Myra, the maid, walked a step behind Ashlyn. She carried a heavy leather traveling bag, her knuckles white from gripping the handle too tight. She was nervous. Her eyes darted back and forth, expecting a guard to jump out at any moment.
Ashlyn walked with purpose. She wore her dark traveling cloak, the hood pulled up to shadow her face. She looked like a devoted daughter rushing to her sick mother's bedside. But her eyes were sharp, scanning the hallway ahead.
She reached the corner that led to the main staircase. She stopped abruptly.
She pressed herself flat against the cold stone wall. She reached back and grabbed Myra's arm, pulling the maid into the shadows beside her.
"Shh," Ashlyn hissed, putting a finger to her lips.
She peeked around the corner.
There, down the long hallway, was a figure.
It was Marissa.
