Hugh Jansson is old and fond of telling stories that last foragesand are more boring than watching snails crawl through grass. He’s the kind of man who talks with his mouth full and has a tendency to spit when he enunciates.
He’s also one of the wealthiest barons of Emberridge, so everyone puts up with it.
I stare at Quint, fascinated. “Corrick asked you tointerrupthim?”
He draws back. “Ah . . . ?yes, Your Majesty. Rather urgent matters requiring the King’s Justice.” His expression turns sly. “Of course it happened every single time, but surely the baron would understand the sheer demand for the prince’s attention. Couldn’t be helped, really.”
I burst out laughing. “Brilliant. I should have employed you to interruptmydinners.”
“Gladly.”
Now that I’ve discovered this, I take over, flipping through more quickly, looking for more. “What other secrets have you kept?”
“You know what secrets I’ve kept.”
He’s right, I do, but there’s an intriguing note to his voice. I want to look up, but the book has flipped to the front, and it’s just a list of dates that have clearly been added to over time. Some are widely spaced, by a span of weeks, while others are divided by only a matter of days. “What’s this?”
“A list of dates.”
There’s a tone in his voice I can’t quite parcel out. “I can see that. What does it mean?”
“It’s nothing,” he says. “Simple recordkeeping for my needs.”
It doesn’t quite feel like a lie, but I’m too practiced in the double-speak at court to know that it’s definitely not the entire truth. I’m not sure why I care. I don’t even know why a list of dates mightmatter.
I finally turn my head to look at him. He’s very close, and like before, I can’t decide if I’m annoyed or intrigued—or something else entirely. “Are we going to argue over semantics again, Quint?”
His eyes hold mine, gleaming in the flickering light. “If it pleases you.”
My heart gives a little stutter. I have to look back at the page because I don’t know what to do with it. I feel flushed and uncertain and off-balance, and I haven’t felt like this since . . . ?I don’t know when.
At my back, the door clicks, and I jump a mile.
Thorin stands over us. “I should take a post by the trees if you’re going to remain outside, Your Majesty.”
“No. It’s late. I should retire.” I sound like I’ve been eating sand, but my heart won’t stop pounding. I drop the book beside the lantern and practically scramble up from where I was sitting. “Thank you for the debate, Master Quint.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” His voice is so calm, so composed. There’s no spark in the air, no blush on his cheeks, which makes me feel foolish. Like my heart got twisted up with my imagination.
Over Quint, of all people.
I need to stay focused. Too much is at risk here. I move to follow Thorin into the house.
But before the door falls closed, I notice Quint flip open the little book, just turning back the cover to that list of dates.
At the bottom, he adds one more.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Harristan
I’m wearing a cloak and sitting beside Thorin while we drive a wagon full of hay bales toward Mosswell. Saeth and half the men who volunteered for this mission are sitting on the bales behind us. Tucked between the bales are weapons: the guards’ crossbows, half a dozen daggers, some axes, and one long bow that the rebels were able to steal from the night patrol weeks ago.
Weapons I hope we won’t have to use.
It’s earlier than I’d like, but Francis said that if we wanted to pretend to be a labor wagon returning workers from a day in the fields, we wouldn’t be doing that too late. So we’re going to strategically drop men along the way to stand as lookout while we first fetch Reed, then Sommer—and then hopefully Saeth’s family. I was surprised that the rebels were willing to agree to this small mission—but they seemed surprised that I was willing to gowiththem, so maybe we’re even.
But I couldn’t have sat in that little house for hours, wondering about the outcome.
