It was the second night Philippa had dared to sneak out. Her body still ached from the strain of pretending to be asleep during the day, barely breathing, eyes half-lidded in perfect mimicry of unconsciousness. Emma had protested, of course, whispering her concern as she helped her mistress don the dark cloak and tightly laced boots. But Philippa had silenced her with a single look—a look that told the maidservant this wasn't about daring anymore. This was survival.
The castle halls were quieter tonight, though the wet stone made every step treacherous. Rain from earlier still clung to the eaves and pooled in dips along the winding paths. Her cloak was soon heavy with dew, and the hood stuck to her brow. But Philippa pressed forward, weaving through the outer gates and into the hushed alleys of the lower city. She knew the way now. The first meeting had been all nerves and shadowed glances. Tonight, she was focused.
