It was just after the sweet course when the Sheriff of Nottingham slammed down his goblet.

A wave of murmurs crested below the resonant clang. Vaisey strode toward the center of the great hall, his grubby smirk widening. All went quiet as he rocked onto his toes, a habitual and fruitless attempt to remedy his stature. There he stood, raising his arms as if channeling dark power from the rafters—like a diabolical Moses ready to part a great, black sea.

"Friends, taxpayers, countrymen! Today is a day of celebration!"

Marian plucked a flake from her crust of bread. Today was both a Council of Nobles meeting and Tax Day. The latter occasion always inspired Vaisey's most insufferable grandiosity.

A dull pang spiked in her temples. Though it was a tolerable headache, it had been three weeks since her last malingering. She was long overdue for another.

Eyeing the archway to the eastern antechamber, Marian turned just as the Sheriff began to address a group of older, more influential nobles. A chance—she hoped.

Placing the murdered crust on her plate, she willed herself convincingly pale. Her backside had barely left the chair when a hand, callused and warm, encircled her wrist.

"I would wait until after the Sheriff's announcement, Lady Marian."

The urge to wrench her arm away was instinctive. Instead, Marian tamped it down, staring dead ahead. There had always been a price to pay for courting that gaze—all sternness and lightning-blue currents of longing.

Interacting with Guy of Gisborne presented two opportunities. The first, spiteful defiance, reliably tempted Marian. In her fantasies, her words were never false and cloying. In her dreams, she would cut him with truths until he slunk away, licking his wounds.

The second and smarter course was playing the game. For all Guy's dour resistance after she'd left him at the altar, it had taken little to lure him back. An accidental brush of satin against leather; a heavy-lidded glance before turning the corner. More than ever, he was starving for her affection.

And for now, she needed to toss him scraps. With the Black Knights assembling, a deception failed could mean the noose. Robin had protested as much before Marian had left him in the trees of Sherwood. Though he'd never understand, returning to Nottingham Castle with Guy had been the only choice.

England. The Sheriff. The Black Knights. Her future with Robin. The stakes were too high for girlish petulance.

For honesty.

Marian sat and waited. Slowly, Guy's fingers unwrapped from around her. She stopped herself from rubbing her cold wrist.

It was mealtime, she recalled. Only natural that he should touch her, ungloved.

"Enjoying a little sidebar eh, Gisborne?"

With an eye roll meant to be seen, Marian looked up at Vaisey. She'd no idea how long he'd already been hovering, his sliminess veritably thickening the air. Her hope of escape sputtered out as he lunged, stopping mere inches from Guy's cheek.

Guy glared uncomfortably at his polished gold plate. "My Lord, I was advising her to—"

"You will have plenty of time to advise the le—Lady Marian later." The Sheriff clasped his hands together, his jeweled tooth winking in the light. "But first thing's first, hmm?"

As she always did, Marian assessed Guy for some portending intelligence. To the untrained observer, he might look unfazed. Only the tic of his jagged scar—her last "honest" gift—betrayed his thoughts. She'd given that look enough times herself to know its meaning. In his mollified mind, he was eviscerating the Sheriff.

Her small surge of pride ebbed as Guy's countenance chilled. Its angles sharpened again as he sneered himself into compliance.

Not giving a fig who saw it, Marian downed her last mouthfuls of wine. One day she would tell Gisborne what a feckless coward he was.

Someday.

"—For too long, my friends, this shire has been plagued by lawlessness. But no more!"

Marian held her breath, the Sheriff's words sinking in slowly. She knew what was coming. Her heartbeat stuttered and stalled all the same.

"Today, I am delighted to announce that, in the name of our dear King Richard, Robin Hood is dead!"

The crowd was already huzzahing as she sprang upward from her chair. The lord to her left, Bennington, snickered as he peered into her empty goblet.

Her cheeks suffused with red, but she refused to check him. Better to be thought tipsy than an insurrectionist.

