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

sunlight shone dimly through filthy windowpanes, illuminating an assortment of moth-eaten furniture. The wooden planks that made up the floor bowed discernably in the middle, a warping that made Yarrow question the integrity of the roof.  
    He slung the pack from his back onto the couch—a collection of disguises he’d acquired earlier that morning from a pawn shop, along with some meager provisions.  
    The king grazed a finger along the kitchen table, placing a stripe in the thick layer of dust. “It appears we are the first renters in some time.”  
    “Just needs a bit of airing, is all,” Bray said.
    The princess spun in a slow circle, her eyes squinted as if trying to envision the place more livable. “And perhaps some cheerful throw pillows.”
    Ko-Jin, clearly fighting down a laugh, bobbed his head at this suggestion. “Yes, quite right, pillows ought to do the trick.”  
    Bray frowned at him, and his eyes glittered back at her unrepentantly. Yarrow, ever the peace-maker, cleared his throat. “Shall we get to it, then?”
    Bray smirked. “As Ko-Jin and our new friends have such exacting standards, perhaps they should get to work on our hideout. I want to check the surrounding area, get a feel for the terrain. Yarrow, you’ll join me?”  
    She hooked her arm around his and steered him towards the door. He peeked back at Ko-Jin’s none-too-pleased expression, but could only shrug.  
    “Do get us some food, won’t you?” Bray called over her shoulder as the two of them jogged down the step and back out into the brisk day.  
    Yarrow tilted his face up to the sky. The sun had turned a chilly early morning into a tolerably warm afternoon. The sea glimmered with sunlight, stretched out beneath a cloudless sky. He had heard that, on a particularly clear day, one could see Adourra across the channel from the south of Daland. Either this was untrue or the day was insufficiently clear—he saw nothing but ocean.  
    They marched in companionable silence along the crag. To the north, hills of almost unfathomable greenness rolled towards the horizon.  
    “Let’s walk down to the beach,” Bray said.  
    They loped down the decline from crag to shore, as it was too steep to take at a walk. The sun gleamed off the white sand so brightly Yarrow had to shield his eyes.  
    “Wait a second,” he said, and bent down to remove his boots. She sat down and emulated him, and then they set off again, leaving a trail of footprints in their wake.  
    The sea breeze tousled Bray’s hair, the brightness of the day turning each strand a brilliant copper. She chewed on her bottom lip, face pulled towards the coast. “I want to go back to Accord. Tomorrow, if we can.”
    “For Peer?”
    She took a firmer grip on his arm. “Yes. Do you think Arlow was telling the truth? You know him better than I.”
    Yarrow glowered down at his toes. “I can hardly be said to know him—I didn’t see any of this coming. I’m inclined to think he was being honest.” He sighed. “But that might be my own foolish loyalty talking.”
    “It isn’t foolish to be loyal, Yarrow.”
    He grunted. “That would depend on the object of one’s loyalty, I’d think.”  
    They strolled around a curve in the coastline and before them, half buried in sand, the remains of a foundered ship poked from the beach like a great tombstone, bowsprit pointing futilely to the sky. They paused and stared.
    “Looks old,” Bray said.
    Yarrow studied the old-fashioned, rounded shape of the keel. “Seventy years at the least. A wine runner, likely.”  
    Bray tugged on his hand. “Let’s go check it out.”
    He grinned and sped his steps, glad for a diversion. The hull stuck at a sharp angle up from the sand, the mast broken and lying like a narrow, splintered bridge from ground to quarter deck.  
    Yarrow climbed up at the head and held out a hand to haul Bray up beside him. “Must have been quite a storm,” he said, looking at the long stretch of