From Lies by Ann Anderson Page A

Just half a year, a week before the ball, and he'd be able to free everyone from the curse that was his mother. By then it would be eighteen years since she'd married, and Rafe would be twenty-three, the man of the house, and his mother would hold no sway.
    As much as Rafe disliked the laws that stated a man would be in charge of his family in all things, in that moment so soon coming, he would relish the power it would grant him. A squeak of the stairs had him paying attention to his surroundings, not for the first time thinking he'd make sure to build the house back up, restore it to the beauty it had once held.
    His mother hadn't bothered with any of that, believing the fortune her late second husband had left behind would be better spent on the education of her two children, though now she seemed to regret it. Rafe turned toward the kitchen instead of the front doors, ignoring the huff of exasperation from the butler as he left Rafe to his own devices. Rafe continued to catalogue all that needed repair as he strode into the kitchen, ignoring the angry glare of the cook and the threatening way she held her knife as he swiped a piece of bread and moved to the cold box for some fruit, cheese, and meats. He must look a glutton, but it was nearing lunch time, and his mother wouldn't provide enough money for both himself and Greta to eat; he'd learned that quickly in the past.
    A basket was all he needed, which he found in the pantry, a little dusty, but a quick wipe of a cloth and it was as good as it was going to get. Storing everything along with some napkins and a few flasks of water, he was ready. He walked casually from the kitchen, even as his instincts screamed at him to watch his back, that he'd find a knife through his spine if he wasn't careful, but none of them would move against him, not yet. He was still a minor, after all.
    The air outside was a bit cool, storm clouds darkening the sky in the distance. They'd have a few hours, probably three at the most, before the storm would hit. He had no idea how long it would last, but he knew of enough places they could bunker down without his cover being blown. With a bit more haste than he would normally show, Rafe made it to the stable and cleared his throat at the stable boy, who merely glared at him.
    "I need a cart prepared." He pushed his nose in the air, affecting disdain at the state of the stable boy. Though, it wasn't that hard to do. The boy appeared as if he hadn't bathed in weeks; dirt and who knew what else covered his skin and clothes, his hair was a bit too long and tangled, his shirt had a tear along the side, and his trousers were no better with pieces of string trailing off at the ends. The boy needed a new outfit, and since Rafe would be in town, maybe he could procure some new clothes. Though there was little he could do about the boy's hygiene.
    He half-listened to the boy grumble as he collected a cart. Rafe was only a little nervous at the ideas spilling beneath the boy's breath—really, he didn't need a wheel to come off, not in the mud that would soon be covering the ground—but he didn't have to worry long as Greta approached, appearing flushed and a little wet around the eyes.
    "Ah, you're on time. What a pity." Rafe tried not to tremble as he reached toward a length of rope and stroked the rough coils as he said those last words. He needed to keep in character, but as of late, he found the task more terrifying than ever. He knew it was his own imagination that conjured eyes watching his every move, but he couldn't falter, not now they were so close.
    "Here," the stable boy barked, throwing the reins at Rafe.
    Rafe let them hit his chest and slide down to the floor, his eyes watching the worn leather before slowly raising his gaze to the stable boy. He saw the fine tremor that raced through the boy's lithe frame and wished fervently he could offer some kind words. Instead he took a threatening step toward the boy, pausing when Greta dashed