"I congratulate you on your victory, Sheriff. I am sure that the Council shares in my sentiments."

Marian's words carried over the nobles. Their disdainful, watery stares soured her stomach more than the wine. They had not stood by her dear father; they'd not stand by her now.

She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry.

Sir Guy had not touched her, this time.

"But surely, my lords," she proclaimed, "you must wish for some proof. After all, have we not been told before of Robin Hood's demise?"

Vaisey's eyes were an inferno of warning by the time Marian eyed him defiantly. As pathetically transparent as Guy was, his lord was a snake with many skins.

Still, it was obvious the Sheriff was bluffing. Or too stupid to realize Hood would always be a step ahead...

The danger in Vaisey's expression dissipated as quickly as it had come. "Why of course, my dear," he clucked, oozing politeness. "You'll forgive a little suspense, lords and ladies. Rest assured that tomorrow morning, Hood's remains will be displayed for one and all to see!"

He waved to the back of the room. "But for now, a palate cleanser!"

At his command, a cast of familiarly-attired fools shuffled into the room. A scrawny lad in a green hood led them in. The crowd erupted into laughter and applause as the boy stumbled, shooting a blunted arrow into the foot of a big, burly man.

When the wine came around a minute later, Marian had all but forgotten her headache. She turned toward the server, praying that the slosh of Rhenish would drown out the humiliating charade.

Instead, the familiar stench of greasy furs engulfed her.

"Just couldn't wait for dessert, could you, missy?" Marian swiped angrily at spittle flicking her neck while the Sheriff surveyed the room with beady, hateful eyes. He nodded to her left. She groaned inwardly as Guy's chair dutifully scraped the floor.

"Seems our fair maid needs proof, Gisborne. I think a little...stroll is in order." Vaisey crooked and extended his arm. "Shall we?"

Pain and surprise jolted through Marian as Vaisey yanked her away from the table. The crowd had already abandoned their seats and gathered around the fools, rollicking with drunken laughter.

No one to see or care about a maid.

Vaisey rushed the three of them toward the small alcove at the back of the room and through the large tapestry concealing it. Once covered, the Sheriff pushed a small stone wedged between a crack in the mortar. Marian's stomach sank as a door-sized piece receded. It was a passageway she'd not seen before.

A drip of water landed on her shoulder as the Sheriff shoved her forth into the darkness. The only light was a torch, seemingly distant in the dank corridor ahead. The only sound was Guy's scabbard, slapping against his leathers with every step.

The urge to rip it angrily from his belt was overwhelming.

Rounding a sharp corner, the light ahead took on a reddish cast. As she stumbled closer, Marian noticed a familiar green stitching interwoven into what seemed like a tapestry.

The solar? No, the chapel...

As though he'd heard her aloud, the Sheriff shoved her through the thick cloth, her hip smacking into a pew. She glared at Vaisey, committing the secret entrance to memory as she rubbed her bruised ridge of bone. Fools for showing me.

She almost lost her balance as Vaisey's fingers rented her chin.

"There, you see?" He pointed gleefully toward the chancel. "Told you, silly leper."

Marian pried herself away from his fishy grip and his fetid breath. Her chin stayed raised of its own accord as she looked where he bid.

It was late dusk, and Nottingham Chapel was drawn with shadows. Guided only by the slanting purple light, Marian crept toward the altar. At the head of the nave stood what looked like a spear, about six feet tall. Wavering torchlight illuminated the features of a cabbage-sized protrusion mounted atop it.

When she reached the base of the spear, Marian's footsteps shuffled to a halt. She exhaled slowly. She was careful not to move.

If she had turned, Guy or the Sheriff might have seen the wide—and wholly inappropriate—grin of relief on her face.

To the artist's credit, it was a commendable attempt. The hair was the same mouse brown, almost a burnt flax in the sun. That small jump of bone on the nose, which she'd always detested on her own profile, was perfectly rendered. Even the jagged seam of the neck had been decorated with coagulated clumps of blood. Pig's, most likely. Its odor was strange and fatty.

