Visions (The Daevas #2)

14 | Whiplash

January 29, 1521

Sussex, England

"Molly. Molly..."

I put a hand on her shoulder, and she turns her back to me, mumbling something incoherent in her deep slumber. 'Tis good to know she's finally having a decent sleep in her life, but it has to end right now for we cannot waste time.

I must get to Edmund. It doesn't matter whether Anne Blink's her way to the duke's castle; or even if she's already there, slandering me. If she tells lies about me, then so be it. I can use my own tricks. Good versus Evil. Never in my life have I ever tried to defy or use something against my sister. My own flesh and blood. I may be weak-but, nay, not this time. I will be valiant. Naught will make me bend to her will again. I will not cover for her anymore. I have been blind and addle-pated. T'would be foolhardy of me to remain being a timid, simpering little marchioness.

As for George...I shut my eyes as I feel the tears sting my eyes, my lips quivering uncontrollably. I will not lower my pride. I mustn't. 'Twould be a gauche for me.

I draw a breath and wake Molly once more. She finally opens her large blue eyes, rubbing it with her fists from the sleepiness she is still feeling.

"Your highness..." she says, referring to my title as a princess. "'Is it time?"

I nod, quickly pulling her up from the bed in a standstill.

"How long have you been awake?" She has lost the lack of lack of grammar uses she once had before I turned her into an immortal. I don't want her to let herself be chagrined from the people who will now know her as my friend, my companion. She speaks like a lady. "Santa Maria, my speech! 'Tis not so bad now!"

"Aye, Molly, aye." I grin at her, though 'tis not reaching my eyes. "And in answer to your question, I have been awake for the past two hours. 'Tis already a quarter past three in the morn, and we ought to leave now. I have been thinking of a plan since I awoke. Let's not waste time. Naught will happen if we remain here longer."

Molly looks so afraid for bending a rule about leaving her uncle and this place, but she tries to be valiant. "We shan't waste time then," she says, her chin rising up slightly, her bravado good.

I nod, pacing back and forth in the tiny room, preparing for what I am about to tell her. "We shall go to the laundry area and we will change our clothing to more proper ones. I am sure there are some rich guests staying here for the time being since they have no choice?" I arch a copper brow at her, and she bobs her head in response. "We will take one of the rich men's riding garbs and wear them. 'Tis much safer to pretend we are young chavvies; youths who are going on a little trip. Then we will take bags which we will put plenty of food inside."

"What about money?"

Come to think of it, I don't have enough money to last our journey. I only brought my pint money, and 'tis not enough for a long trip to Brightam Castle. "Can you whisk away some money, Molly?"

She nods, her smile wide. "'Tis what I do best. Well, poaching actually, but 'tis the same as whisking away some silver, I'm sure. Sly as a little cat, I can be."

"Good. After that, we go to the stables and get my destrier, Silver; for you, we shall take a horse fast enough for us to escape without any notice."

'Tis the first time I have ever thought of stealing and plotting. But 'tis better than not doing aught. When Molly agrees, we begin to open the door and go outside. Our backs are pressed together on the wall, our minds alert and our eyes ready for something strange to see.

There's a serf lounging on a stool, his hat on his face, his arms crossed together with legs crossed at the ankle, sleeping and snoring. He's easy. We lift our skirts and skip silently over his outstretched leg. Molly leads me down the stairs and area is as lonely, cold, and dark as a tomb. We round the grimy old desk the proprietor was cleaning earlier and enter an arched wooden door. We turn right and reach the laundry room, where clothes are hanging ropes and others are neatly pressed and starched. A laundress is asleep on the cold stone floor, a blanket strewn over her plump body, unaware of our intruding her workroom.