The Girl Who Belonged to the Sea by Katherine Quinn
Chapter Twelve
Margrete
The momentshe was through the portal, the churning mists settling into a solid shade of ash, Margrete considered her mission. The cool metal of the dinner knife she swiped from the table pressed against her forearm, hidden by the flowing sleeves of her tunic.
Margrete waited another hour—just to be certain she was left alone for the evening—before she carried out the next step. With her weapon secure, she went to the armoire and yanked a midnight-colored cloak from its hanger. She wrapped it about her shoulders, tied the strings into a knot, and drew the hood over her head.
She wasn’t thrilled about scaling a building, as the last thing she’d climbed was a tree when she was twelve. But she had to try. Waiting around for Bash to hand her back to her father was simply not an option.
The balcony doors creaked on their hinges, and the night air tickled her skin and ruffled the hair beneath her hood. It was heavenly outside—the stars twinkling against an onyx canvas, the moon sitting high in the clouds. Margrete took this as a good omen.
Inching to the railing, Margrete peered down, and down...and down. The palace had to be as high as her father’s keep, if not more so.
Ice shot through her veins. One slip and—
No. Don’t you dare think like that.
She would make it down to the landing and then across to the balcony. After that, she would steal away in the shadows and venture down to the shore where she’d procure—well, steal—a small fishing vessel, then sail as far away from Azantian and her father as possible.
With determined breaths, Margrete squeezed the railing. She hoisted herself up and perched atop the banister, the sea at her feet.
Don’t look down, don’t look down—
She looked down.
A wave of nausea sent the night violently spinning, the stars a blur of white. Swallowing her rising bile, she lowered herself to the other side of the railing, then crouched and grabbed hold of the bottom posts, slowly easing her right leg to drop. Her arms protested, as did her resolve, but she forced herself to let her left leg fall. Now she was hanging in the air, only her sweat-slicked hands keeping her from plummeting to her death.
You can do this. The words played in her head, a mantra. The balcony directly below hers was within reach. All she had to do was lower her legs a little bit farther, and she’d be standing on the banister.
Just as she was about to drop deeper into the abyss, her heart racing and her palms growing increasingly sweaty, reverberating thunder shook the palace walls. Lovely, she seethed, her feet thrashing wildly. She let out a growl of frustration, flailing as she angled herself to where she knew the balcony’s ledge to be.
The first crystal droplet splashed across her cheek, followed by a second on the tip of her nose.
Don’t you start now, she threatened, knowing her chances of scaling to the terrace would be impossible if it rained.
Her chest tightened with unbridled panic. No. That wasn’t a possibility she could face, not when she didn’t have the strength to pull herself back up to her rooms. The only way out of this mess was down. Rain or no rain.
As more taunting droplets fell, soaking her hands and trickling down her forearms, Margrete’s already weak grip loosened. She would have to swing down now.
Tilting her head to the rain, Margrete cursed herself for such an idiotic plan. Fresh tears welled in her eyes as the rain battered her relentlessly, a flood of hopelessness easing her grip on the railing above her head.
With a hasty glance over her shoulder, one that sent her heart pummeling into her stomach, Margrete noted that the balcony’s ledge was close, tauntingly so, and all she had to do was make it another foot or so before she would be able to stand firmly on the rail.
A bolt of lightning pierced the deep charcoal skies, electricity coursing through the air. As the ensuing thunder rattled the palace walls, Margrete let out a howl, her right hand slipping free.
She screamed as she floundered, her left hand losing its hold as the rain came down harder. It drenched her clothing and plastered her hair to her temples and cheeks, making it difficult to see. The blade she concealed sliced at her forearm, sending pain lancing across her skin.
When the next bolt of lightning illuminated the night, a streak of fire and silver, Margrete’s left hand slipped—
She was falling, a trapped scream on her open lips.
Just as her feet collided with the wood of the ledge below, just as she felt her body bend and lean backward, away from the safety of solid ground, a hand wrapped around her ankle while another hand fisted the material of her damp shirt.
This time, her scream released into the storm, a shrill cry of desperation. Yet those same phantom hands held her upright while her right foot still swung wildly for purchase.
Then she was falling again, tumbling forward and onto the balcony below...directly into a solid wall of muscle.
Powerful arms enfolded her quivering frame, strong and reassuring, crushing her firmly against a hammering heart. The rain lost its biting edge, the lightning dimming to muted flickers, the deafening thunder a distant, vibrating growl.
No.
That wasn’t the thunder.
The rumble came from the chest pressed against her—a very bare, tattooed chest.