Sarra took Greylin by the hand and hurried to the far corner of the room. There were no tapestries covering the walls in the queen’s quarters. Instead, an entire room had been constructed of wood within the outer stone walls, then plastered and painted with a pattern of flowers in shades of yellow and violet on a cream-colored field. The same soft hues were leaded into the stained-glass windows and fell upon the nurse and child in dappling color as they crossed the bedchamber.

When Sarra reached the corner, she pressed a painted rose. A panel door opened to a passage in the stone behind it, a discreet route to the king’s chamber. She turned for one last look at her beautiful Isabela. She had brushed that rich, dark hair a thousand times, rubbed scented oil onto her fine cheekbones . . . For what? To have that beast, Jaarven Hilde, destroy her. The king had voted against the conviction, but the Council had overruled him. He still loved Isabela even though her unfaithfulness had broken his heart. No one would have known if it wasn’t for that beast Jaarven. King Sterren would have forgiven them if he had found out, secretly and quietly, but Jaarven had made it public, and now it was too late.

Sarra slipped through the door and closed it behind her just before a red-cloaked priest entered Isabela’s room. The escape plan terrified Sarra. She had practiced it yesterday with the child, hoping she would not fuss or ask questions and give them away. The passage led into the king’s chamber and then another would take them beyond the outer walls. If any servants or guards were in the king’s room, she would have no explanation for being there. Her head would be on Traitor’s Gate for sure, right next to Isabela’s and Davin’s!

Outside the king’s quarters, she listened. Greylin made a show of listening. It was the game they practiced. The girl bent over in an exaggerated pose, hands behind her ears. If they heard any noise, they must be very quiet. If not, they would tiptoe forward, push the door open a crack and peek. Then listen again.

Sarra cracked the door and to her horror, Greylin decided to improvise and announced in a loud, singsong voice, “NOWADEE HERE!”

“Greylin, hush!” Sarra whispered fiercely, trying to breathe as well as talk, for her throat was closing in fear. Her heart pounded and everything darkened for a moment, but she had to pull herself together to save the child. No one had responded to Greylin’s outburst so, still gulping air, she worked up the courage to look about the king’s bedchamber.

Facing her was a huge canopy bed, carved from dark teakwood in a lacy pattern that had taken four men nearly ten years to complete. The bed dominated the room like a dark warden, glaring at her through the soulless eyes of carved birds and contorted monkeys. She forced herself to look under it. The platform had been built high, leaving enough room for three large guard dogs to sleep underneath. Even though she knew the dogs went wherever the king did, she still feared that they would be lurking there, waiting to tear her to pieces.

Her gaze met only emptiness, and her ears, silence. She took Greylin’s hand and hurried to the opposite corner of the room. It would not be long before someone would come into the chamber to tend to something, whether it was to polish the furniture, clean the grate, or replace the bedding. She lifted the edge of a tapestry and slipped behind it. As she opened the concealed door, she heard approaching footsteps. The tapestry, never completely secure, fell with a thud on the floor.

That dull thud was followed quickly by a much softer thump as a panicked Sarra picked up Greylin and darted through the door yanking it closed behind her. She ran on her tiptoes, trying not to brush against the close stone walls. The narrow corridor was lit by carefully concealed openings from the outer rooms and hallways. It had been built as an escape route for the king in case there was a reason to discreetly exit the castle. It led to a stall in an almost forgotten part of the stable. Nevertheless, there was a standing order that there was always a fine horse in that particular stall and a saddlebag filled with travel gear.

Sarra’s sudden appearance, complete with cobwebs, startled the stall’s current resident into a fit of snorting and stamping. This was quickly attended to by the stable hand, Dan, who tried to quiet the nervous mare while castigating Sarra for being late.

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“It be about time,” he said sternly to Sarra. Then gently, “There, there, now, pretty girl, don’t you worry about them,” and back to Sarra, “If we be any later, they all be back from the yard, and we be up it for sure.” Whether the horse was able to sort this out was a mystery, but it settled down. Sarra was trying too hard to breathe to wonder if “up it” meant Traitor’s Gate and followed him without comment as he led them out of the stall.

