Luvenia slept straight through lunch and missed the border crossing from Alatir to Middewold, but she was wide awake and perching primly on Iron Hans' lap when they stopped for tea. She felt good enough to take a stroll, picking carefully through the wagon ruts and casually rounding the back of the carriage.
With a furtive glance to make sure she was not being observed, she unbuckled one of the luggage straps and lifted the leather cover.
She sighed happily at the sight of two cedar chests stacked on the boot. Her fingers danced over the flowers and vines carved across the bright-colored wood.
The nape of her neck tingled. She turned to find Iron Hans watching her from a few feet away.
"You don't need to follow me everywhere," she said peevishly, dropping the cover back over the luggage. "What could possibly harm me out here?"
Iron Hans said nothing. Luvenia huffed and set about rebuckling the luggage strap.
"I just wanted to check something." The buckle's tongue wedged itself in the wrong hole and refused to come out. "I'm done now. Just let me fix this..."
Dark-gloved hands took the buckle from her grasp and fastened it with the utmost delicacy. Luvenia did not move until Iron Hans backed away.
"I'm not helpless, you know." The sentiment was childish, she knew, but she wanted to be childish for once. "I can do... things."
She thought he would laugh, and was disappointed when he did not. She felt compelled to provoke him in some way.
"Those trunks were my mother's." Her heartbeat seemed curiously loud. "She was a traitor. She tried to..."
She fell silent as Iron Hans beckoned to her. She took a hesitant step toward him.
He raised his hands to her brow and gently adjusted her tiara. It must have come askew while she was sleeping. She felt herself blushing and turned quickly away.
"I'm hungry. Let's join the others."
Iron Hans inclined his head. He trailed a few steps behind her as she picked her way over the road.
She briefly considered pretending to trip, just to see if he would catch her. The notion made her chest feel strangely tight.
No, she couldn't do that. Such a ploy was unbecoming of a princess.
***
By nightfall, Luvenia had resigned herself to the idea of sitting in Iron Hans' lap all the way to the palace of Middewold.
The coachman offered to hang a lamp in the cabin, but Luvenia declined, telling him that she wished to sleep. This was not strictly a lie, but neither was it the whole truth.
If she couldn't see Iron Hans' face, it only seemed fair that he should not be able to see hers.
Traveling in the dark was not much different from traveling in the light with the curtains drawn. The only real change was that she found it easier to sleep.
She was deep in a dream about marionettes bowing to each other when a hard lurch snapped her back to consciousness, disorientated and gasping. She noted at once that the carriage had stopped.
"Have we arrived?"
"Shhhh."
She felt Iron Hans gathering her up in his arms and started to panic. "What are you–"
"Wait here."
He set her down on the opposite seat. Lamplight spilled into the cabin as he opened the door, then vanished as he pulled it shut behind him.
Whatever was happening outside was happening fairly quietly. Luvenia heard men's voices but could not discern their words. She thought she might have heard the sound of a weapon being drawn, but there was no clash of swords, only the occasional grunt or shout.
Then fleeing footsteps.
Then... nothing.
Luvenia realized she was panting. The darkness around her suddenly felt suffocating.
She fumbled for the door handle and eased it open.
There were lanterns hung from each corner of the carriage roof, shedding golden light nearly as bright as that of a full moon. She could see everything clearly—all too clearly.
The Middewold carriage stood perpendicular to hers, its door hanging open. Inside lay the body of Lord Phaon, the silver of his livery stained red; his face was frozen in a look of complete surprise.
She heard a cough and looked for its source. A cloaked figure crouched on the ground by the Middewold carriage's nearest wheel. She recognized the broad back, the tension in the shoulders.
"Hans," she tried to say, but the name refused to form on her tongue.
She climbed out and took a few tiny steps before fear seized her heart. The earth around Iron Hans was discolored a deep red.
"Hans..."
She only managed a whisper, but that was enough. He turned and rose to his feet, started toward her—then stopped and held up his hands. The dark leather gloves were stained darker.
Another wet cough made them both refocus their attention. Luvenia finally noticed the Middewold envoy, propped up against the carriage wheel, clutching a wound in his side as blood oozed through his fingers.
