Cloaked

by Taylor Hobbs

  And she still had the cloak. The duke would probably love to get his hands on the one piece of evidence that proves the Cloaked Shadow really exists, she thought. It was safely stashed inside her mattress, carefully folded within the hay. Every night, she was tempted to sleep within the warm embrace of the fabric, but she didn’t dare bring the cloak out from its hiding place. Plus, it didn’t feel like it was hers to do with as she pleased. It was simply a loan, and Charlotte had an ever-increasing feeling that it needed to be returned to its rightful owner soon.

  Charlotte returned to the kitchen, flapping poultry in hand.

  “You will fulfill your regular duties here this afternoon,” the cook told her as she took the chickens. “Some of the council has already departed, and we have enough wait staff to attend to the rest. Hurry up, get back to the floors.”

  Overcome with relief, Charlotte finished her routine. She had been petrified of seeing the duke again and had almost considered hiding from the head cook until the end of the day. However, Charlotte couldn’t risk displeasing her employer when she was so close to receiving her monthly wages. Her mother’s medicine was running low, and it was the only thing that kept her calm during the day while Charlotte and Henry were gone.

  Once dismissed, Charlotte bolted from the castle. The sun began to set, casting a warm orange glow across the village down below that didn’t match the brisk temperature. Hugging her threadbare shawl across her shoulders, the young woman made her way through the familiar muddy paths. She was almost home when she halted in the middle of the street. A tingle at the back of her neck warned her she was being watched.

  As discreetly as possible, Charlotte inclined her head left, and then right. There was nothing out of the ordinary she could see in her peripheries, so she picked up her pace. Seizing an opening, she darted into a narrow alleyway and through to the other side. She tried to make herself invisible, blending into a crowd of vendors hawking the remainder of their wares.

  I can’t go home yet, she reasoned. I can’t lead whoever this is to Mother. But it seemed that no matter which way she went, she could feel eyes on her. Whoever it was, they were relentless in their pursuit, and Charlotte’s thoughts turned erratic. The duke. It’s because of the duke. He figured it out, and he knows what I did. He’s coming for me.

  As she circled the streets and alleys around her home, Charlotte felt her stalker disappear as suddenly as he had appeared. Eyes no longer tracked her every move, but to be safe, she crouched behind a shop stall, waiting for her heartbeat to slow to a regular rhythm. Only then did Charlotte felt secure enough to venture inside her home.

  There, wrapped up in a blanket by an unlit hearth, sat her mother. The sight made Charlotte’s gut clench. She reached out gently to touch a wrinkled cheek. “I’m sorry I was delayed, Mother. I’ll make us some supper and get the fire started right away.”

  “Marguerite! Papa told us hours ago to bring in the cows. What have you done with the cows, dear sister?”

  Charlotte sighed, committing herself to her mother’s delusion. “That’s where I was. I was out with the cows. Just as Papa asked.”

  Content with the answer, Charlotte’s mother started quietly humming while her daughter prepared their scant food. In her mother’s bowl, Charlotte sprinkled the dried herbs that would lull her into a peaceful sleep by the end of the meal. She hated constantly sedating her mother, but with Henry gone, she couldn’t risk her mother wandering outside in the middle of the night. Before Henry left, they could take turns watching over her, but it was all up to Charlotte now.

  She did it without complaint, though her mother’s condition was so severe by this point she hardly recognized her own daughter. Some days, though, Charlotte thought that the confusion was a blessing in disguise. It allowed her mother to live in a simpler time, before the many tragic events that defined her past. If believing she was an eight-year-old gave her reprieve from the memory of her husband dying in the Great War, along with the nights of near starvation while she relentlessly scavenged for food to feed two tiny mouths, her daughter could only be grateful.

  However, Charlotte still braced herself for the rare occasions when her mother would break through the fog. Those instances had recently been fewer and further between, and Charlotte had yet to tell her mother about Henry. But what good was telling the truth and putting her mother through the pain when she would just forget all about it hours later?