They went to an even older section of the stable, one of many, for the stables had become a rambling affair of forgotten additions that were now used mostly as storerooms. The unused rooms and the growing affection between Sarra and Dan were the kernels of the plan Isabela had conceived to spirit her daughter away.

The unlikely threesome came to an old wagon. It was actually a remade carriage with the top removed. It had been repaired with bits and pieces from other wagons and carriages, and even the wheels didn’t match. An old gray gelding, kept on as a companion to the more high-spirited horses, was hitched to the wagon. Sarra looked at the rig doubtfully.

“It’s sturdy and sound, and no one will take much notice of it,” Dan said as if reading her mind. The same might be said of Dan. His long face was topped by a burr of crinkled, blond hair, which sat on his head like a dusty wig, and his habit of raising both eyebrows whenever he spoke was distracting to all but Sarra who thought him magnificent.

“That’s very thoughtful, Dan,” she said sweetly.

Dan raised his eyebrows, “We best get about soon,” he stated tersely. The sound of a townspeople scuffling, talking and laughing was growing outside. The queen’s execution was drawing a crowd.

“Greylin, would you like to take a ride in the carriage?” Sarra asked sweetly.

Greylin looked even more doubtfully at the carriage than Sarra had. Something wasn’t quite right, but she couldn’t figure out what it was.

“We have to change your clothes so you don’t get dirty. This isn’t our usual carriage. Ours is broken and isn’t fixed yet,” Sarra continued.

“B’oken?” Greylin asked. This contented her, for she brightened and lifted her arms to be undressed repeating “b’oken” to herself. Sarra quickly removed her silk and satin gown and replaced it with a muslin shirt and brown wool pants. She topped it off with a ragged cap and stuffed all of Greylin’s hair into it, leaving a few strands to stick out. She knew Greylin would never stand for getting her hair cut, regardless of what Isabela had instructed. Then she threw a tattered shawl around her own shoulders and removed her nurse’s cap.

Dan opened the stable door to the street and led the wagon out. He helped Sarra and Greylin get up to the seat and then closed the door. No one took any notice of them, for all attention was on the hated “witch queen” who was about to meet her fate. A holiday mood had already swept through the crowd hurrying towards the executioner’s platform. Shopkeepers were closing their shops, the smell of beer and roasted meat wafted from the cart vendors, and bawdy jokes rang through the alleyways. Sarra shuddered, wishing herself already out of the city.

The throng was a help; no one cared about a dour woman and a scruffy man with a child. They made their way in the opposite direction from the crowd, which parted grudgingly before them and slowed them down. A few called out that they were “going the wrong way,” but Dan ignored them, and Sarra looked down. Greylin, on the other hand, looked at everything in wonder. She had never been in this part of the world before, or in such strange clothes. Up on the wagon, she felt as though she was rocking along invisibly through a sea of people. Every other time she had encountered people outside, they had all been at a distance, looking at her, waving and cheering. These people were close to her but none of them were looking at her, and she found the difference mesmerizing.

“I’ll take you just outside Maddy Sedge, then I’m off,” Dan whispered. You have the gold?” Sarra nodded. “Awright,” he replied, “keep it hidden under the straw.”

“Are you sure you can’t stay with us for a while? Just till we get settled?” Sarra asked, her voice breaking.

“Nawhr, too dangerous.”

When they reached the city gates, one of the guards called out, “Aren’t you staying for the execution?”

Dan raised his eyebrows. “Narwh,” he replied in one of his unique sounds that could mean anything. He gestured toward the road, “Thic in back’a wen summat,” he explained with a heavy accent that left everyone utterly dumbfounded as to his meaning. The guard merely nodded and backed away, there were no orders to prevent anyone from leaving the city.

The road away from the castle was deserted. No one was leaving except them. The horse’s hooves clopped peacefully on the hard-packed dirt. They were not yet a mile down the road when a steady drumbeat rose from the city behind them. It beat on and on, discordant with the gentle rhythm of hoof beats. Then nine bells rang, all the drums beat a single loud beat at once and a great shout arose, followed by manic cheering. Though the sound was faint in the distance, Greylin turned and looked back. “Wha’s dat?” she asked anxiously as Sarra began to cry.