So Iron Hans was not the one bleeding. She let out a shaky breath, relieved, yet ashamed of her relief.
The envoy looked up at her and smiled weakly.
"Princess... thank the gods."
He coughed again, and blood trickled from his mouth. Luvenia flinched, then steeled herself and walked forward.
"What can I do?"
"Sweet girl... don't... trouble..."
His kindness cut her to the quick. She hitched up her skirt and knelt beside him; the damp earth made her shiver, but she kept her eyes on him.
"We should stop the bleeding."
Heroines in books always used their clothes to make bandages. She tried to tear a strip from the hem of her skirt, and discovered that heroines in books must wear clothes made of much less sturdy fabric.
Desperate, she cast about for something to cut with. A bloody dagger lay within reach. She snatched it up and started sawing away at her skirt.
"No, princess," mumbled the envoy. She ignored him.
Familiar gloved hands took the knife from her. She grabbed Iron Hans by the wrists.
"It's already ruined," she insisted, panic creeping into her voice. "Let me do this."
He did not let her do it. He flattened the fabric against the ground with one hand and used the knife to perforate a broad strip, then tore it clean away and handed it to her.
She did her best to bind the envoy's wound, though her hands shook badly and she could hardly see for the blood. Still, it seemed better to do something, to give this small comfort to someone who had comforted her.
"Kind princess." His face was pale, but his eyes were clear. "One... favor."
"Name it, sir."
"My bag... inside."
Iron Hans had fetched the ornate satchel before she could even stand up. He pressed it into her hands, and she offered it to the envoy.
"Paper... pencil."
She found both, wincing at the bloody fingerprints she could not help leaving on them. None of their hands were clean now.
She had to help steady the envoy's arm as he wrote. It would have been easy to read the message, but she wanted to show him as much respect as he had shown her, so she kept her eyes averted.
He dropped the pencil, and shook his head when she tried to retrieve it.
"Wax."
Wax...? She felt like a child, lost in the dark, too scared even to cry. All she could do was look through the satchel to find a clue as to what he meant.
At the bottom of his bag she found a stick of sealing wax. She passed it to Iron Hans, who used a carriage lantern to warm it until it began to run. The wax was green, mixed with glimmering gold dust.
It was Iron Hans who folded the letter and dripped the wax onto it, but the envoy managed to press his signet ring into the seal unaided. He pushed the letter toward Luvenia.
"For... Gorogon." Each jagged breath seemed to take all his strength. "Be... patient... with... him."
The makeshift bandage was already soaked through. Luvenia held the envoy's hand, feeling helpless and hopeless.
"I don't even know your name," she said softly.
"Caradon."
She squeezed his hand. "Caradon... I'm sorry I can't do more for you."
He made an effort to squeeze back. His hand was cold in hers.
"My... queen," he sighed, and closed his eyes.
He did not die immediately. Luvenia had no way to measure how much time passed, but her legs were stiff and her arms ached by the time the envoy breathed his last.
She knelt by the corpse for a while after—not out of respect, but because she didn't know what else to do. Nothing she had learned or read about had prepared her for this situation. Her etiquette tutor had never touched upon the protocols surrounding the violent death of a traveling companion.
She might have remained there even longer, had she not been interrupted by an interjection in a faintly familiar voice:
"Shit."
Iron Hans was pulling off his gloves, so violently that the leather split from wrist to palm on one of them. He clutched his head in his hands, knocking back his hood.
Luvenia stared, uncomprehending, at the soft jawline, the slim cheekbones, the hair pulled into a braid at the nape of a slender neck.
Iron Hans looked at her, and Luvenia was struck with a revelation as sudden and galvanizing as a bolt of lightning.
"That's why it seemed strange," she said aloud.
"Your highness..."
The husky alto was unmistakably the voiced version of Iron Hans' infrequent whispers. It was not a man's voice. It had never been a man's voice.
The woman gazed at her pleadingly.
"I suppose I'd better explain... Yes, I am the one they call 'Iron Hans'."
Luvenia finally knew what to do.
She sat back on her heels and laughed hysterically.