—but it’s not the man she expects to see.


    The intruder is a woman. Tall, with cropped black hair, an upturned nose, strong brows and the demeanour of a hardened warrior. She wears worn leathers and carries a knife. A silver locket graces her neck.


    “Can you stand?”


    “He’s coming back,” she whispers. The woman kneels down to cut through the ropes binding her wrists—


    *


    Avon had told her to pack for an overnight stay. That was all she knew. Other than that, he wouldn’t say where they were going or why, so that by the time she rejoined him outside the villa, Valerie was brimming with curiosity.


    The setting sun cast golden rays over the gate’s ornate metal latticework. It cast deep shadows too: Avon became a stark silhouette, while the trees outside extended their shadows like long dark fingers across the road. The temperature had dropped; Valerie shivered and pulled her shawl more tightly around her. She glanced down, conscious of the warm pulse at her breast: the silver locket.


    She’d snatched it quickly while her maidservant wasn’t looking. A split second decision, one that she might come to regret. But she felt that it was riskier to leave it behind than take it with her. Whatever Avon was up to, she felt better facing it armed with her magic.


    Avon’s manservant finished loading their carriage with luggage, climbing up to the front seat to take the horses’ reins.


    “Is it far?” she asked.


    Avon opened the carriage door. “Not too far.”


    With that scrap of information, she expected them to take the usual route into the city proper. Instead, the carriage took them in the opposite direction, to the other side of the island.


    They disembarked, and Valerie squinted out at the night sky. Before her stretched the vast expanse of the lake, the water shimmering as far as the eye could see. They were at the island’s edge. A small boat awaited them at the end of the jetty. Gulls roosted on pillars and flew above their heads. Except for the guardsmen at the landing, the place was deserted.


    Avon’s manservant tied the horses to a post before hauling their luggage into the boat. Avon climbed in too, then held out his hand for her.


    Confused, she stepped onboard. A lantern on the bow lit their way, the servant beginning to row. Avon sat by the stern, watching her. His legs were too long for the boat, she thought. He turned away to look across the water, his expression as cool as the lake’s depths.


    “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”


    The island vanished behind them. Above, the moon showed its face from behind a cloud, casting a soft misty light over the lake.


    “My family owns the land on the other side of the lake,” he answered. “There’s a moor and a good bit of woodland. We have a cabin there too. It’s rather cosy.”


    “It’s cold,” she said.


    Darkness shrouded them, along with a chilly wind blowing in from the coast. She hadn’t anticipated a journey across the lake when she’d dressed for tonight. The cotton fabric of her primrose yellow gown offered little protection against the elements, while the short ruffled sleeves left her arms bare. The shawl only partially helped.


    He removed his jacket and wrapped it around her. “Better?”


    She huddled into her seat. “Thank you.”


    “Perhaps I’ve neglected you. I’d like to make that right.”


    She blinked. He was looking at her quite seriously. What on earth was he talking about? They’d spent plenty of time together, hadn’t they, to the point that she’d grown annoyed by how carefully he was managing her. Or maybe that was the problem.


    “What do you mean?”


    He didn’t answer. She pulled his jacket tighter around her, resisting the temptation to warm herself with magic. They lapsed into silence. Presently, the shore came into view, and the boat approached another jetty.


    Avon’s cabin, as he called it, was the size of a house. It stood at the lake’s edge, a stone building with a sloped roof and wooden steps leading down to the water. The grass on either side of the lodge was neatly trimmed, and a stone fountain bubbled by the terrace. A second outhouse, perhaps a stable, was visible higher up the hill, along with a line of empty kennels.


    She stepped on to the jetty, eyes wide as she took it all in.


    Trees encroached on the land to the west, their tops rustling gently. North and east lay the moorland, which was like nothing she had ever seen: clumps and tufts of something that looked like grass interspersed with gorse.


    Avon instructed his manservant to take their luggage, then held out his arm.


    “Let me show you around.”


    She took Avon’s arm, heart thumping. No guards patrolled this side of the lake. They’d crossed a body of water, but they might as well have been in the middle of nowhere for how isolated it felt. Why had he brought her here?


    He led her inside. Wooden floorboards creaked as she stepped into the main lounge. Avon let go, moving forward to throw a few logs in the fireplace. He picked up a matchbox from the mantelpiece, struck a match, and bent down to light a fire.


    She hung his jacket and her shawl on the wooden coat hanger by the door. In the firelight, she could better make out her surroundings. A couch, two high-backed armchairs and a coffee table were all arranged around the fireplace. Off to one side, a glass cabinet displayed at least seven or eight rifles. A wolf skin rug covered the floor, while the heads of various animals were stuffed and mounted on the walls like the stag’s head she had seen in the Baron’s manor. Their beady, soulless eyes stared blankly into the room.


    “This is a hunting lodge,” she said, realisation dawning. “This is where we’re going to meet your uncle for your hunting trip, isn’t it? But he’s not due to arrive until tomorrow…”


    Avon straightened up. “That’ll warm us up. Would you like some brandy?”


