“Help!” I squeaked.

The men peered at me. I snatched my wig off and their eyes widened a little.

“Empire guards!” I blurted, glancing over my shoulder.

It was, apparently, the right thing to say.

For a split second they looked at me, then at each other. Then the girl pulled one of several large trunks from the corner. Her pale male counterpart opened it and wordlessly motioned me over.

Then they started arguing.

“Garnet, are you mad?” hissed the black man. “It could be a trap!”

“We can’t take that chance,” said the girl. “We have to trust her. Him. Whatever.”

Even in my terror I managed an indignant glare.

“It isn’t worth the risk,” replied the black man heatedly.

“Who are you?” the olive-skinned man asked me quietly.

I thought I could hear the guards forcing the door of the first guest room. My moments of liberty were numbered and I wanted to scream at them. The sweat broke out on my brow and my eyes widened with fear, but I restrained myself and gasped, “William Hawthorne. I’m an actor. And a playwright. And,” I added reluctantly, “I kind of cheated at a card game.”

“A petty criminal,” said the black man, rising to his feet. He was impressively built and in alarmingly good condition. In fact, all of them were. He looked me up and down, his eyes lingering on the bloodstained dress and then, as the door to the second guest room was audibly kicked open, flashed his eyes to the olive-skinned man who had demanded my name and who, I sensed, would have the last word.

I was right. For a second he said nothing, and then he whispered, “Get in the box. Quickly!”

The black man bundled me into the crate and sat on it.

“Oh, brilliant,” I mumbled. “Put him in the box. They’ll never think to look there.”