She'd smelled enough of her own to know the difference.

Only more evidence, she thought with a sniff, that it was not him—not true. For one, the forehead was too long and flat. What should have been boyishly full cheeks were stretched taut over bone like drum heads.

...And the mouth:That was completely wrong. It was cramped, shriveled. Never his lips, warm and soft and infuriating when they brushed and teased hers. She had never been a patient kisser.

Marian's smile widened, imagining the Sheriff's face (and Guy's) as she torched this fake head to a puddle. If the gang hadn't already, she would rescue Robin from whatever ludicrous trap they'd devised. Somewhere in the dungeons, per usual.

The last rays of sunlight shifted, dancing over the bodiless head just as Marian reached for the torch. The warmth of the flame faded as her hand, like a strung puppet, retracted long before she could grip it.

She did not try to still her fingers when they started to tremble. The altar was too dark to have seen it before.

Tacked to the seam of the neck, where a fly or two were mired, hung a weather-worn string. A small, dark piece of wood dangled from it.

Her shaking hand stretched upward until her nails clicked against the amulet. Marian's eyebrow furrowed with refusal. It could be Much's, lost in a scuffle with the guards. Or Will's or Djaq's. More likely Allan's.

Her unoccupied fingers curled with rage. He'd eat a fistful of knuckles if he'd taken part in this cruelty.

She was still lying to herself, ignoring the stinging of her eyes, as she traced the etching.

When she inhaled, her eyes closing, she tried to smell the dampness of leaves. She could almost feel the wood pressed to her breast, a shield between her heartbeat and his. Fingers, soft and trailing over her shoulders and neck. The night crisp under the canopy of trees, the blanket of stars above it. It was them and the forest, no whooshing arrows or clinking swords. It was simply them.

Them.

Gone.

"Ah, ah, ah...no sniveling, my lady!"

The Sheriff's mocking song became a dull ringing as Marian's knees hit granite. Her cheeks burned beneath rivulets of tears, flowing too fast to cool. Her neck bent helplessly. It would not hold the dizzying weight of her head.

If she kept her eyes to the floor, it would not be true.

The tips of Vaisey's shoes poked into Marian's side vision. "You see now why I could not display it at the feast. Would hate to weaken the ladies' appetites! But worry not, Lady Marian. You can visit him every day once he, err—part of him—has been put to rest. On my ramparts, of course."

Marian choked through her nausea, clamping down on white rage. Her hand flitted to the jeweled flowers tucked into the thick twist of her hair.

With a flick of her wrist, the first pin would pierce Vaisey's heart. The second his gurgling throat.

The guards would rush in soon after. The end would likely come at the end of a blade—one of the soldiers'.

Never Gisborne's. He'd not have the mettle.

A molten tear slipped between her lips. The thought of that day, that day that now shamed her, came unbidden. That prickling of revenge, Gisborne's arms around her as they descended from the treetop, the rope digging into her thighs, sickened her now. For those illicit seconds, she'd bestowed on Robin the pain of being left behind.

Her pulse, her ears, her veins, all drummed with a maddening cadence. It had always been Robin's fight, on his terms. Ending that fight now would bring them together in the next life, as it had kept them apart in this one.

The score was even, again.

There was no telling what time had passed when she finally looked up into his clouded eyes. The buzzing was quieter, now. There was only his voice, like a calming rustle of grass. Even now he could persuade her.

If she killed the Sheriff now, her return to the castle would have been for nothing. They would be nothing more than two lovers dead. England would not be saved.

She had to be the Lady. There was still a game to be played.

"You must forgive me for doubting you, Sheriff." Marian brushed some imaginary dust from her gown as she rose. "As I told Sir Guy, I am unwell and wish to retire."

