Stephen raised his brows at this pronouncement. “Where do you derive your information?”
“The people I stabrarelydie,” she protested. “Easily eighty-five percent of them go on to live long and full lives.”
That was… a disturbing statistic. “Fifteen percent of your victims are murdered in cold blood?”
“I wish I could take credit,” she said with a sigh. “One of my stabbing victims recovered fully, only to be hit by a carriage. Two recipients of my sharp blades mended handsomely, only to be felled by a virulent—” She ran past him into the dungeon. “What in the world isthis?”
“A dungeon,” he replied helpfully.
“I can see the dungeon. I adore the dungeon. I was referring tothat.” She jabbed her sword stick in the direction of the many footmen taking possession of the half-dozen wooden crates being lowered through the trapdoor overhead.
“My delivery,” he told her, then raised his voice to the footmen. “Carry it all up to the Great Hall, if you would, please.”
“Wait!” She flung her arms out to block Stephen’s forward progress. “Have you never heard of the Trojan Horse?”
“Who’s going to hide a horse inside a five-pound crate of nails?”
“They didn’t hide thehorse. They hidinsidethe horse.”
“I didn’t order a horse,” he pointed out.
“You ordered whatever is in those crates. IfIwere attempting to lay siege to your castle, the first thing I would do is intercept your deliveries and fill the crates with bombs, or poison, or distempered hamsters.”
“Distempered… hamsters?”
“My brother Jacob would think of a way to make the little beasts more dangerous than shrapnel. Stay back, for your own safety.” She rushed forward to address the footmen. “You, there. Set those crates down. No one is moving anything anywhere until I’ve had an opportunity to inspect the contents.”
The footmen glanced over her head at Stephen.
He shrugged. If there were any angry hamsters hiding inside, he wanted to see them.
Elizabeth stepped as far back as she could before slowly easing open the first crate.
“Well?” Stephen asked. “How furry is it?”
She dug through the contents with the tip of her blade. “It seems to be… a five-pound box of nails.”
“Devious,” said Stephen. “Exactly as I’d ordered. Perhaps Reddington is hoping I’ll spill the nails and tread upon them with my bare feet.”
“That sounds more like somethingyou’dbe hoping.” She glanced up at him suspiciously. “These nails aren’t meant for carpentry at all, are they?”
“It’s for a minor entryway modification I call The Maelstrom ofTerror,” he confirmed. “Reddington’s arrow could have taken out my eye. Turnabout is fair play. Now that he fired the first shot, I think increasing the quantity of flying metal projectiles will add a certain flair to the usual water and marbles.”
“It has potential,” she admitted. “I would love to see how Reddington reacts to being turned into a porcupine.”
“I’ll let you press the lever,” he promised.
“That is the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me. I accept your proposition. Now stay there.” She turned to inspect the other crates.
He leaned back and watched her. “I mistrust Reddington because he shot at me. Why doyoumistrust him so much?”
“Because he’s a man. And an aristocrat. And I mistrust everyone. Particularly those with power they enjoy wielding over others.”
Stephen raised his brows. “Is Reddington particularly powerful?”
“Let’s just say, you and I are perhaps the only known people to naysay him… and live.”
Stephen ran his fingers over his arrow-tousled hair. “For now.”
