Page 23 of Princess of Thieves

I settle into my seat, taking in the scene, and ignoring the few pointed stares I’m getting, the whispers from pastel-clad matrons. They obviously know I’m John Lackland’s “niece,” and know why he’s not here. Truly, it’s a red letter day for local gossip.

I just hold my head high and pretend to be focusing on the tournament. The archers are lined up across the field, readying their shots. For a moment, my heart stutters, and I instinctively scan the line of competitors for that familiar form, the broad shoulders, the auburn hair.

But nothing. No one like that.

And of course not. Rob’s not an idiot, and he’s not going to show up to a place absolutely crawling with cops just to...what, show off how good he is at target practice? For a shitty plastic trophy and the applause of people who’d rather see him in jail?

Or worse, stuffed and mounted?

Yeah, no. And I don’t want to see him either.

I cross my legs and fan myself with my program, a futile gesture in the souplike humidity. The crowd, though not massive, is only partially intent on the action, murmurs rising every time an arrow flies. I watch one archer in particular as he steps up for his shot. He doesn’t look like the others—no fancy uniform or gear, just a ball cap pulled low over his brow, aviators hiding his eyes, and a dirt-smudged work shirt that’s seen better days. His scraggly beard makes him look like he wandered in off a job site rather than prepared for a tournament.

But there’s something easy in the way he aims, something fluid. When he fires, his arrow flies and snugs itself square in the bullseye. The spectators hum in appreciation, but I’m already barely paying attention.

I have to find a way into Guy’s office at town hall. It’s not like I can just ask outright—not with that deputy from earlier giving me suspicious looks. Maybe I can play dumb, act like I’m impressed by his whole setup and ask for a tour? That might be the easiest way. Just an innocent request, nothing too obvious. He likes showing off, after all. But then he’d be watching me, and that wouldn’t work either. If I could wander off for a second...

I’m so deep in my thoughts I almost miss the sharpthwackof an arrow hitting its mark. The man in the ball cap hits another bullseye, and the announcer’s voice rises above the crowd, declaring him the winner of this round. A few of the other competitors walk off the field, slump-shouldered and muttering.

Guy nudges me, drawing my attention back to him. “Fun and games are over, Maren,” he says, standing up and adjusting his jacket while he chuckles at his own non-joke. “Luncheon?”

“Sure.” I don’t bother meeting his eyes, but I follow. The bustle of a meal—and the drinks that are sure to flow—might be the perfect chance to slip away.

The outdoor tent is elegant but stifling, stretched wide over the grass, its white fabric glowing softly in the afternoon light. Long tables are covered with crisp linens, plates perfectly arranged, and glasses filled with chilled drinks. The murmur of polite conversation floats through the air, accompanied by the occasional clink of silverware as Sherwood’s wealthiest spear up grilled asparagus and tarragon chicken salad.

I have no appetite, but Guy leads me toward the head table all the same, a polite hand resting on my lower back as he maneuvers through the crowd, nodding at familiar faces. Icringe inwardly as I spot the sheriff and his men standing at the edges of the tent, talking in low tones, watching everything.

Yikes. Does the Fourth of July lunch literally need a security detail? It’s ridiculous. And yet my chest tightens all the same, because those khaki idiots are going to make it that much harder for me to slip away without anyone noticing.

“Maren.” Guy’s voice cuts through my thoughts, smooth and commanding. “Would you do me the honor of awarding the bouquet to the winner?” He smiles, turning to some muckety-muck at the next table. “She’s much easier on the eyes than I am.”

I blink, barely registering what he’s said. “Sure,” I mumble, still half-distracted. The easiest way out, the only one not flanked by deputies, is right behind the head table and podium. So that’s a no-go.

“Wonderful.” Guy nods, then reaches into his pockets and empties them onto the table—his phone, some loose change, and a keyring. I glance down, my attention catching on the key fob dangling from the ring.

Because it’s not just any key fob. He’s got it snuggled into a little leather case embossed with the seal of the County of Sherwood. Of course.

It’s the key to get into Town Hall. Right there in front of me. The one thing that could get me into his office, to wherever my birth certificate is stashed away waiting for me.

My heart speeds up, and without even thinking about it, I slide my hand across the table, my fingers brushing against the keys. Guy is clearing his throat, about to begin, and everyone’s attention is on him.

In one swift movement, I palm the fob and slip it into the pocket of my dress.

I can barely believe it, barely hope that no one has seen me...and yet, it seems like no one has.

Guy finally begins. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming out on this fine day, to celebrate the greatest of American holidays: the Fourth of July.”

A smattering of polite applause rises from the crowd, and I shift in my seat, tugging at the edge of my dress, trying not to look too restless.Sure, whatever.The gears in my mind are whirring, processing, trying to formulate a plan on the fly.

“The Fourth of July is more than just fireworks and barbecues,” he continues. “It’s a celebration of the freedoms that this country was founded upon. Our forefathers fought for liberty, for justice, for the right to live free from tyranny. And today, we honor their legacy.”

More applause. He pauses dramatically, eyes sweeping over the crowd as if we should all be honored to be listening to such a stirring and not-at-all cliched speech. Enough patriotism to gag you.

He launches into a predictable spiel about the meaning of the Fourth of July—freedom, independence, and protecting what matters. I tune most of it out, my fingers brushing against the fob in my pocket, the weight of it making my heart beat faster. This could be the key to everything. Literally.

“And just as our country’s founders sought to preserve the rights of the people, so too will I, as your future district attorney,” Guy continues, his voice swelling with self-importance. “I pledge to restore law and order to this county. To bring justice back...”

His words fade into the background as I calculate my next move. If I can just get away after the lunch, I can make my way to town hall and—

---