herself to maintain composure, straightening the folds of her velvet dress. "Go on."
"He's not just a merchant." Elara glanced toward the window, where the last rays of evening sun painted the workshop in amber shadows. "Three nights ago, I saw him in the palace district. He wore the silver insignia of the royal guard."
Ice spread through Drizella's veins. She paced between the looms, her fingers trailing over the rough-hewn wood as her mind raced. How long has he been watching? What does he know? The bruise on her shoulder throbbed where she'd hit the closet wall, each pulse a reminder of how close they'd been, how vulnerable she'd allowed herself to become.
"Are you certain?" Her voice emerged steady, practiced. She reached for Volume Three of the Merchant's Maritime Codes still pressed against her ribs, its presence both comfort and curse.
"As certain as I am of my own hands, my lady." Elara moved to her workbench, gathering scattered papers with trembling fingers. "He leads the night patrols. The ones that trace the same route past the restricted archives."
The archives. Drizella's throat tightened. She'd spent hours there, searching through dusty records of trade agreements and royal decrees, building her web of knowledge. If Alistair had seen her... No. Stay calm. Think.
She crossed to the window, pressing her palm against the cool glass. Below, merchants hurried to close their stalls as darkness crept between the buildings. A flash of silver caught her eye – another patrol, moving with mechanical precision through the crowd.
"Tell me everything you've seen." Drizella turned back to Elara, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Their patterns, their timing. Who they speak to. What they inspect."
Elara nodded, but hesitation flickered across her features. "My lady, if they suspect—"
"They suspect everyone, Elara." Drizella withdrew the key from around her neck, rolling its familiar weight between her fingers. "That's why we need to be smarter. More careful." And why I need to know if Alistair's performance in the closet was protection or manipulation.
The weaver moved closer, lowering her voice. "The guards have been asking questions about foreign fabrics. About who trades in them, who works with them." She swallowed hard. "About who might profit from circumventing the crown's tariffs."
Drizella's mind whirled through possibilities, each more dangerous than the last. The marriage contract in her mother's study. The debt to the royal treasury. Alistair's pointed questions about silk imports. It couldn't be coincidence.
They're not just watching the merchants, she realized, her fingers clenching around the key until its teeth bit into her palm. They're watching me.
She turned to face Elara fully, decision crystallizing. "Tomorrow's meeting at the Silver Thimble is canceled. Send word through the usual channels – we're changing locations." She pulled a loose thread from her sleeve, a remnant of their hiding place. "And Elara? If Alistair returns, tell him nothing. Let him think this afternoon was exactly what it appeared to be."