    He disappeared into the kitchen. Valerie didn’t follow. She wanted to know where the other doors led instead: a pantry; a dining room; a servants’ annex with bunk beds and a small bathroom; and two guest bedrooms, each with their own bath chamber. Thankfully, the bedchambers didn’t have any dead animal heads. She didn’t think she’d sleep well with that.


    She returned to find Avon and his brandy, which he poured out in two glasses on the oak table in the middle of the kitchen. A great brick and stone stove dominated the room, flanked by wooden cupboards and a ceramic wash basin. The stone floor chilled her feet. A covered basket had been set on the oak table, and bundles of dried herbs hung from hooks on the walls.


    Avon brushed his fingers over an oak chair. “Do you sense it?”Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    She frowned. “Sense what?”


    He gestured over to one of the kitchen counters. Then she saw it. On the windowsill, bold as a sunflower, stood the silvertree seedling. She hadn’t noticed it in the gloom. And she ought to have sensed it the moment she stepped over the threshold into its magical field, except of course she had missed that too because of the locket.


    Valerie hoped he didn’t pick up on that. She collected herself.


    “You brought it here?”


    He smiled. “Hidden in plain sight.”


    “But… we’re here for the hunting trip, aren’t we?”


    “Yes. A merry hunting party, my father included. And you know one thing these fine gentlemen will never do?”


    She stared at him for a second before the answer came to her. “They won’t go into the kitchen.”


    “Exactly.”


    He offered her the glass of brandy, but something else caught Valerie’s attention: a flicker of movement outside. She frowned, moving over to look out of the window. It faced the lake, giving her a clear view of the steps leading down to the jetty and…


    Avon’s manservant was climbing into the boat.


    “Hey!” She turned back to Avon. “He’s taking the boat!”


    The man was already rowing away. She felt a sliver of panic. That vessel was their only way back.


    “You needn’t worry,” said Avon. “He’ll return tomorrow. Tonight, we’re on our own.”


    Oh.


    Valerie swallowed. She had never truly been alone with him. They had spent evenings in his chamber at the palace, yes, but always with guards outside. The closest she had come was their trip to Enyr, but even then they had never been more than a few yards away from servants or guards.


    In one way, it was a show of trust. He’d brought her to the silvertree seedling. If Shikra had been lying about her abilities—if she was able to reach out and possess Valerie from across the ocean—then now would be the perfect time to kill him.


    She accepted the glass of brandy and took a large gulp to steady her nerves. “You brought me here to get away from your father?”


    He nodded. “And to give us a private space to talk.”


    “Uh huh.” She tapped her nails on the oak table. “With the silvertree too. Were you hoping for a private show?”


    She held out her hand, creating a small sphere of light like those she had conjured at the Society Biologica. Avon’s eyes followed the light as she lifted it into the air, where it hovered under the ceiling.


    She gave a mock pout. “You could at least pretend to be impressed.”


    He leaned against the counter and sipped his brandy. “I don’t need a display. I know what you can do.”


    “So why bring me to the silvertree?”


    “I want you to feel safe.”


    Her breath caught. She’d lit the room enough that she could see every tiny shift in his expression and posture, and he was wearing that serious look again, the one she didn’t know how to react to. She only knew that her heart was pounding.


    He set down his glass and leaned in, his hand brushing over hers. She shivered at his touch.


    “I admire you greatly, Valerie,” he said quietly. “If you’re concerned about that, please rest assured that nothing my father or anyone else does can dull my ardour. Whatever I set my eyes on, I don’t waver from.”


    She managed a smile. “I appreciate the reassurance.”


    His gaze flickered. “Too much?”


    “Maybe we should eat before we get into the serious talk.” She moved around the oak table, eyeing the covered basket. Definitely a picnic basket. “What’s this?”


    He straightened up. “I thought we could have a cold supper.”


    She opened the basket, examining the contents. Bread and cheese, pastries, cold meats, jars of conserve, apples… Her stomach rumbled. It looked delicious, but…


    She looked up, a mischievous smile spreading across her face. “You know, if a Maskamery man were trying to woo me, he’d cook a hot meal.”


    He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t cook.”


    “There’s a first time for everything.”


    She scooted around the table and took his arm. He protested. “Valerie…”


    “There must be something in the larder. Come on.”


    Happily, the pantry provided them with a few root vegetables that still looked fresh, along with a sack of potatoes. Valerie instructed Avon to add a log or two to the wood-burning stove, which she lit with a quick spell, and to fill a pan with water, sugar and a pinch of cinnamon.


    She soon realised that he hadn’t been joking about his lack of culinary skills. He hadn’t the faintest idea about what ingredients went into any given dish, how to prepare it, or even basic things like how to use an oven.


    “Boys can do this!” she teased him, when he looked utterly perplexed about what to do with the vegetables. “You’re a big, strong man. Use that knife. Peel it, then chop them up. Small pieces.”


    “Are all Maskamery women terrors like this?” he grumbled, but he followed her instructions while she diced the apples and added them to the pan.


    Soon enough, they had the vegetables roasting in the oven and a pan of apple sauce bubbling away. She finished off her brandy, then wrinkled her nose. Avon stirred the contents of the pan, watching her.


