“I haven’t time to explain,” John said, backing up, knife aloft, as Juniper staggered to her feet. “But I swear to you that I am not your enemy. There is much that you do not know.”
“All I want to know,” snarled Juniper, advancing stubbornly on unsteady legs, “is where you’ve taken Emerald!”
She drew in a sharp breath to still herself as the world spun. Beads of sweat formed on her brow and her chest grew hot. Justjohn’s now blurry form seemed to hesitate, then moved a few steps away from her. Juniper lunged for him, but landed short, her foot catching on her hem and sending her hurtling once again to the forest floor.
Damn this fever, she thought, and damn the peasant bastard who caused it! Unable to muster the strength to push herself from the ground, she stared helplessly at the red and yellow leaves forming her pillow, and then at a pair of wellshod feet stepping up beside her.
“Someone will be along soon to find you, Juniper,” said John softly. “I – I am sorry to see you in this state, but you must understand that I cannot tarry!”
Juniper opened her mouth, a vitriolic retort ready. To her shock and humiliation, her body suddenly convulsed in shuddering sobs, tears falling unchecked in streams down one cheek. She gasped, unable to speak.
“Oh God, Juniper…”
John knelt beside her, drew one arm around her waist and the other her neck and lifted her up into his embrace, carrying her before him like a child. She squirmed weakly and formed no less than seventeen separate insults to hurl at him in protest, but could not force any words through the cloud of sobs currently lodged in her throat. She felt his firm hands gripping her shoulder and her thigh, his gait quickening as he carried her between trees.
“I cannot leave you like this,” he said, his voice brusque but soft beside her ear.
He hoisted her away from him and she found herself beside the flank of a horse, her leg lifting instinctively to sit astride it. She gripped the mane to pull herself to the front of the saddle as John filled in the space behind her, his arms encircling her again and gripping the reins.
“I must follow the kidnappers’ trail before they have too much of a lead,” he said, spurring the horse into movement. “I suspect they’ve taken Emerald to the wharf. I will leave you in the care of the wharfmaster.”
Juniper slumped against the neck of the galloping horse. She took a ragged breath, her tears lessening, and found herself finally able to speak again.
“I’m not ill at all,” she said in a small voice, “and I have no need of the charity of a lowborn…scoundrel…like…” She sighed and shut her eyes, feeling arms tightening around her waist before falling into a fevered and involuntary sleep.
Juniper awoke to the smell of the ocean, the soft clap of waves against boat hulls, and the uncomfortable feeling of a cotton shift against damp skin. She opened her eyes and saw that she was still lying upon the neck of the horse, now craned at a precipitous angle as the stallion grazed. Her head felt clear now and her body impossibly sticky.
She looked about her. Around the patch of grass providing repast for the horse were raised dunes of sand and an old wooden platform in severe disrepair, leading to a dock. A motley collection of small vessels were haphazardly, and in some cases hazardously attached to the pilings. Behind her was a deserted road running parallel to the shoreline, and beyond that, the dark of the forest. A small light shone further down the beach. Justjohn was nowhere to be seen.
Juniper peeled herself off of the horse and carefully alit on the grass. After momentary tingling, her legs felt steady beneath her. She clenched and unclenched her fists, and felt wrath filling her body once more. She smiled, satisfied, and began to make her way along the beach towards the light, leaving the stallion to his snack.
With every step and every breath of sea air, Juniper felt life returning to her body more and more. With her newfound equilibrium and the evidence of her dampened body, she reasoned that her fever had at last truly broken. Would that my illness had ended before this night, she thought bitterly, or I’d not have failed my dear friend!
“No sense in regret,” she said aloud, her voice surprisingly clear. “It will not help me in rescuing Emerald.”
As she moved down the beach, her eyes adjusting to the darkness, she saw that the light issued from a small lodging attached to a long empty dock. This must be the wharf house John had spoken of. She would introduce herself there, she decided, and inquire as to John’s direction hence.
Stepping up to the ragged porch of the establishment, she noticed two signs fastened upon the door. The top, a proper wooden name and crest, read “Langdonfordshire Wharf House.” The bottom, a letter of hastily scrawled ink on stained parchment, said simply, “Gone to Flange. Back in a fortnight.”
Juniper moved to knock upon the door, then paused, confused. If the wharfmaster had left for Flange, who then had lit the lamps within? The moment the answer formed in her mind, the door opened and proved her correct. Justjohn, his sleeves rolled and shirt untucked casually, stepped aside and motioned her in with a sarcastically gallant bow.
Juniper hesitated and looked past him into the room. A table was set with two bowls and tumblers of wine. Her face must have shown her surprise, for John laughed darkly and stepped from the doorway into the room.
“Come and enjoy, Juniper,” he said, seating himself at the table. “The wharf master was kind enough to leave for Flange in such a hurry that he forgot to bring his provisions with him. Our good fortune.” John’s face darkened, belying his false cheer. He drank his glass of wine in one long gulp and slammed the cup back onto the table.
Juniper shut the door behind her and sat opposite him at the table, watching him cautiously. After an awkward silence, she raised her wine and drank, grateful for the soft warmth as it crept down her throat.
“So,” she said. “We find ourselves alone here. I’m quite at your mercy.”
John snorted through a bite of stew, his eyes twinkling as he looked up at her. Juniper scowled and leaned in.
“My point is,” she went on, “you have nothing to lose by telling me where Emerald is. You say you are not my enemy, but you refuse to give me any information!”
“All right,” John said, leaning back. “Since my plan of secrecy has already failed so utterly, I might as well tell you the truth. First of all, my name is not Justjohn.”
“Your name is not John,” Juniper repeated.
“No, it is John,” he said, avoiding her eyes. “John de Crecy.”
Juniper sat and stared at him, momentarily stunned, before regaining her senses and laughing.
“You lie!” she cried. “A Flangian royal, posing as a Lanolin commoner! What overwrought fairytale nonsense! Whoever heard of such a thing?” Her gaze dropped to his hand, to the unmistakable crest upon his ring, and her laughs fell silent.
John de Crecy ran his hand through his dark hair, then abruptly stood from the table.
“It hardly matters who I am, Juniper,” he said, pacing. “What matters is who Emerald is -”
“What?” Juniper chuckled, sipping her wine. “The heiress to the Flangian throne?!” She giggled to herself before noticing John staring at her with a very strange expression.
“Yes,” he said, simply. “Emerald la Verte de Crecy – my sister, the crowned princess of the Crecy line. Until this dark day,” he added, looking tensely out the window, “the Hidden Princess of Flange.”