Averting her swollen eyes, Marian paced her strides down the nave. Once out of earshot, she bolted up the corridor. It was not until she reached her chamber door that her legs bowed out from under her.

Later, she would recall only fragments: White-knuckled fingers clutching the coverlet; stray rushes scratching over linen. Words uttered that last night in Sherwood bled into whispers in alleys and alcoves. She was still straining to sift them out, to hear his voice, as everything went black.

The first thing Marian saw was the light streaming onto her new gown. She'd slept late, and the sun was high and bright. Anna had draped the silk loosely over the chair rail and now, in the brightness of morning, it flowed like a waterfall of springtime. The emeralds of her ring would match it perfectly.

Marian slipped her arms through the sleeves, the silk cooling her flush at Robin's imagined compliments. She was already concocting some witty banter with which to tease him. As usual, she would needle him until he wrapped his arms around her. Talk was still an aperitif to intimacy. Someday, she thought wistfully, the tiny wounds from the Holy Land would mend.

It was not until she'd pulled the ring from her pocket—the clouded gem—that she crumpled to the floor.

The maids had found her after sundown, balled up before the fireplace. The stone beside her head was wet and fetid. It was the first day she'd sobbed until she retched.

She'd no interest in counting the days, at first. Trays were brought up at every meal only to be carried out, their contents picked apart and shuffled about. The sun set and rose and set again.

It was not until the third day that she thought how unusual it was that she'd been left to her rooms. Why had Vaisey had not exercised his threatened "tour" of the ramparts?

She wondered (though never cared) if Guy had something to do with this welcomed neglect.

A week passed before that familiar restlessness crawled up her spine. As a small alleviation, she took to pacing the courtyard. She would round to the portcullis and back, taunting herself with an escape through the gates. It was a false freedom worth envisioning, even if it meant Gisborne nipping at her heels forever. Other times, she wished to remain cloistered away until she withered.

Most often, she wanted to punch and scream at the biggest tree she could find.

For their part, the gang's silence had been deafening. She knew—Allan knew—they'd all been with Robin that night. Through her door, the traitor had babbled nothing but nonsense about the gang in hiding, of him not knowing where they were. He'd pounded on it for a good three days before she'd the strength to interrogate him.

As Marian, she still begged for some assurance of the gang's safety. As the Night Watchman, there was only one question: The Question. She could not avenge him with a when or how or why.

Allan had answered far too quickly, honestly—the shift of watering eyes right and then left. The answer, a soldier-nobody, had not satisfied her. He was surely protecting him. The dog. The coward.

And so the traitor had left with an eggplant-colored circle, shining fresh with tears.

On the third week, Marian siphoned the rest from a lady's maid gossip. Something about poisoned arrows, a trap in the woods. All gone.

She did not ask another question after that. All of the gang were on the ramparts, now. Nothing but heads in the elements, their mocking badges of honor tacked to tattered flesh.

Every night, she tried to remember their faces. The tears poured hot again when she realized she could not. Not even that one smile, like sun on silver.

When Robin had left for the Holy Land, it had taken years before she'd learnt to forget. When she finally had, the loss was without ceremony. She had been riding after a storm: The sky was grey, the horse grey. Everything was. Nothing shone and therefore, Robin of Locksley had no place. After that, her heart had beat on for her father and the people. Against all else, it was grey, too. Stone.

Perhaps it could harden again.

The Night Watchman crouched beneath the table, watching the shadow at the corner of the room. To her relief, there was no clanking. Unarmored guards were welcomed gifts.

The floorboards heaved a sudden creak, and her hand flitted to the hilt of her dagger. Momentum rushed to her fingers, her grip tightening with anticipation. She blinked away a rivulet of sweat.

Marian's elbow cracked against the table leg when the shadow released a very confused meow.

As she nursed her arm, black fur and glowing green eyes slunk into view. It was unlike her to lose her nerve over a cat. It was unlike her to lose her nerve at all.

