Iris gripped her carpet bag, peering through her window and down the length of makeshift rope that she had knotted together. She considered tossing her bag down to the manicured lawn below – she certainly couldn’t carry it during her climb – but thought the better of it when she imagined the bag bursting open on impact, spilling all of her belongings across the closely cropped grass.

No, perhaps it would be better to lower the carpet bag. Iris hauled her rope back up through the window one final time, tied the end to her bag’s handles, and slowly let it drop back down until the rope was taut.

Another breeze whispered through the night. It tugged at Iris’s hair. She’d braided most of it back, but loose curls still sprung free. She placed her palms on the cool stone of her windowsill, feeling it’s texture – smooth, but for a few rough patches. It was wide enough to sit on, just as it had been a wide enough perch for her plants.

A funny, tight sort of feeling settled in Iris’s chest. She took a deep breath and crawled onto the windowsill, refusing to look back at her room. It was her plants that she would miss the most from this room. They covered nearly every spare inch of space with vibrant green foliage, now temporarily painted monochrome shades of grey by the late-night shadows. She swung one leg over the sill, and then another, awkwardly angling her body around to face the stone exterior of her home. She gripped her linen rope and slowly, carefully, put her full weight on it.

The edge of her bed jerked closer to the window with a loud rumble, and Iris dropped by another foot. She choked out a quick scream and gripped the rope even tighter, squeezing her eyes shut.

“Iris McClaine?” said a soft, deep voice to her left. Iris gasped and nearly released her grip. Fear and surprise shot through her. She whipped her head towards the voice and stared with wide eyes.

There was a figure suspended next to her – a young man, hanging onto a rope made of bedsheets just as she was doing. He seemed to be wearing nothing more than a loose white shirt, and trousers held up by suspenders. The rest of his features were poorly lit. He’d stretched out his hand to reach for her, but even though his window neighbored hers, he was still too far away to touch.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes,” he said. “Steady – don’t let go just yet.”

Moonlight glinted off his round spectacles. Iris nodded. The shock of seeing him here was fading quickly, and his words had an oddly calming effect.

“Are you Talan Colt?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“What are you doing here?”

“The same thing as you, apparently.” He flashed her a rueful grin. Now that the immediate danger of Iris dropping straight to the ground had faded, some of the tension had rolled off him. He dangled from his own little bedsheet rope like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Cloud cover skittered in front of the moon, obscuring it and casting them both into further darkness. Behind his spectacles, Talan’s eyes luminesced faintly. It was the sign that, unlike magicians who relied on clever sleight of hand or witches who siphoned power from external sources, Talan possessed a true shadewalker’s magic. A magic that came from within.

“Why do we call them ‘shadewalkers,’ Father?” Iris had once asked. The memory was tumbling back to her now. She had been a small child then, and her father had to kneel to meet her eyes. “It’s because of what they can do with shadows and light,” he had explained. But that hadn’t been much of an explanation at all, in her opinion.

Iris knew that there had once been a great many more people with inherent magic, besides just the shadewalkers. There had been the renderers who could bring paintings to life, lifetouches who could guide fragile babes back from the edge of death, windreaders who could predict the weather from just a whiff of air or draw down furious storms upon their enemies…the list went on and on. And yet, most of these were gone now, hunted to near extinction by witches in need of greater and greater sources of power.

It had taken that necromancy debacle about eighty years ago to finally bring about some reform and place the practice of witchcraft under strict regulations. By then, it had been too late. Of all the people with inherent magic, it was mostly the shadewalkers who remained. And of these, there were very few.

The cloud cover passed, and the light from Talan’s eyes faded once more. Vaguely, Iris realized that her breath had stilled. She had never before been so close to a shadewalker. Of course, her father had employed a few of them over the years, but she had never knowingly encountered one up close. He seemed to be watching her with a mildly amused expression.

“Yes, well,” she began, still a bit breathless from her sudden drop and this surprise encounter, “the night isn’t getting any younger, and I’d rather not dally about here until my arms get so tired that I drop like a stone. I shall see you on the ground, then.”

Iris refocused her attention to her rope and slowly attempted to slide down it. The task was far more difficult than she’d imagined. Her palms had gotten sweaty, and her biceps had started to cramp. Shakily, she managed to descend inch by inch.

After what seemed to be an age, Iris realized that Talan hadn’t even bothered to move yet. She glanced up at him and realized, with some displeasure, that she had not made much progress either.

“Can I help you?” she asked, now irritated.

Talan was still watching her. “Are you going to be alright?” he asked.

Iris bristled with bruised pride. “Of course I’ll be alright,” she snapped. “I’ve made it this far, haven’t I?”

Beside her, Talan shifted, readjusting his grip on his rope and setting his feet against the wall.

“I’ll catch you if you fall,” he said. Before Iris could respond, he rappelled down with all the ease of a squirrel.

Iris huffed. “Catch me if I fall,” she muttered darkly under her breath. “The nerve, the absolute nerve…” She continued muttering to herself as she inched her way down the rope, flailing every now and then when a strong breeze tugged at her.

Her fingers ached, her arms ached, and her feet kept getting tangled in her skirts and the loose end of her rope. Iris dared not look down. She reached a large knot and released one hand just long enough to reset her grip further down. Something was wrong this time though. Perhaps her hand was too sweaty, or her fingers too sore. Whatever the case, she slipped and could not fix her hold on the rope before she went plummeting to the ground.

There hadn’t even been time to properly scream before she landed on something soft and tumbled to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs. Iris gasped and then wiggled her fingers and toes. Everything seemed to be functioning properly. Her breathing was quick and shallow though, and her heart was beating to a rapid tattoo.

The “something soft” below her groaned.

“You’re heavier than you look, Iris,” said Talan. Immediately, Iris rolled off of him and scrambled to her feet, insulted.

“Excuse you!” she exclaimed. “I’m not – I’m – “ She was still tongue-tied from the momentary terror of her fall. She let out an angry breath and finally landed on something to say. “It’s Miss McClaine to you,

sir!”

Talan got to his feet and dusted himself off, grinning. He had a jacket in hand now which he promptly shoved his arms through. A leather and canvas rucksack sat at his feet. He must have dropped them out his window ahead of time.

“Fair enough,” he said. “So, seeing as we had the same idea, what’s your plan now, Miss McClaine?”

Iris pondered his question. “How much has your father told you about my situation?” she asked.

“Everything, as far as I know,” said Talan. His expression was grim. “You need protection from Tilda Veil.”

She sighed. “I’m planning on traveling to Lyndemar and chartering passage to one of our neighboring countries. I’ll likely go wherever it’s cheapest.”

Talan raised an eyebrow. “That’s…a risk,” he said.

Of course it was. Now that Iris was out in the open, the gravity of what she was doing seemed to press even more heavily on her. She could still turn back. Talan was running off anyways, so there would be no marriage in the morning at this rate. But then, would Adrian Colt still agree to protect her?

“What about you?” she asked, suddenly. “I would have thought that a shadewalker like yourself would have jumped at the chance to marry into a landowner’s family.”

Talan snorted and shouldered his rucksack. “If land was all I wanted, I could have earned some young lady’s hand on my own,” he said. “I’ve already got a girl waiting for me back home. Dad hates her. Now, come on – it looks like we’re heading the same way for now. First train to Lyndemar leaves

at five am sharp.”

Shadewalker

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