Page 5 of Of Might and Mettle

This time, when they reached that scene, the mouse didn’t try to push her again. But though she finished the dance, with the wooden soldier defeating the mouse king with a shot from the gun, Lorelle’s mind still whirred with suspicion.

In the audience, Isabel had disappeared, and by the time rehearsal ended and the musicians were closing up their instruments, Lorelle heard the church bells toll once.

It was after midnight. La directora dismissed them all with a wave of her hand, though she seemed somewhat less frustrated than before. Lorelle thought about telling her about the mouse, but what could she say? It would only give la directora the excuse to switch her out with another dancer, and maybe even remove her from the company altogether. She already caused enough “problems” as it was.

She nodded to a few stagehands as she walked up the aisle to the back of the theater. A couple of ballerinas still chatted, some of the snowflakes reviewing the newest changes to their choreography, but Lorelle didn’t spot any red of the cardinals, and for that she was glad. She could escape Vanesa’s and Sara’s withering glares, at least for a few more moments.

When she reached the threshold looking out into the courtyard, heavy sheets of rain still fell from the sky. She breathed in the scent of moist earth and, now that she was out of costume, she stepped freely onto the wet grass.

Her toes sank into the soil, but she smiled up to the sky as warm rain soaked her through. Glancing over her shoulder, she stepped farther into the courtyard, into the darkness of the night. Silvery moonlight filtered by the clouds illuminated very little.

She found comfort in the darkness. The world was slumbering, vulnerable and quiet. Maybe someone else like her, someone who was hiding, would find relief in the darkness of the night. And she knew that her God could see her, bright as day, even if the rest of the world was blind.

She crossed the courtyard’s winding paths and walked to the top of the courtyard wall, turning to look over the kingdom. A dark river flowed from north to south, its waters murmuring far below her, and beyond that, as she gazed westward, she could see the glittering lights of the largest port on the island. The capital, Mar Verde, the city she had once called home.

With careful fingers, she peeled off her gloves—the only accessory she could never be rid of in front of prying eyes—and held out her tin arm. The rain pinged lightly against the tin, soothing, almost like a lullaby, and she smiled.

She glanced across the rolling hills to the port, where she knew the ocean lay just beyond. What would it be like to stand on the waves as Peter had with Jesus? She imagined it might be something like her dancing, the ground always moving beneath her but standing firm with the One who would keep her afloat. Maybe one day, instead of walking on the water, she would dance on the tumultuous waves and laugh for sheer joy.

“Dios,” she breathed, but no more words came. What could she say that He didn’t already know? The words stuck in her throat, and hot tears pricked her eyes, making the rain suddenly cold.

She turned back, ready to walk toward the shared chamber with the other dancers and face the looks of pity, disdain, and now jealousy, but strong hands gripped her shoulders, shoving her. A scream tore from her throat. The last thing she saw was red wings stretched out in flight as she tumbled over the wall’s edge to the waters below.

Chapter four

Growing Storm

Antonio’s arms burned by the time he rowed up the river to the cliffside, but he grinned despite himself. That was one thing that hadn’t changed, at least; he was still strong enough to fight the river’s raging waters.

The rowboat scraped against a suddenly shallow section of the river. A small pocket of water formed a cove, and when Antonio angled slightly, he spotted a fissure in the cliffside. Excitement pulsed through him. This was it.

When he glanced up against the downpour of rain, he caught sight of Gabriel’s shadow high above, standing where Antonio had been last night when he saw the intruder disappear into the gloom.

His orange lantern flickered twice as Gabriel receded. It wouldn’t do for Gabriel to be caught lingering on his patrol, as someone might question the lad. But now that Antonio had found the cove where the intruder had hidden, there might be more to discover.

Levering the oar, he pushed forward, scraping the boat farther into the cove and to the fissure in the cliffside. It was so low that he had to hunch over, even from his seat on the boat. He squinted into the darkness, then uncovered his lamp, now that he was out of sight of the guards on the wall above. A cavern opened before him, about as large as his room in the barracks.

What was the intruder up to?

The cave opened up a little more, and he got off the boat onto a small rock platform, where he found an unmade bedroll and the remnants of a broken lantern. The oil had ground into the moist rock like a paste, as if the figure had left in a hurry.

Antonio dug a boot through the remains of glass and ash, catching sight of little strips of parchment. “¡Gracias, Señor!” he breathed his thanks to God as he spotted scrawled handwriting. It was difficult to read, with small lines and ash-smudged ink, but he brought it closer to his lantern and made out some words: Sir Thomas.

His blood turned to ice.

“No puede ser.” It was impossible.

But impossible was becoming all the more probable with every day that passed. And it was his fault.

He sat back on his heels, the cool of the rock seeping into his knee as he knelt. His mind shot back to the last time he’d seen that name written, and to how close Sir Thomas, the leader of the loyalists, had come to capture before Antonio had lost it all.

Antonio had first spotted something amiss when a fellow guard had left his post, offering to pay him two gold coins if he kept his silence. Antonio had accepted it, if only to deter suspicions while he followed the guard to a rendezvous point at the port. There, he had overheard snippets of a conversation, enough to know that whatever cargo made it past the port would burn the kingdom from the inside out.

But many had doubted him, even his own brother, when he’d spoken up about the secrets he’d overheard. “Don’t go spreading chisme, hermano,” Cristian had said harshly. “There’s enough gossip to go around without your contribution.”

And in truth, there had been. Monte Rico had seceded from the Empire eight years ago, after a strongly worded declaration of independence and a year-long trading freeze of the Empire’s most coveted goods from Monte Rico: coffee, sugar cane, and precious metals from deep in the mountains. It had been too easy, too diplomatic. Since then, all guards had been required to swear allegiance to God and their king, but Antonio had heard murmurs of unrest among his peers, whispers of a greater battle to come with the silent, faux-humble retreat of the Empire. Rumors that their independence was not yet won even now, a decade past the declaration.

So Antonio had gone on his own, and he’d stopped the gunpowder from making it into the castle. But his efforts had set the port ablaze, and in the smoke and pain, Antonio could have sworn he’d seen Sir Thomas’s face leering out from the hazy fire.