Free Ensnared by A. G. Howard Page B

and cleaning products stings my nostrils as she passes by.
    The maid’s profile reminds me of a bulldog—complete with a flat, wet muzzle that causes her to snort with each breath. Her body resembles a pig’s, aside from her lobster-claw hands. Tufts of fur speckle her greenish cheeks, elbows, and knees from beneath a short-aproned uniform.
    On her cart, three transparent hooded coveralls are crumpled in a pile, revealing subtle folds and pleats that disrupt the atmosphere. It looks like Bill the Lizard is sending his simulacrum suits out for cleaning.
    “It connects with the wearer’s mind and reflects their surroundings. Observers are deluded into seeing only the body parts that are bared. . . . Comes in handier than you’d think.”
    Yeah, I bet it does, Hubert. If Dad and I were invisible, it would be easy to smuggle us into AnyElsewhere’s gate. And since we’re going into a war zone, we could use some camouflage.
    I fall into line behind the maid, debating how to get the suits. I might have to resort to magic.
    “Excuse me,” I say softly.
    She turns, snarling. Embossed letters glimmer on her brassy name tag:
Duchess.
Come to think of it, she does favor the duchess sketch from my mom’s
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
book. I’m not sure why a duchess is cleaning rooms at an inn. Unless I got her stuck here, too. In which case it’s better not to introduce myself.
    “What do you want?” Her question is more of a growl. Her teeth remind me of peppercorns, just like those of the piggish creature I met at the Feast of Beasts last year: the duchess’s son. He gave us the pepper to wake the tea party guests. The family resemblance is unmistakable.
    “I could use some clean towels,” I say. While she’s distracted with the lower shelf, I’ll snag the suits from the top and run.
    “These are velvet robes, not towels. Complimentary to our most valued customers. The boss keeps count of them. If any go missing, they come out of my paycheck.” She waves me away with her feather duster.
    I catch the feathers and she clamps the handle, engaging in a tug-of-war.
    “Your boss wouldn’t mind if you give me one,” I insist. “We’ve become fast friends.” The lie sounds as stale as it tastes on my tongue, but it doesn’t matter because a cloud of orange, glittery mist appears behind the maid’s shoulder—silent and stealthy. Before Chessie’s body even materializes, I know it’s him.
    I bite back a smile. He
did
hear me.
    I send a silent explanation of what I’m after and Chessie bows, grinning that wide, mischievous smile. He’s always ready to leap into the thick of things without question, just for the fun of it. No wonder Morpheus considers him a worthy sidekick.
    “About the robes,” I say to the piggish maid. “I only need one. You can just tell Hubert it sprouted legs and walked away.” I give Chessie a subtle nod. With a swish of orange and gray stripes, he tunnels into the pile of folded velvet robes on the corner of her cart.
    “Do I look asleep to you?” the duchess asks me.
    “No. Why?”
    “Because the saying goes, ‘Let sleeping dogs lie.’ Well, I’m not asleep, so I don’t intend to lie.” She jerks the feather duster from my grasp. “Now, off with you.”
    The instant the “off with you” escapes her mashed-in muzzle, avelvety robe scurries across the floor, long sleeves draped behind. The maid yelps, her orange eyes bouncing from me to the escaping robe.
    “Looks like you won’t be lying after all,” I say.
    She throws down her duster and gives chase. The robe floats like a magic carpet with Chessie propelling it underneath. The maid has to get on all fours to catch up.
    As soon as they turn a corner, I grab the transparent coveralls and race the opposite direction toward an intersection of three halls. I have a passing thought of Chessie and send him a soundless thank-you. I’m not worried for his welfare. He won’t be captured unless he wants to be.
    I round