Page 78 of A Bluestocking’s Secret Courtship

Menar chuckled under his breath.

Evangeline was smart, painting a picture of her uncle as harmless. She looked up at Menar. “May I untie him? He is too weak to go anywhere.”

“He would be fool,” Menar said. He unsheathed the dagger at his waist and kneeled behind Wedmore to cut the ropes.

The warrior loomed over Evangeline and her uncle, not allowing them any privacy. Evangeline kept the conversation light, asking again about what he had been eating and scolding him for not eating more.

“He is fed,” Menar said.

“Thank you, sir. That’s a relief. His transformation is shocking.”

“How long you not see?”

“A month,” Wedmore answered, then smiled at Evangeline, “but it feels longer.”

“He insisted on traveling to Arachova much earlier to train. He likes to find local fighters for his demonstrations.” Evangeline addressed her uncle. “I told them about your Wing Chun performances. I don’t think the First Matron believed anyone would pay to watch a fight.”

“Not for him,” Menar said, his stance relaxing. “He fight like child.”

Evangeline wrinkled her nose. “Like he said, he is old.”

The warrior told Evangeline to say goodbye. She hugged her uncle and kissed his cheek. “Will my uncle be allowed to attend the feast tonight?”

Menar remained stone-faced. “Follow.”

Jonathan held her hand and flashed a quick sign to Wedmore. Protect.

“Follow,” Menar snapped.

Twenty-nine

Evangeline’s surroundings blurred as Jonathan guided her past the guards posted outside Uncle Charles’s tent. She felt as if she was walking underwater. Her legs were sluggish and heavy. Every sound from the campsite was muffled—dogs barking, children playing, the blade of an ax biting into wood.

She struggled to catch her breath. Uncle Charles was a prisoner. Maybe she and Jonathan were, too, only they wouldn’t find out until they reached their destination. What if they were never allowed to leave? Aunt Beatrice, Regina, Sophia… Her family wouldn’t know what happened to her or Uncle Charles.

And what would become of Jonathan? This was all her fault. She had insisted on searching for her uncle and taken Jonathan away from his work. Tears burned at the backs of her eyes.

Jonathan drew her closer to his side. “It’s overwhelming,” he murmured, “but I need you clear headed.”

She nodded.

“Evangeline.” He gave a small jerk to her hand, jarring her from her daze.

“I need you,” he whispered.

She nodded faintly, diverting her attention to their surroundings. Each dusty tent looked the same. The flaps were tied back on several. Some were empty. Others had napping children, often with their mothers close by tending campfires or mending clothes. Some were closed off, but occupants could be heard in conversation. Sometimes there was laughter.

Just families, she reassured herself. They mean no harm. Only the tales she had heard about the Semkari’s deadly reputation would frighten anyone. They were apparitions—their activities fodder for ghost stories. But maybe that was all strategy, like when the Vikings released a survivor after a raid, knowing he would run ahead to the next village, spreading his terror like a plague. Often, when the Viking warriors arrived at the village, it would be empty. Everyone had already fled in fear.

In the far distance, there was a large tent surrounded by five guards, each with rifles. Munitions, she guessed. And a substantial amount. If gunpowder were to ignite, the fire wouldn’t reach the camp or occupants.

Their leader was away.

They had hunting parties patrolling the area.

It seemed the Semkari were preparing for battle. And if they had more serious concerns than traveling performers who had lost their way, there was a chance she, Jonathan, and Uncle Charles could make it out alive. They needed to convince Nekara that they were truly performers, though. She glanced at Jonathan, praying his drumming was at least passable to support their story.

Menar stopped in front of a tent. “Here.”