Elevation of the Marked (The Marked Series Book 2) by March McCarron Page A

meaning of that conversation, about my being your fifth, or some such thing?”  
    She scrubbed at the roasting pan, seeming reluctant to look at him. “It ain’t your concern.”
    “It seems as though it is.”
    She sighed. “Help me with this, and I’ll tell you.”  
    Arlow had never washed a dish in his life, but it would seem somehow ungentlemanly to refuse. He moved to her side and she handed him a towel. “You dry, I’ll wash.”
    They worked in silence for a time. Arlow was about to press for information again when she at last spoke, “It’s policy, you see, that if you’ve served ten years, you can leave the band. You’ve gotta train up five replacements, and then you get a sum of money. For starting a business, usually.”
    “And you’ve taken a sudden interest in entrepreneurship?”
    She handed him a plate, and he carefully wiped it dry and returned it to its cabinet.  
    “It’d be nice, I think—havin’ a little shop, living above. Sleeping in the same bed each night, pickin’ out curtains. That kind of thing.” She appeared, for the first time, self-conscious. “My brother ain’t too keen on me leaving, though.”  
    Arlow noticed the tension in her shoulders and determined to steer the conversation in a pleasanter direction. “What sort of shop?”
    She smiled down at the suds beneath her hands. “Ain’t decided yet. I’m lookin’ out for it though.” She gave him a self-deprecating smirk. “Not a restaurant, clearly.”
    “Ah,” Arlow said, returning the last of the silverware to its drawer. “What kind of curtains, then?”  
    She laughed, and her laughter made him smile—it was totally unrestrained, cheerful but not terribly pretty. “Not sure. I’m lookin’ out for them too.”

6

    Yarrow’s calves ached; his breath exploded in clouds. A recent rain had reduced the path beneath him to mud. The soles of his boots adhered to the ground with each stride, then pulled free with a soft squelch.  
    A sheep bleated somewhere to his left, but the thick mist that hugged the ground concealed the beast from view. He glanced over his shoulder, back the way he and his companions had come. Somewhere below lay the small shoreside town of Cagsglow, a collection of tiny whitewashed buildings nestled between three hills. It, too, however, was obscured in fog.  
    “She said the house would be just at the top of the crag, here,” Bray said, panting slightly. She hastened her pace, but Yarrow held back. The princess appeared to be having silent difficulty managing the trail in her slippers.
    “How’d you ever come to think of this place, anyway?” Ko-Jin asked.  
    “Peer, Adearre, and I stayed in the village once, ages ago. We decided it was about the most Spiritsforsaken spot in all of Daland.” She shrugged. “Little chance of being found all the way out here.”  
    They finally trudged high enough up the slope to leave the fog behind. Before them, a tumbledown, thatch-roofed cottage perched near the cliff’s edge, overlooking a vast gray sea.  
    Ko-Jin snorted at the sight. “Country house, our landlady called it. A generous descriptor.”
    “We shall have to find a different place,” the princess said, staring at the sorry little cottage with wide eyes. “Shan’t we?”  
    Bray shook her head. “It’ll keep the rain off our backs just fine. Besides, it was cheap.”  
    “I should hope it was,” the king said. Bray wheeled a bland expression in his direction. “I mean, it looks charming. Really…ah, quaint.”  
    “No one would believe the king of Trinitas in residence, that’s for certain,” Yarrow said.
    Bray shot him a grateful look, until Ko-Jin laughed. “Good point, Yar. I’d not believe a drifter’d live there.”
    Bray rolled her eyes and set off again. “Blighted fussy lot of outlaws, you are,” she grumbled.  
    She turned the key and the door opened with a rusty groan. A damp, mildewy smell permeated the place. Within, shafts of morning