[A pitiful excuse of a human being, that’s for sure.]

The thief scampered through the passageway, his feet scrabbling for purchase on wet stone. Despite the silence, his ears rang with the servant’s words, “a trick, a lie, in the catacombs you’ll surely die.” It couldn’t be true. The servant had been insane, but surely… Surely she wouldn’t?

[He’d been robbed of his morals long ago.]

He reached the trapdoor, fumbling with its latch. His fingers ached with cold and something else, but he managed the lock anyway. It snicked open, and he pushed the door upward. Cold light flooded the passageway. He pulled himself into the room above.

[But she saw something in him.]

Her room was empty. The balcony doors were left open, its curtains a flurry of white silk in the wind. Spines of lightning cracked outside, illuminating the bed, the desk, and an odd assortment of mirrors. Muttering to himself, he padded silently to her desk.

[Maybe it was his cleverness.]

He took the folded up parchment there, and stuffed it down his shirtfront. In his haste, he spilled a jar of ink, staining his upper sleeve a deep wine-red.

[He was hardly kind.]

Ink bled into the carpet. A door to the hall opened, a pair of soft slippers making their way to the bedchamber. Another set of shoes followed, the sharp staccato of heels making him panic. He crossed the room swiftly, disappearing through one of the mirrors.

[He wasn’t handsome.]

He knew the way, even in the dark.

[But it didn’t matter. She loved him.]

The thief descended the stairs, feeling for the shelf she had promised. He found the candle and lit it, moving with caution.

[She told him to meet her in the catacombs, and there they would run away together.]

He could hear the trickling of water and knew that he was well into the catacombs by now. All he needed to do was find the river.

[But thief as he was, he trusted the servant.]

He reached the boat, hesitant of the slim figure he saw waiting there.

She stood, her skirts muddied from the tunnels. “Speak your name.”

He bowed his head respectfully. She meant to kill him, he was sure. “I am Quill.” He took her hands, searching her eyes for guilt. “You know me.”

She shivered, folding her arms across her chest. “Am I never to be satisfied with your real name, then?”

The thief simply shrugged. “If you wish to name me, Lady Queen…”

“Quill, then. I am a monarch, not a mother. I will not name you.”

A grim smiled crossed Quill’s face, fleeting and unseen in the dark. He pinched his candle flame between two fingers, engulfing them in blackness. “A monarch no more, Lady Queen.”

[You have to understand--]

The Queen’s body hung limply in the back of the small boat. In the moonlight, one could have mistaken her for being asleep. Her expression was serene, despite the stain in the back of her dress. That spot could not be mistaken for ink. Quill knew her maids would be hung for their carelessness, for letting the young Queen escape so easily.

He unbuttoned the top of his shirt, reached in, and drew out the parchment he had hid. It was smudged with spilled ink, but still legible. He decoded the marks aloud, his lilting voice soft, as if the Queen were listening. “By the time you decipher this, you will have killed me…”

[She loved him.]

Shoulders shaking, he put down the paper. He wiped his cheek, surprised to find it wet, and not from the rain. “I am a fool.” Still crying, he placed his hand over the Queen’s. They were cold, he realized with a shudder. But that was to be expected in a dead lover. One last look at her face, so serene…

[She should have told him in person.]

The thief gazed at the rushing water around him.

[But she’d been afraid to tell him many things.]

The boat rocked, its limp passenger suddenly alone.

[Including her secret.]

The water stilled. Gasping, the Queen sat up. “Quill?” Her voice was barely a whisper. “Quill!”