Easy, Marian.

Crossing the landing without incident, Marian crouched as she peered down through the banister. Tankards of ale were strewn about the floor, and weak wisps of snuffed candle flames swirled toward the ceiling. A crew of henchmen slouched and sloshed about the tables. Most were well on their way to boisterous carousing. They'd descended to a new level of incompetence now that the outlaws were no more. It had made slipping in through the kitchens easier, at least.

Escaping the Sheriff's birthday celebration had required a bit more finesse. Having used up a century's worth of malingerings, Marian had been forced to rely on Matilda. Her ingenuity did not disappoint. As the healer had promised, a mere two drops of tincture had left Marian with a lovely bruise-yellow pallor.

The effect had lasted but an hour, but Marian was prepared. Her leathers and weapons sat in the hollow beneath her chest of clothes, ready to be donned and sheathed. She'd even accepted Guy's invitation to sit beside him at table. Only for proximity to the Sheriff, of course.

To her skepticism, it had worked. Vaisey had taken one look and dismissed her with a disgusted flick of his wrist. Ironically, he'd always feared pestilence.

Guy's reaction had been similarly predictable. With her most disarming smile, Maraian had taken his proffered arm, whispering that she should rest in her chamber. When he'd asked to walk her to her room, she did not decline. His eyes were still storming with worry when she nodded goodnight, preemptively cutting off whatever clumsy consolations he might offer. His defeated footsteps were still echoing in the hallway when she'd thrown open the trunk.

It was one of the few times Marian and Guy had been alone since she'd "taken ill." Overall, she was glad of the inattention. Grief had made her admittedly unpredictable. Her own volatility made the mere thought of his exhausting.

She'd always been so sure of what Guy would do if Robin died. At first, he'd gloat with the Sheriff. Like a great raven, he would circle from Locksley to Clun, his chest puffed with authority. When he grew bored of maiming villagers, his pursuits would soften to pawing attempts at intimacy. With evasions and pretty smiles, she would evade them all.

On the few occasions they'd walked together alone, after it had actually happened, she could always feel that heavy leather on her sleeve, that thin line of his lips skating too close to her forehead. Even an unbeckoned lean in her direction was cause to shiver.

Yet—for once—Guy had surprised her. For what little he'd uttered since Robin's death, his actions had resounded uncomfortably. Some days after, a servant had brought her a bowl of oranges (her favorite) and a one-word note. It was signed in his Christian name, the script too sweeping and delicate to be his. When she had finally been ready to ride, her chestnut was shining and brushed..

His reticence was beyond frustrating. He could only be biding his time, lulling her before unleashing wrath or passion—probably both. Neither was an emotion he could hide. She would always best him in that regard.

Still, she'd been admittedly negligent in playing him of late. Mourning or not, she should exploit his every kindness. Her influence would wane inevitably as the Black Knights tightened their grip. If they assumed power, he would not look back—even at her.

Thankfully, his cruelty was always enough to make her forget oranges and earnest stares.

It was but yesterday that it had made its last appearance. Mrs. Evans was a month past due on taxes. Her dead husband's debts had mounted, and the crockery shop had shuttered months before. It was a familiar tale in Nottingham, its grim end known to all.

Mrs. Evans' young daughter had shrieked for mercy in the village square, clinging to the Sheriff's hem only for him to kick her away. Marian had too entreated, already knowing her cries would fall on deaf ears. It made the Vaisey's repulsive showmanship, his professions of "duty" and "honor," all the more infuriating as the poor woman heaved with sobs.

Marian's tears had wet the Evans girl's hair as she'd held her. She prayed the child's wails would drown out the gurgling; the claw of fingernails on rope.

They had not.

The woman's tortured last sounds still hung in the air when Marian saw him. With the tiniest smirk, Gisborne had ripped the necklace from Mrs. Evans' purple-ringed throat. Why he needed such trinkets was beyond Marian. Perhaps he was still naive enough to think she could be bought.

