There was a fifth man in a guard’s uniform, standing at the base of the stairs, his gaze snapping up from the four men unconsciousby the wall to rest on the group of women standing at the entrance to the cells.
“Ambrose,” said Olivia, her tone neutral. “You’re not due on duty for an hour. What are you doing here?”
Ambrose stared at her, his mouth slightly open. He gave his head a shake, as though trying to wake himself from a dream, but not succeeding. “I thought I’d come down and see Harlan,” he said, pausing to swallow hard. “Is he dead?”
“Dead?” Olivia sounded mildly insulted. “Only amateurs resort to murder at the first hurdle.” She nodded to the basket she’d left by the foot of the stairs. “I truly wish you’d eaten a tart too, though.”
“Dairy’s no good for my insides,” he said absently, looking back at the man he’d come to distract from his duties.
Olivia’s hand started to move slowly behind her back, to the place where Isobelle knew from experience there was a knife secreted in the folds of her dress at the waist.
Reaching across, she closed her hand over Olivia’s wrist in silent instruction. The woman’s eyes slid sideways, but with a long-suffering expression, she gave a little nod that invited Isobelle to try her luck.
“Ambrose, was it?” Isobelle asked, lifting her veil and stepping forward to unleash her very best smile on the man. Though it was probably wasted, if he’d been here to visit Harlan.
“Y-yes, my lady—Ambrose Miller,” the man stammered, trying to both bow and keep his eyes on Olivia at the same time, shuffling back and nearly tripping on the bottom step. Olivia snorted, none too softly, but Isobelle pressed on.
“I’m sure you’re surprised to see us here. May I commend you on your excellent manners? It’s such a delight to—”
To her surprise, he held up a hand to cut her off, straightening his posture. “My lady, I know you’re about to ask me to let you all by, and you have to know I can’t do that. These women are in the custody of Lord Whimsitt, and I am his sworn man.”
This was going to be difficult. Not impossible, certainly—Isobelle saw initial refusals as more of an opening gambit than a final position—but time wasn’t on their side. As she was trying to choose her best line of attack, a voice came from behind her. Gwen’s voice.
“Where are you from?”
He blinked, craning his neck to see who was speaking from the back of the group. “What?”
“Where are youfrom?” Gwen repeated, keeping to the back of the group of women. The rest of them remained silent—too tired or too fearful to speak. Or perhaps willing to trust the ones who’d got them this far.
“Nether Foxholm,” Ambrose said slowly.
“Then you’re a village boy,” Gwen said.
“Aye.”
“And you know what it will mean to these women’s families to lose them. What it will mean to their children to be motherless. What it will mean to their husbands to find themselves alone.”
“I...” Ambrose trailed off. He had no answer for that.
“You grew up around bonfires,” Gwen continued, her voice still low, her face still hidden. “I won’t ask you to believe the story these women told, though I know you must have heard plenty like it. I won’t ask you to imagine a dragon sent them running here, knowing they’d be called mad. Just imagine what their homes will be like without them.”
Ambrose closed his eyes for a minute, lifting one hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.
Carefully, softly, Isobelle tried her luck. “Harlan will be well. He’s just taking a nap. I’m told the dreams are delightful. Couldn’t you take a nap too, Ambrose?”
“I’m not eating one of them tarts,” he muttered. “I’ll destroy the privy. I’ll just pretend.”
“And when it’s time to wake up...” Isobelle said delicately.
He didn’t look at them as he walked over to sit himself down beside his man, folding his arms across his chest as he prepared to pretend to sleep. “I’ll say nothing,” he muttered. “Go, get somewhere safe.”
And so they did, without risking another word. Quietly the group of them filed up the stairs, and when they reached ground level, Olivia signaled to the village women to follow her. They paused, though, and the gaunt leader who’d come first to the cell door turned to look at Isobelle and Gwen.
“Thank you,” she said simply, and Isobelle, finding her throat had an unexpectedly large lump in it, nodded.
“I’m sorry it took so long,” said Gwen softly.
The woman managed a tired smile for that. “All we can offer you by way of thanks is our warning,” she said, in her dry, tired voice. “Our words were true. Be ready.” And then she turned away.
