Midnight Jewel
Page 113
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“Then be someone else if you want, because I’ve got one more job for you.”
“Tom—”
“Just listen. No stealing, no attacking. Defensive, not offensive. I’m the one moving goods this time, and I need able-bodied men—and women—for protection. I’ve got several wagons heading out to Alma today. You’d be assigned to one, and if all goes well, the worst you’ll experience is a boring ride there and back. If things don’t go well—that is, someone takes an interest in our cargo—then you’ll help send them on their way. It’s easy.”
“You always say that, and it’s never true! And Alma’s three days away.”
“Eh, closer to two. We’re barely going over the border.”
“It doesn’t matter. Even if I had that kind of time, I’m not doing any more work for you.”
He nodded his head toward the gate. “If you’re worried about Lady Witmore, you can wait and see how the verdict turns out. I plan to. It’ll be easy catching up to the others.”
“No.”
“The money—”
“No, Tom. For the last time, stop asking.”
His green eyes weighed me for long moments. Here, in sunlight, they reminded me of the sea along Sirminica’s western coast. “Whatever you’re caught up in is something foolish and sentimental, isn’t it? Such a waste of talent.” He urged his horse forward and led the one I’d ridden. “I won’t ask anymore, but I hope we meet again. Farewell, angel.”
A cloud lifted from me as he rode off toward one of the city’s more discreet entrances. Life would be easier without Tom Shortsleeves—and Lady Aviel—in it. I flipped my cloak inside out and took off the wig and mask before entering the city, but I needed something better. Pants were a rarity for any woman, let alone one in the Glittering Court. I had to find something else to wear before going to the courthouse.
No one answered Aiana’s door, so I picked the lock and hoped she wouldn’t mind. Inside, the lingering smell of tea told me I’d probably just missed her before she’d headed off to work at Wisteria Hollow. I helped myself to breakfast and found one of the dresses we’d procured for Adelaide. The fit wasn’t great, but it was better than nothing. I finished the last of the bread and prepared to head over to the trial. Hopefully, I could just slip in with the other girls before anyone noticed that—
A rap at the door made me jump up. I glanced around frantically for one of Aiana’s knives, but all I could spot was her crossbow. Then, a familiar voice called, “Sekem! Ta qi.”
I flung open the door and found a very bedraggled—and surprised—Grant standing outside. “What are you doing here? Where’s Aiana?”
“Where have you been?” I exclaimed, pounding my fist against his chest. “Do you know how much I’ve worried?”
And then we were all over each other, kissing our way into the room—which seemed to be something we did a lot. I couldn’t get close enough to him. I needed to hold on to him and feel that he was real.
He broke the kissing with some reluctance, keeping one hand tangled in my hair and the other on my waist. “Look, any other time you want to attack me in a dress that’s too small for you, you can go right ahead. But we don’t have the time.” He glanced down. “Really too small. Why are you wearing this?”
I put my hands on the sides of his face and turned his gaze back up. I was still stunned that he’d just walked through the door. “Grant . . . I’ve been so worried about you.” My voice started to crack as all the anxiety and terrible imaginings that had tormented me this week came crashing down. “I didn’t know if . . . that is, if something had happened to you . . .”
That sardonic humor vanished as he met my eyes. He didn’t move away, but he suddenly felt tentative in my arms. “No,” he groaned. “Don’t look at me that way.”
“What way?”
“That way. The way you looked when you asked about the scar. The way you looked when you thought I was dead. The way you looked when you were supposed to be giving a shallow explanation for wanting to sleep with me. The look that says . . . you like me.”
I stared at him for a long moment. “I don’t like you, Grant. I love you.”
He pulled away and began pacing, so I knew I’d struck something. He wasn’t mad, but he was clearly at a loss. “No, no, don’t say that. Mirabel, I don’t know how to—that is—argh.”
The words had been waiting inside of me for so long that they’d slipped out before I could stop them. I wanted to say more, to make him face them, but then my gaze fell on a bundle of papers he’d dropped when we’d grabbed each other. The weight of what was at stake today returned, and so I gave Grant the escape he wanted.
“What are these?” I asked, crouching down to retrieve the papers.
He took a few seconds to collect himself, and then his business face slid into place. “We’ve identified most of the ring and started arresting some,” he said, more comfortable grasping facts than feelings. “One man gave a great confession, and the paper evidence just keeps growing and growing. I was coming to ask Aiana to give these to you to check something.”
We leaned together as he unrolled the papers. He looked up at me as we touched, his gaze furtively searching my face before he quickly looked back down.
“We’ve got a lot of evidence implicating Warren Doyle, including one of the confessions. But this letter’s in Lorandian, and I didn’t have time to find a translator.” He flipped through the pages, and I saw familiar names—the ones Abraham Miller had misspelled. This writer had corrected Skarbrow to Scarborough, Madisin to Madison, and Cortmansh to Courtemanche. Grant settled on the last page and pointed. “Here. What’s this say about Warren Doyle?”
