The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort
Chapter 613 613: Helping The Wolf (1)

The sky hadn't yet turned gold, but a cool breath of morning already brushed the walled gardens, dotting every blade and bloom with trembling dew. It was that brief hush before sunrise when birds considered singing but had not yet found their voices and the palace guards were changing shifts with bleary eyes. In that hush, three figures moved like mismatched shadows between the hedges.

Cerys padded first, boots gliding over the damp gravel without a scrape. The loose tail of her red hair swung in a controlled arc at every corner she took, each motion measured, soldier-sharp. Her shoulders still ached from the night's brawl, yet she kept her spine straight, gaze scanning left and right for patrol silhouettes.

Just behind, Mikhailis drifted rather than walked, coat unbuttoned and collar turned up as if he were out for an aimless dawn stroll instead of fleeing arrest. Dew soaked the hem of his trousers; he didn't complain, only tugged a folded paper fan from an inner pocket and used it to flick moisture from the silver fittings of his belt. If Elowen sees this outfit she'll insist I change before the next daring escape, he mused, lips quirking at the thought.

Lucien trailed a pace behind them both, elbows hugging his bruised ribs. He yawned a second time, then caught himself and clapped a hand over his mouth—half embarrassment, half pain from the sudden breath. "I'm just saying," he grumbled into his palm as they ducked beneath a climbing rose arch, "If we were going to commit treason, could we not have done it after breakfast?"

A petal shook loose from the archway and drifted lazily past Cerys's cheek. "We'll stop for pastries once we're not being hunted by half the capital," she muttered, though the edge of her voice softened at the mention of food. Her own stomach gave a traitorous rumble; she ignored it.

They followed a narrow line of flat stepping-stones half-hidden beneath thick thyme and chamomile. At each footfall, crushed herbs released faint fragrance—earthy, sleepy, almost comforting. Mikhailis inhaled, savoring the scented air. Next time I need inspiration for a new tonic, I'll just run laps through the herb beds.

But the serenity was fragile. From somewhere beyond the ivy-draped wall came the distant clink of armored greaves and murmured voices—guards finishing a routine patrol. Cerys raised a gloved fist; they froze. She counted heartbeats, then motioned forward again once the clatter grew faint. Lucien exhaled a shaky laugh. "I thought my heart was about to punch through my vest."

"Focus on your footing," Cerys said quietly, yet she spared him a quick glance—a sister's check that he could keep going. His answering nod was small but determined.

Morning's gray-blue gloom softened statues and fountains into ghostly shapes. At one bend, a marble hippocampus reared above a reflecting pool, mane solid with frost. Mikhailis flashed it a half-salute. "Morning, old boy," he whispered, then hopped over a narrow runnel of water that fed the pool. Lucien nearly stumbled after him; Mikhailis steadied the younger man with a hand under his elbow.

"Thanks," Lucien murmured, cheeks warming at the assist.

"Any time. I save damsels and brothers equally," Mikhailis teased, eyes sparkling even in the dim light.

They reached a low hedge wall and crouched. Beyond lay a wider lawn broken only by a mossy path that curved toward the gardeners' coach stand near the eastern outer wall. On the far side of the grass, two stable boys carried sacks of fertilizer, joking loudly about which of them would end up smelling worse. Neither noticed the trio slipping from bush to bush.

Halfway across, Lucien's stomach growled, startling a robin from a berry bush. He winced. "That was not helpful."

Mikhailis suppressed a snort. "If the guards catch us, we'll blame the ferocious stomach beast of Arundel."

Cerys rolled her eyes and pushed onward.

At last the hedge broke, revealing a tucked-away clearing. A rough wooden awning sheltered stacks of empty crates labeled SPRING TULIP BULBS—HANDLE WITH CARE. Beside them should have stood a dark green coach with leaf-shaped side lanterns—their discreet escape carriage.

Instead, dew-rimmed horses waited alone, shifting anxiously. Loose reins trailed in the mud; broken leather straps dangled where harness buckles had been sliced clean. One mare shied at their approach, snorting clouds into the chill air.

Lucien squinted, rubbing his eyes as if lack of sleep made him see wrong. "That's odd…"

Cerys's heartbeat thudded; she stepped forward, hand brushing the horse's trembling shoulder to calm it. No blood, no struggle marks, only swift, precise cuts on the tack. Whoever removed the coach had known exactly what they were doing.