    “Do you cook at home?” he asked.


    “We all do. We take it in turns, although my aunt and uncle always take charge of dinner.”


    He looked down at the pan. “Well, it doesn’t seem that difficult.”


    She laughed. “I’ll be the judge of that.”


    “So this is a test. I see. And how else do you Maskamery women evaluate men?”


    She pretended to think for a few seconds. “Hmm… Other than his ability to cook? The ideal man would be… Strong, smart, successful, kind, generous… Fun to be with. Good-looking. You know.”


    He shook his head. “Those poor fellows.”


    “It makes them try harder. And that makes them better men.”


    “How am I doing?”


    She leaned over to glance at the apple sauce. “Not bad. I think we’re almost ready.”


    Maybe he hadn’t meant the sauce, but he didn’t complain when she told him to fetch the tableware. Valerie warmed up the cold meat—venison—from the picnic basket for a minute or two, then removed everything from the oven: piping hot roast potatoes, root vegetables and the venison. She served each of these in the Maskamery style—that is, every food item on its own dish or plate. Avon spooned the apple sauce into a porcelain boat.


    “Shall I take that?” he asked, reaching for the empty tray—then he jerked back, hissing in surprise when his fingers closed around its edge.


    “It’s hot!” she said, waving her oven mitts. “Did you burn your fingers?”


    “I didn’t—” He stopped, grimacing.


    She put down the tray, trying not to laugh. He lifted his hand, and she saw the red skin. His fingers were burned. Not badly—the tray couldn’t have been that hot, but he ought to have been more careful. Valerie removed the oven mitts and took his hands, looking up at him.


    “Let me heal it.”


    Their eyes locked. She couldn’t tell if his face was a little flushed from the heat in the kitchen or embarrassment at his lapse of judgement. He was hesitating. Then he gave a small nod.


    His permission was all she needed. She brushed her fingers over each of his in turn and smoothed the burns away—just like that.


    He held up his hand again, examining his own fingers. “Now I’m impressed.”


    The heat in the kitchen was making her flush too. Valerie turned away, hiding her pleased grin. Their food awaited.


    *


    They ate in the dining room. It was a veritable feast: they paired the roast dinner with red wine, plus the bread, cheese, pastry and jam from the picnic basket for dessert. Valerie couldn’t resist teasing him about how spoiled he was. Avon took it in good humour.


    Finally, she leaned back, rubbing her full tummy. “Isn’t it satisfying to eat food you cooked yourself?”


    Sure, the venison had been a little dry, but they’d done well with what they had. She’d give herself full marks. Avon maybe a six for effort.


    He smiled. “Perhaps. I enjoyed it because I was cooking with you.”


    Valerie nearly giggled and had to stop herself. Between the wine and the brandy, she was feeling a little tipsy. One more compliment, and she might end up melting into a puddle. Instead, she took a breath and drew on her magic, clearing her head. Better.


    Avon cocked his head. “You know, I’m surprised you haven’t asked.”


    “Asked what?”


    “About the silvertree.”


    “Oh.” She thought as hard as she could, but she was full and sleepy and sluggish. “Well, it needs to be somewhere safe. I suppose this is as good a place as any.”


    “I hope so. I’m relying on obscurity rather than heavy security. Master Anwen will look after the premises day-to-day. We can visit whenever we so choose. Is that acceptable to you?”


    She nodded, half-distracted. Anwen had mentioned that Avon had tasked him with keeping the seedling safe, she recalled. He and Doryn had left with the seedling the previous night, after the Society Biologica meeting, which meant they must have travelled across the lake to bring it here. So where was Anwen? She needed to find him, to take that book off his hands and end the queen’s influence over him.


    “Is Anwen nearby?” she asked.


    “He’ll join us tomorrow. Until then… Shall we call it a night?”


    “And leave all of this for the servants?” She waved her hands at the jumble of dirty pots and plates before them. “If a Maskamery man were trying to woo me, he’d wash up too.”


    He gave her a look. Valerie met his gaze, trying not to smile. Then he stood up, and to her surprise he actually picked up the empty plates and glasses and returned them to the kitchen. She stifled a laugh. How had he expected this evening to go, she wondered. It didn’t have the hallmarks of his usual careful planning. Frankly, she’d saved him the embarrassment of trying to seduce a girl with an indoor picnic.


    Getting up, she ambled to the short hallway between the two guest rooms, wondering which one to pick…


    Footsteps shadowed her. Avon definitely hadn’t washed those dishes. His hands enclosed her waist, and she jumped.


    “Do I need to remind you that I’m not Maskamery?”


    “No…” She caught her breath. “No, a Drakonian man spirited me all the way out here. No invitation. Didn’t even ask my permission.”


    She felt him chuckle, his breath tickling her hair. He kissed the spot between her jaw and earlobe, and she turned towards him, heat shooting up her belly. Now she was in real danger of melting. His hands moved up along her corset, his gaze already straying down to her cleavage, and a sudden wave of panic shot through her.


    Because she’d forgotten one very important thing.


    The locket.