He remembers the feeling of his body betraying him, the feeling of his limbs fighting against his will. There’s none of that here. This is the opportunity the nisse has been looking for.
“We could both get in a lot of trouble,” he says with a nervous glance down the stairs.
“We could,” Oak says in his regular voice.
The nisse nods slowly, pushing off from the wall. “Tell me what you will have me do.”
“First, I need something other than this to wear.”
The nisse raises his eyebrows.
“Yes, yes, you find me to be vain,” says Oak. “But I’m afraid I still need to discover wherever it is that they keep Lord Jarel’s old clothes.”
The nisse flinches. “You’d wear them?”
Probably the dressing gown Oak has on once belonged to Lord Jarel, as well as what Oak was given to put on for dinner. There hadn’t been time to commission whole new outfits, nor had they fit right. And if they had been fetched for him, then he could fetch something else for himself. “Let’s just take a look. What ought I call you?”
“Daggry, Your Highness.”
“Lead on, Daggry,” Oak says.
It’s easier to move through the Citadel with a servant able to scout ahead and report which ways are clear. They make it to a storeroom, slipping inside before they are spotted.
“This is very near my bedchamber,” says Daggry. “Should you wish to visit me there tonight.”
Oak makes his mouth curve, though guilt chokes him. “I don’t think either one of us will have much time for sleeping.”
Oak thinks of his mother’s warning: Say those things, and they will not only want to listen to you. They will come to want you above all other things.
“No,” Daggry says. “I was not proposing sleep.”
The narrow room is piled with trunks, stacked haphazardly one on the next. And packed in them, the prince finds clothes spread with dried lavender and picked over for gold and pearl ornaments. Strings hang loose from the places where buttons and trims were cut away. He wonders if Lady Nore sold the missing pieces before she discovered the value of the bones she stole from the tombs underneath Elfhame. Before Bogdana began whispering in her ear, urging her on the path that would bring Wren back to the storm hag.
He finds paper and ink, books and pen nibs attached to owl feathers. At the very bottom of the trunk, Oak digs up a few scattered weapons. Cheap, flat ones, a few pitted or scratched where gems were obviously removed from hilts. He lifts up a small dagger, keeping it mostly hidden in the palm of his hand.
“I am going to write a note,” he says.
Daggry watches him with unnerving eagerness.
Taking out the paper, pens, and ink, Oak braces against one of the chests and scratches out two messages. The owl feather pen stains his fingers and makes him wish for a Sharpie. “Take the first of these to Hyacinthe,” Oak says. “And the second one to the army that waits beyond the wall.”
“The High Court’s army?” the nisse says with a squeak in his voice.
Oak nods. “Go to the stables of the Citadel. There you will find my horse. Her name is Damsel Fly. Take her, and ride as fast as you are able. Once you come to the army, tell them you have a message from Prince Oak. Do not let them send you back with a message. Tell them it wouldn’t be safe for you.”
Daggry frowns, as though thinking things through. “And you will be grateful?’
“Very,” Oak agrees.
“Enough to—” the nisse begins to say as he tucks away the notes.
“As a member of the royal family, I deem the time you have served a fair recompense for what you were given, and I dismiss you from service at the Citadel,” Oak tells the nisse, frightened of the low burr in his own voice, like the purr of a cat. Frightened of the way the nisse gives him a look so full of gratitude and longing that it feels like a lash.
“I will do just as you’ve asked,” says the nisse as he leaves, closing the door behind him.
For a moment, Oak just rubs at his face, not sure if he should be ashamed of what he’s done, and if so, how ashamed. Forcibly, he thrusts that confusion of guilt aside. He has made his choices. Now he must live with them and hope they were the right ones.
The army of Elfhame is in danger because of him. Planning to hurt Wren because of him. Perhaps about to die because of him.
He strips off the dressing gown, pulling out a more regal outfit, grateful for Lord Jarel’s height. The clothes are still a little short on him, a little tight across the chest.