  While she cooked, Charlotte’s thoughts wandered to the whereabouts of her brother, just as they had during every other spare moment for the last week. She hoped that he had found refuge somewhere far away, and maybe even made it out of Algonia altogether. She knew the odds were against him, and that it was more than likely he had already become a victim of highway robbery or a savage animal. Her little brother was all alone, outside of the village for the first time in his life, and did not possess the skills of a mastermind spy, as much as Duke Belaq wanted to believe. Had Charlotte only helped Henry exchange one death for another? She doubted she would ever find out. But at least without knowing the truth of what happened, she could hold onto hope and imagine him healthy and well.

  She wanted to crawl into her mother’s arms, and feel the soothing embrace take away all of the fears that swirled in her brain since the day Henry had been arrested. It would be a relief to unburden herself for just a few moments, to allow herself a second of rest. Glancing at her mother with quiet envy, she wished she was eight years old again.

  Against the dying daylight, Charlotte finished preparing their meal and stoked the fire to a roaring heat. The warmth and the meal overpowered her preoccupations, and the young woman closed her eyes for a moment.

  ****

  She awoke with a start in the pitch darkness. Frantically, she groped around until her hands found the sleeping body of her mother. Relieved that the herbs had worked and her mother was safely resting, it took Charlotte a moment to wonder why she had woken up in such a fright.

  It was that feeling again, the feeling of being watched. Even through the night’s thick blackness, there was no mistaking the tingle.

  Hardly daring to breathe, Charlotte crawled over to the hearth and tried to silently grab the iron poker. Just as her fingers found the cold metal, a hand closed around her wrist. Shock at the touch expelled all the air from her lungs, and before Charlotte could draw another breath to scream, another hand closed over her mouth.

  “I would not do that if I were you.”

  Charlotte let out a whimper, muffled by her captor’s grip. Though still disoriented from sleep, she could never forget that voice.

  “I believe you have something of mine.”

  Chapter Three

  The Cloaked Shadow loosened his hold on Charlotte. Was she dreaming? How could he actually be here, in her house? But she swallowed back her questions and said, “Let me light the candle. I’ll get your cloak.”

  As she stood up, the lump of wax was pressed into her hand, as he already anticipated her needs. Truthfully, she could find the cloak in the dark through touch alone, but the opportunity to try and catch another glimpse of the Cloaked Shadow was too tempting to ignore.

  A spark followed a sharp tap, and she held out the candle with both hands, like an innocent child asking for more food. The flint in her visitor’s hands hit the mark the second time, and Charlotte was momentarily blinded by the sudden light as the spark caught the wick.

  So much for trying to sneak a peek, she thought. Blinking helplessly, she turned around to the direction of her bed. She placed the candle on the dirt floor beside her and reached into the hay.

  The entire time she searched for it, Charlotte felt the Cloaked Shadow’s eyes on her back, but she didn’t dare turn around and try to look at him. Her curiosity grew so sharp it was almost painful, but for some odd reason, boldly turning around to confront him in the light would feel like a betrayal. He had already entrusted his infamous cloak with her for over a week, and had also trusted her not to raise the alarm when h
e broke into her house.

  Charlotte decided that if she saw him by accident, however, it would be a different situation. Or if he chose to reveal himself to her, but she wasn’t counting on that. After he helped save her brother, the least she could do was to respect his privacy.

  Charlotte pulled out half of her mattress stuffing before her hands closed over soft fabric. She stood up, shaking out the hay-covered cloak. “Sorry about this,” she whispered, brushing off the fabric as best she could. The breeze she created knocked out the candle, and they were plunged back into darkness. She turned to him, blind again, with the cloak laying over her outstretched arms.

  The weight of the fabric disappeared in an instant, seeming to jump from her arms to its rightful owner effortlessly. She felt a pang of sadness instead of relief as the last piece of evidence tying her to Henry’s escape left her possession; the single object linking her to the Cloaked Shadow. The cloak had been solid proof that he wasn’t just a spirit or a memory, but an actual living, breathing man.