“Tom—”
“Just listen. No stealing, no attacking. Defensive, not offensive. I’m the one moving goods this time, and I need able-bodied men—and women—for protection. I’ve got several wagons heading out to Alma today. You’d be assigned to one, and if all goes well, the worst you’ll experience is a boring ride there and back. If things don’t go well—that is, someone takes an interest in our cargo—then you’ll help send them on their way. It’s easy.”
“You always say that, and it’s never true! And Alma’s three days away.”
“Eh, closer to two. We’re barely going over the border.”
“It doesn’t matter. Even if I had that kind of time, I’m not doing any more work for you.”
He nodded his head toward the gate. “If you’re worried about Lady Witmore, you can wait and see how the verdict turns out. I plan to. It’ll be easy catching up to the others.”
“No.”
“The money—”
“No, Tom. For the last time, stop asking.”
His green eyes weighed me for long moments. Here, in sunlight, they reminded me of the sea along Sirminica’s western coast. “Whatever you’re caught up in is something foolish and sentimental, isn’t it? Such a waste of talent.” He urged his horse forward and led the one I’d ridden. “I won’t ask anymore, but I hope we meet again. Farewell, angel.”
A cloud lifted from me as he rode off toward one of the city’s more discreet entrances. Life would be easier without Tom Shortsleeves—and Lady Aviel—in it. I flipped my cloak inside out and took off the wig and mask before entering the city, but I needed something better. Pants were a rarity for any woman, let alone one in the Glittering Court. I had to find something else to wear before going to the courthouse.
No one answered Aiana’s door, so I picked the lock and hoped she wouldn’t mind. Inside, the lingering smell of tea told me I’d probably just missed her before she’d headed off to work at Wisteria Hollow. I helped myself to breakfast and found one of the dresses we’d procured for Adelaide. The fit wasn’t great, but it was better than nothing. I finished the last of the bread and prepared to head over to the trial. Hopefully, I could just slip in with the other girls before anyone noticed that—
A rap at the door made me jump up. I glanced around frantically for one of Aiana’s knives, but all I could spot was her crossbow. Then, a familiar voice called, “Sekem! Ta qi.”
I flung open the door and found a very bedraggled—and surprised—Grant standing outside. “What are you doing here? Where’s Aiana?”
“Where have you been?” I exclaimed, pounding my fist against his chest. “Do you know how much I’ve worried?”
And then we were all over each other, kissing our way into the room—which seemed to be something we did a lot. I couldn’t get close enough to him. I needed to hold on to him and feel that he was real.
He broke the kissing with some reluctance, keeping one hand tangled in my hair and the other on my waist. “Look, any other time you want to attack me in a dress that’s too small for you, you can go right ahead. But we don’t have the time.” He glanced down. “Really too small. Why are you wearing this?”
I put my hands on the sides of his face and turned his gaze back up. I was still stunned that he’d just walked through the door. “Grant . . . I’ve been so worried about you.” My voice started to crack as all the anxiety and terrible imaginings that had tormented me this week came crashing down. “I didn’t know if . . . that is, if something had happened to you . . .”
That sardonic humor vanished as he met my eyes. He didn’t move away, but he suddenly felt tentative in my arms. “No,” he groaned. “Don’t look at me that way.”
“What way?”
“That way. The way you looked when you asked about the scar. The way you looked when you thought I was dead. The way you looked when you were supposed to be giving a shallow explanation for wanting to sleep with me. The look that says . . . you like me.”
I stared at him for a long moment. “I don’t like you, Grant. I love you.”
He pulled away and began pacing, so I knew I’d struck something. He wasn’t mad, but he was clearly at a loss. “No, no, don’t say that. Mirabel, I don’t know how to—that is—argh.”
The words had been waiting inside of me for so long that they’d slipped out before I could stop them. I wanted to say more, to make him face them, but then my gaze fell on a bundle of papers he’d dropped when we’d grabbed each other. The weight of what was at stake today returned, and so I gave Grant the escape he wanted.
“What are these?” I asked, crouching down to retrieve the papers.
He took a few seconds to collect himself, and then his business face slid into place. “We’ve identified most of the ring and started arresting some,” he said, more comfortable grasping facts than feelings. “One man gave a great confession, and the paper evidence just keeps growing and growing. I was coming to ask Aiana to give these to you to check something.”
We leaned together as he unrolled the papers. He looked up at me as we touched, his gaze furtively searching my face before he quickly looked back down.
“We’ve got a lot of evidence implicating Warren Doyle, including one of the confessions. But this letter’s in Lorandian, and I didn’t have time to find a translator.” He flipped through the pages, and I saw familiar names—the ones Abraham Miller had misspelled. This writer had corrected Skarbrow to Scarborough, Madisin to Madison, and Cortmansh to Courtemanche. Grant settled on the last page and pointed. “Here. What’s this say about Warren Doyle?”