Watching Gisborne's callous greed had breathed into her a kinetic fury. The Night Watchman had lain dormant in the wake of her sorrow; in deference to Robin. He'd condemned her too many times for it. It was reckless. Unsafe.

But now there was no gang to save her, or anyone. Someone needed to feed the starving and to shoot the arrows, however less expertly. Whether or not Robin would have understood, it was the right choice.

It was the right choice to get little Elsie Evans her necklace. To steal from the heartless raven. The coward.

Reinvigorated in purpose, Marian looked up at the candle on the table. In addition to now being precariously tilted, its wick was already half spent.

Flexing underused muscles, Marian vaulted over the wooden rail and into the shadows. The landing wrenched her ankle more than expected. She let out a small sigh, both in relief and pain, when boisterous laughter from below again filled the air.

Her feet were lighter after that. To her pride, the floorboards squeaked only marginally as she padded to the back room. She passed the tinny snores of a guard and opened the door with expert quiet.

No one living knew about the secret passage in the room or where it led. She and Robin had sneaked through it as children to rob his father and mother's old clothes, dissolving into fits of giggles imitating the gassy lords and tittering ladies at court. A maid had finally caught her emerging from the panel one day, replete with a feathered cap far too large for her head. They'd not been allowed in there again.

Fortunately, it was well concealed—and Gisborne never what Marian would call inquisitive. Even if he'd found it, he'd no doubt find nefarious use for it. Discreet access for kitchen maids, perhaps.

Marian dismissed that thought and the last of her niggling worries with a sniff as she popped open the panel. It took but a minute to navigate through the cobwebbed darkness before she emerged into Guy's bedchamber.

Autumn had come early, and the fire had not been fully tamped. Dying light was all she needed anyway to guide her path toward the window. She loosened the latch so that it was open ever so slightly, tying the rope to the inside so it would be ready to throw.

There were a few guards below, but nothing she could not handle. The landing would be close enough to where her chestnut, trained and silent, was waiting.

She made her way back to the alcove of the room, rounding the corner and up two small stairs. She yanked back the familiar tapestry, her fingers sticking with the dampness of this morning's rain. It was an expected sight, but Marian smirked nonetheless.

Lo and behold, the chest's familiar buckles and studs gleamed in the weak light. It had not been moved an inch from last time.

At least the lock was new, Marian thought wryly as she pulled some wire from her belt. She made quick work of the mechanism, twisting and jabbing. After a minute, it opened with a satisfying click.

Her hands sloshed through hundreds of inscribed coins. Mrs. Evans' pendant would be distinctive enough, with its three smooth pearls that most peasants could never afford.

Marian's knees dug into the floor with anticipation as something unusual scraped her knuckles. Her blood went cold, then hot, as she took it in her palm.

Those familiar teardrop stones were the last thing she'd expected to find. It was here; just another trinket in the heap. No doubt buried at the bottom.

She frowned as she held it to the light. Even in the dark, she could discern those pale greens and roses. The colors had clashed horribly with her frock, making it easier not to admire it.

Guy's smile that day, when he'd asked for her hand, had never been so warm, so effortless. It had almost made her feel sorry for his stupidity. For thinking she'd actually go through with it.

Almost.

Marian flung the ring back into the chest. She shifted on her knees, knowing it would pucker the scar at her hip. It was a welcome reminder. A gift from the man who'd burnt her home to the ground, who helped to kill Robin. The Black Knight on a black horse.

Never grey.

She tossed her head in frustration, both at her divergent thoughts and thankless search. It had to be here...

If Marian had moved only an inch to her left, her cheek would have caught the tip of the blade.

The sharp chill of metal was on her neck, piercing through the papery black cloth of her disguise. A silver chain rustled seductively, just above her brow. Marian knew that exact sound.

She also knew, intimately, that particular combination of leather and wine now smothering her.

"Looking for this?"