  Charlotte expected the stranger to vanish from her life yet again with hardly a word, so she nearly fell over when she heard him speak. “You kept it safe. Thank you.”

  Shocked, she blurted out, “Why wouldn’t I?”

  She felt rather than saw him hesitate. “You were very brave to keep this,” he finally said. “This cloak has…significance to me. I will not forget it.”

  While she gaped at his statement, Charlotte heard the front door open and the night air whisked her stranger away. They had almost had an actual conversation. He’d thanked her, even. Lending the cloak to Charlotte had been much more important than a simple act of chivalry.

  Without bothering to stuff the hay back into her mattress, Charlotte lay down, her head spinning. It’s over now, she told herself. That was the last I’ll see of him. Sleep evaded her as she tossed and turned, imagining all the different faces he could wear underneath the cloak. Nothing her mind could come up with seemed to match his voice. It was just before sunrise before she drifted off, finally accepting that it was a mystery she would never solve.

  ****

  Pounding at the door woke Charlotte from her brief slumber. She tried to sit up, but her muscles felt limp and her eyes refused to open more than halfway. Rubbing her face, she looked over by the hearth to see her mother, still wrapped up in blankets. Relief whooshed through her when she realized that this early morning house call had nothing to do with an elderly woman wandering around the village.

  This feeling was short lived, however, and quickly turned to gut-clenching fear when she heard, “Open up, in the name of Duke Belaq.”

  All traces of fatigue disappeared and Charlotte shot out of bed, throwing a blanket over herself for modesty before remembering that she was still dressed in her clothes from the day before. There was no point in pretending she wasn’t home, but maybe it was just a mistake, and the guards were breaking down the wrong house.

  “What is that awful noise!” her mother yelled. “Don’t you know there's babies sleeping in here?”

  The young woman cracked open the door, only to find herself nose-to-nose with a man in full armor. “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “Charlotte Tanner?”

  It wasn’t the wrong house after all. “Yes?”

  “And Isobel Tanner?”

  They were asking about her mother? Charlotte’s pulse quickened, and she looked past the first guard to see five others standing behind him.

  “I’m one of Duke Belaq’s kitchen maids, up at the castle,” she said, trying to stall. “Whatever the problem is, I’m sure it can be sorted out when I tend to my duties this morning.”

  “We’re here to escort you to the castle. And you won’t be going to the kitchens,” he said, completely emotionless.

  “What’s this about?” her mother’s voice asked from behind Charlotte.

  “Go back inside, Mother. Nothing to worry about.”

  “She is to come, too,” the guard said.

  “Wait. No. Please. She’s frail and confused. You can’t drag her out of here.” Charlotte’s voice rose, panicked at the thought of her mother struggling up the path to the castle, surrounded by unnecessary guards. “What is this about, really?” she asked.

  A hand came out of nowhere and backhanded her across the face. “Let’s go,” he said. Two other guards pushed the door open all the way and grabbed Charlotte’s arms to tow her out into the street.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked, trying to sound indignant, but her shrill tone exposed her fear. Charlotte’s breath exhaled rapidly in puffy clouds over their heads. The orange sun peeked over the horizon, casting long shadows behind them as it illuminated the hard, unsympathetic faces of her captors. She saw curious eyes peeking out through windows in the surrounding houses. Neighbors she had known her whole life remained silent as they witnessed the ruckus in the street.

  “Help me,” she begged them. “Don’t let them take my mother.” She knew she didn’t stand a chance taking on the guards by herself, but she still thrashed against their hold as she watched another pair of armored thugs drag her mother outside.

  “Marguerite?” Charlotte’s mother asked her, bewildered. Her expression held the purity of a child’s, out of place within the wrinkles of her face. She turned to her daughter as if Charlotte was able to provide an answer for her unreasonable predicament.

  Rage at the indignity boiled up inside Charlotte. Duke Belaq had already taken her brother from her, and now another innocent member of her family was being dragged through the village for no other reason than to instill fear in the rest of the people. But it is your fault your mother is here, an internal voice whispered to Charlotte. You were the one who helped your brother escape. You caught the duke’s attention yesterday.

