"They'll kill you at once!" Dorothea squeaked, squirming in Sam's grip in a desperate furry effort to return to her shoulders, to urge the girl onward. "You can't simply give up! You're of no use to them, you're not even supposed to exist here, they only see you as a burden and a loose end." She scrambled onto the branch and crouched there, wide-eyed, her head lowered and tail still, staring at the otherworld girl with horror and disbelief. Dorothea had drawn the Marshal straight into Sam's own home -- the one place that should have been safe. Sam, who had taken her in in her lowest hour, cared for her though she was a stranger. In return, Dorothea had thrown her into the worst kind of danger -- she had cut her life so, so short. The clink of armor was getting closer. Sam couldn't outrun them, Dorothea knew that -- and there was nowhere at all to hide, at least not for long. For once in her life, the princess had no idea what to do, and she wished with all her heart that Liam were here.

There was no time left. Neither of them would have a chance if they both were caught -- at least if Dorothea were free, she could help Sam. It was a terrible decision. "You're my responsibility," she said in a voice low like a promise, her ears flattened against her skull. Just as the Marshal spotted them, Dorothea spun around and leaped to a higher smooth branch in the bone-cold tree. She turned, coiled her hind legs, and bounded still higher -- and higher -- her tail swinging.

The Marshal slowed, wading noisily through a bed of fallen leaves, branches snapping under his feet. His scowling face was upturned, watching that dark ball of fur as it shimmied up into the highest branches and curled there, small and cold and trapped.

His guards rushed past him at a determined pace, fierce to prove themselves to the Queen, and they drew their swords and leveled them at Sam's throat, one on either side of her, daring her to so much as scratch her nose. The one with the broken nose (dripping blood into his mouth) was grinning murkily at her, his head tipped and disheveled, shifting from one foot to the other as if deciding the perfect moment to lop her head from her shoulders. "Sir," he called to the Marshal, without taking his self-satisfied eyes off of Sam. "This one is just in the way, isn't she? I mean --" The tip of his sword ticked toward Sam's throat. "She's a liability as long as she's alive."

The Marshal took his eyes off the cat, and he peered hard at Sam, considering carefully what was to be done with her.