“They must have crossed through to the main thoroughfare,” the puppeteer said, his voice a lot less friendly when he wasn’t speaking through wooden characters. “Come on. We may catch them yet.”
They lingered for only a moment longer, then departed. I kept watching for some time, wary that they might come back through.
Beside me, Quinn’s alertness steadily faltered. His dark eyes moved over my face with careful attention.
For a moment, the viscount seemed to forget himself, parting his lips slightly as though he might say something. His hand rested on the table between us, fingers twitching so close to mine that I could feel the phantom touch of his skin.
Quinn blinked hard and jerked his attention back to the tavern’s two entrances, his jaw tightening. Even in profile, with his hair mussed and his shirt rumpled from our escape, he was undeniably handsome…
Dangerously so. What on earth was I thinking, fancying his appearance? Was it the rush of danger that had stolen my senses, or the easy pleasure of his company? I chastised my heart until it settled, reminding myself of his close acquaintanceship to the prince I was to be sworn to.
He didn’t pull away. He couldn’t, really. Not without drawing attention to our table. We were momentarily trapped in each other’s orbit, close enough that I could hear the slight change in his breathing.
“We should go somewhere nice, I think,” he whispered, his usual easygoing attitude coming back to him. His accent was stronger now, uncloaked in the fever of the moment. “Though this was…fun.”
I nodded, reaching for the cloak I had stuffed beneath my chair. I tried to forget the way he’d looked at me, praying that the one noble man I felt safe around was still as harmless as he’d been that morning.
Chapter 21
The lower district’snarrow alleyways and haphazard construction gave way to broad streets paved with fitted stone, each block carefully mortared and swept clean. Here, the air carried the pleasant scents of beeswax and fresh bread, leather goods and imported spices.
Timber-framed buildings rose three and four stories high, their plaster walls painted in warm creams and soft yellows, even brilliant reds and greens in some cases. Mullioned windows displayed the wares within: bolts of cloth, gleaming pewter, leatherbound books, and shoes newly cobbled, awaiting pickup.
Affluent figures chattered like songbirds, discussing business of importance in the same breath as common courtesies. As we continued on, businesses were replaced with large, accommodating houses. Each plot had its own share of a garden, a communal backyard of plentiful bounty. Ripe fruits dangled from the trees, perfectly within our reach. As we took handfuls, we found a bench to rest on.
I studied my collection. They looked like tomatoes, but I didn’t know of any tomatoes that grew from trees. The smell was different, too, almost like a peach.
“Persimmons,” Quinn explained. “You can eat them like apples.”
Nodding, I took a bite. The flavor was almost similar to honey and cinnamon, but with a woody note that threw off my comparison.
Nearby, a woman came out to do her laundry. She sang to herself, off-key but pleasant enough. I wondered what that felt like— to go out into the world and project myself with such ease, not a care in the world for who might overhear.
The woman sang one final, long note, more like she was calling someone than finishing any particular tune.
Quinn turned, then lurched back in fear, falling from the seat as a large yellow dog sprinted past. It barked wildly, running after the singing woman and pouncing on her with a fluffy, wagging tail.
I beheld the viscount’s new seat, tilting my head.
“B-bloody—” he stammered, leering over his shoulder until the dog and woman had returned to their home.“Maer de casterzo!”
I concealed a snicker. Quinn snapped his head up in a glare, pulling himself from the ground.
“Not funny.” He rubbed his rear, where the impact with the stone path had been concentrated. As I continued to stare, he released a lengthy sigh. “I don’t like dogs.”
I patted the seat beside me. The viscount obliged, sitting next to me once more, but he didn’t speak until he’d eaten a persimmon from the pile between us.
“When I was young, a wolfdog came from nowhere and attacked me,” he said, studying the pulp as he spoke. “My parents said dogs would never do such a thing unless provoked or rabid. I’d done nothing to anger the animal, so I had to assume the latter…”
Carefully, the viscount lifted his pantsleg and revealed a dreadful scar along his calf. I could clearly see the points where the teeth had punctured him and the way the beast must have thrashed him about.
“I was only eight, but I had no delusions of immunity. I spent days in agonizing fear, worried that I might have contracted madness. I still have nightmares, from time to time.”
To think of eight-year-old Quinn, terrified and alone with his fears...
Between that and his mother’s sickness, he certainly had his share of troubles. I frowned, turning my attention to the scar that bisected his left brow. I tapped it with a finger, tracing the healed wound with a careful tenderness.
He leaned almost imperceptibly into my touch, throat bobbing. For just a moment, his eyes fluttered closed before he jerked back, catching my wrist in his hand and gently lowering it.