  The captain stepped in front of the restrained pair and gave them a satisfied smile. To the four other guards, he said, “Now, proceed.”

  Charlotte bucked harder against the immovable walls of armor. Her mother watched the display with narrowed eyebrows, her meek confusion about to erupt into a full-blown episode. She began to copy her daughter’s violence and added in some blood-curdling shrieks for good measure.

  The captain whipped around and strode toward the old woman. He laid a slap on her as he had done with Charlotte, and said, “Silence.”

  Only instead of another display of defiance, the old woman’s body sagged, held up entirely by the two men on either side of her. Her head hung limply, shocks of wild white hair hiding her face. A red stain began to blossom from her temple, its sharp color contrast visible. Time slowed as Charlotte watched the captain grab her mother’s bloody hair and yank her head up.

  “Bugger,” he muttered. “Duke will have my head for this.”

  “What do you want us to do with her?” the tallest guard asked.

  “Just dump her here. She’s of no use now.”

  That was when Charlotte saw the truth behind her mother’s completely blank stare, eyes still open in surprise from the blow to her head. Her jaw hung slack, the sticky blood from her wound ran from her temple down into her mouth. There was no look of peace on Mother’s face, no dignity in death after suffering for years from her illness.

  A roaring filled Charlotte’s ears as she fought to remain conscious. Her eyes locked on her mother’s body, unable to tear her gaze away from the horrific sight but wanting to hide from it at the same time. It had happened so fast—one second she was there, and the next she was gone. It didn’t seem possible. Watching her once-brilliant mother descend into madness had been a slow agony, but it was nothing compared to the searing pain in Charlotte’s soul at such an instantaneous and unexpected demise.

  Was it inevitable that a member of Charlotte’s family had to die by the duke’s hand no matter what? In playing with the fates and rescuing Henry, had Charlotte directly set up the events that led to her innocent mother’s death? In that moment, Charlotte had never felt so utterly alone and helpless in the world. With her mother
and brother gone, she saw no reason to keep struggling anymore in the face of a futile situation. Charlotte’s legs gave out. “No,” she moaned.

  The captain didn’t spare her a glance, and instead pointed to the alley where his guards could leave Isobel’s body. “Drag her over there,” he ordered. The pair hauled the old woman behind a building while Charlotte still watched, unable to accept that this was the last memory she would ever have of her mother.

  “Now, are you going to behave, or are you going to end up like the old bat?” The captain sneered, stepping into Charlotte’s line of sight.

  She didn’t say anything. She didn’t look at him. Tears pooled in her eyes, but Charlotte wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of showing him just how deeply he had destroyed her.

  “I believe that’s a yes,” he said, chuckling. “Martin, Thomas!” he yelled. The captain looked over his shoulder for the guards who hadn’t reappeared from behind the building. There was no answer. “Go see what’s taking them so long,” he ordered the guards responsible for Charlotte.

  “With her?” one of them asked.

  “What, does she weigh too much for you to handle?”

  “No sir.”

  Charlotte’s feet skimmed across the mud as they dragged her over to her mother’s final resting spot. None of the early morning sun slipped into the narrow alley, but Charlotte couldn’t feel the damp chill of the air anyway. She was numb, her thoughts refusing to become more than fleeting emotions in order to protect herself from further trauma. She wouldn’t fight her captors anymore.

  Charlotte wasn’t even aware that her eyes had adjusted to the dim light until she saw the prone bodies of Martin and Thomas beside her mother. “What—” the guard on her left started to say, as he loosened his grip on her arm.

  Like a bird of prey, a black figure dropped down on top of him. In a swirl of dark material, the guard joined his fellow men in the mud. The guard on the right let go of Charlotte completely and reached for his dagger. As he strode forward to intercept the attacker, Charlotte broke through her fog, and without thinking, shot her foot out to trip him.