The Summer Palace [Fantasy romance/enemies to lovers/new adult]

Chapter Three

I stir to something loudly tapping on the window, and my entire body jolts awake. For a moment I forget myself, forget where I am, but an uncomfortable lump digging into my back from the carriage seat is enough to spur my recollection.

"Everybody off," a voice says loudly from behind the window, but when I turn my head to look they've already scarpered off somewhere. Behind me someone yawns loudly with a stretch, and I rub my eyes in an effort to make them less bleary. At once I remember my bag and feel a sickening wave of relief when I realise it's still there, heavy and perched on my lap.

I waste no time leaving the carriage, eager to stretch my legs.

"We're at Layton Royal?" I ask the coachman as I clamber - with little grace - out of the door. I'm not sure why we'd be anywhere else but it doesn't hurt to check. My fit of sleep in the carriage has left me in a touch bewildered, my mind still half-fogged like it's stuck in a dream. I yawn, and my mouth feels as though it's filled with wool.

The coachman nods distantly before something in him seems to snag on my words. He narrows his eyes slightly, his stare grazing over me. I shuffle on my feet, at once uncomfortable and self-conscious of my attire. I don't usually wear simple homespun dresses. In fact I've never worn one before at all. I'd much rather be in one of my pretty summer dresses, but I'm trying to remain inconspicuous, and dressing as a woman of noble birth outside of the Golden Quarter only draws attention.

"Why d'you sound like that?" He asks. He's got a kind, young face that's been distorted with confusion. Below a floppy-brimmed hat his eyebrows are knitted together.

I'm not sure what to make of his question. "Like what?"

"All posh-like," he says. He makes an example of the last word by doing a strange exaggerated dance as he says it and attempting the worst upper-crust accent I've ever heard.

"I don't sound posh-like," I snap, affronted, and upset at myself at the oversight of changing my clothes but not thinking to change my accent. When I was little I wanted to become a spy to foreign kingdoms - it's clear though that I'm not cut out for espionage in the slightest.

He shakes off my words like a chill and rolls his eyes, says "alright", and gestures for me to move along so he can help a rather inebriated fellow behind me exit the carriage.

Before anyone else can ask me needless questions I make for the carriage house doors, but I haven't made it five steps before I turn around again. The coachman - though I suppose he's more of a boy, really - is watching me as if I'm an intriguing and slightly comical animal at the zoo.

"Can I help you, madam?" He asks, once again exhibiting a dreadfully shrill accent. I repress a sigh as he chuckles to himself; I'm not sure I have the wherewithal or distinct humour for his particular brand of comedy. Or maybe it's just late and I'm tired and struggling to come to terms with the reality of my situation.

"Yes, actually." I stride up to the boy, trying to make it seem as though I know at all what I'm doing. A ruse that will quickly crumble apart as I'm about to ask him for directions, proving that I don't really know what I'm doing at all. "Could you kindly point me in the way of Whitehollow? I need to get there as soon as possible."

He blinks, once. "Whitehollow?"

"Yes," I confirm. "You must have heard of it."

He stares at me blankly for a beat until he says, deadpan, "yeah, I've heard of it."

"And which way is it?" I ask slowly. Honestly, it's like trying to coax a toddler to speak.

"What, you're walking there?" He asks. "Tonight?"