Eliza was no physician, but the stiffness, swelling, and coloring, paired with his sweaty brow and occasional shivers… The man was not well.
He hadn’t yet said anything to the others. Eliza had learned Stark well enough in their short acquaintance to know he possessed not an ounce of subtlety in his entire body—if he had suspected that Draycott was ill, he would have voiced it. And this Enys had hardly glanced at the man before he curled up to sleep.
She was relieved. After all, Draycott could hardly act on his threats in his current state, and that had been the most immediate of her worries.
Of course, after almost a day without, she was desperately thirsty. The stone jug of ale on the seat between Enys and Draycott tempted her fiercely.
When Enys let out another earth-shaking snore, she decided the drink was worth the risk of waking them.
Her breath caught as she stood slowly, carefully. She braced herself with one hand against the roof. Once she was secure, she leaned over and with one hand slipped her littlest finger in the ring that jutted from the its neck. Straightening, she lifted the jug before clutching it to her chest with both arms as she flopped back onto her seat.
The ale burned down her throat, and for one aching second she tasted not sour yeast but the smoky warmth of Benedict’s flask, felt the brush of his fingers against hers.
Eager, she took several great, heavy gulps before reminding herself that drunkenness would not improve her situation. Reluctantly, she forced herself to stopper the jug and set it beneath her feet.
She settled back against the worn seats to resume her unending, mindless staring. As she turned to the window, a glint caught her eye. When the carriage rocked again in another rut, the moonlight struck it perfectly.
There, in Draycott’s coat pocket, was the tip of Bella’s hairpin.
Eliza’s heart stopped, her gaze flicking back and forth as though such a profound moment of revelation would have woken even the men.
But no, Enys still snored, and Draycott still trembled.
Her heart started again, this time tripping at a gallop. Could she do it? Could she risk it?
Sneaking the ale was one thing—she was almost certain they would have given it to her if she’d asked. The greatest risk she took was waking them, reminding them of her existence, perhaps having it taken away.
But if she were armed…
The tentative truce she’d formed with Stark, if only in her head, would be over. He preferred her to be alive, but he wouldn’t risk his own safety for it, of that she was certain.
Draycott was unwell, feverish, and those sorts of men could be unpredictable.
The only thing she knew about Enys was that he snored like a bear.
Still, the temptation was impossible to ignore, glinting with every bump and dip. Her only chance of defending herself.
Her fingers twitched in anticipation, but she dragged in another slow breath.
She would need somewhere to hide it but still be able to draw it quickly. Draycott might notice it, recognize it in her hair. Which definitely resembled a bird’s nest at the moment—any change to it would be notable. Her dress had no pockets. She certainly couldn’t use it if she lost it under the petals of her skirt.
Frantically, she patted at her person and then she felt the slight shift of her corset.The busk. The hairpin was no wider than her busk.
Eliza reached down and worked the wood from the pocket. Once her busk was free, she glanced around. The men likely wouldn’t recognize it for what it was, but she wasn’t interested in taking a chance. She tucked it behind her, deep between the squabs and the seat.
Still, the men did not stir. Enys’s rattling breaths remained strong and even. Draycott’s sleep was fitful, but that was no great change.
She was as prepared as she could be. With a fortifying inhale, she stood again and braced her hand on the roof. Her breath caught deep in her chest.
Eliza leaned as far as she dared, stretching. With the thumb and forefinger of her free hand, she caught the edge of the pin. Hope and dread filled her. She would need to slide it backward to avoid turning the pocket.
One inch, two… and she slid it forward before having to release it. She pinched the pin farther down its hilt and tugged it back, back, until it hung, balanced precariously, from the pocket.
Draycott shuddered.
Eliza froze, heart struck her throat.
She waited, not moving a single hair, until he settled back in place. This time she reached for the end of the pin and snatched it away before plopping onto her bottom. With the pin tucked in her skirt petals, she stilled. For two or three long minutes, she waited for any sign of awareness. When she was certain they were still asleep, she reached up and slid the flat metal pin-knife into her busk pocket.