The visor crystal at her ear warmed.

<Alert. Coach status: reassigned by Royal Guard. Unauthorized requisition at third bell. No driver signature logged.>

The formal tone slithered between them like cold water. Mikhailis exhaled sharply, fan snapping closed. "Damn it. That's our ride."

Cerys knelt, fingers tracing the slice in a leather lead. "Clean cut," she muttered. "And look—prints in the moss. Three, maybe four sets of boots, all uniform spacing. Soldiers."

Lucien glanced back the way they'd come, imagination filling the shadows with cavalry. "Could they have traced us already?"

"Unlikely," Mikhailis said, but his brow furrowed. He crouched near a wheel rut, touched two fingertips to the damp earth, then sniffed them. Bitterness—lantern oil. "Whoever it was, they moved fast. Didn't bother wiping the drag marks, probably because they think no one else will use this path before sunrise."

He straightened, tucking hair behind one ear. If they can seize the coach this early, they intercepted my courier bribe. Lovely.

Lucien hugged his borrowed cloak tighter. "Calderon's reach?"

"Or Halvenna's," Mikhailis muttered, jaw tightening. "Either way, someone's buying loyalty faster than I can."

Cerys rose to her full height, crisp dawn breeze tugging a coil of red hair across her cheek. She scanned the garden wall—a living sculpture of ivy and pale blossoms. Every leaf seemed suddenly suspect. "Options?"

He pressed two fingers to his temple, thinking through every clandestine route he'd memorized—every indebted smuggler, every tunnel half-collapsed under the old wall. One by one he mentally crossed off the ones most likely compromised. Coach route—dead. Northern orchard gate—closed since last month's arboreal inspection. Main bridge—patrolled. That leaves the river.

Cerys watched his face, seeing gears turn behind his eyes. She trusted his improvisation more than most generals' strategies, but time pressed like a blade to their backs.

Finally he spoke. "Smugglers. East dock. It's messier, but they owe me a favor…" He exhaled. "Unless someone outbid me."

His words hung in the cool air, condensation puffing around them like smoke signals of new uncertainty.

The moon sat low and swollen, spilling its milky glow across the back wall of the royal herbarium. Shadows of lavender stalks stretched over damp cobbles like fingers too tired to hold on. Cerys led the way through those pale silhouettes, boots kissing the stones without a sound. Her red ponytail, dark from sweat and river mist, flicked once at her shoulder then stilled; even her hair seemed to understand the need for silence.

Lucien followed two steps behind. Each breath scraped his throat raw, but he kept his complaints to pressed-together lips. He walked with one hand braced against the warm brick, steadying himself every few meters. When he stumbled over a jutting root, he bit back a curse and blinked fast until the dancing white flecks left his vision.

Mikhailis brought up the rear, half-turned so he could keep eyes both forward and back. His coat tails flapped softly whenever he pivoted. Every dozen paces he flicked two fingers, and a translucent interface bloomed before him—Rodion's presence condensed into neat columns of scrolling data.

If I'd known tonight's agenda was "midnight parkour in full court clothes," he mused, I'd have chosen trousers that don't cost more than my horse. A faint grin tugged at the corner of his mouth even as tension braided his shoulders.

The herbarium's last service gate squeaked when Cerys lifted the latch. She winced, waited. No shout, no alarm. Only the steady hum of sleeping city life: a dog barking somewhere up on Scholar's Rise, the soft clack of a night-soil cart rumbling along a distant avenue. She eased the iron open just wide enough for Lucien to slip through.

Outside the garden wall, warehouse roofs leaned together. Their slate tiles looked like rows of uneven teeth snapping at the night sky. This quarter—once proud glasshouses showcasing exotic flowers—now rested half-abandoned after the war tariffs made imports too costly. Moonlight pooled in broken puddles on the alley flagstones, reflecting warped façades of stained glass windows long since cracked.

Lucien tried for humor while he gathered his breath. "I never toured this district. Smells like spoiled basil left in a boot."

"Close," Mikhailis whispered back, guiding him around a sagging cart laden with empty burlap sacks. "That's rotting myrrh blossoms. The perfume guild dumped them when fashions changed."

Lucien's brows hitched. "Useful trivia. I'll add it to my memoirs."