Thale closes his eyes as if he’s bracing himself. “Tell… me.”
I hold out my hands about twelvenicsapart. “It was a blade, but it looked like a piece of ice, about this big. But there was no dripping as if it was melting? I can’t say I’ve ever seen anything like it before.”
Thale breaks off from me and paces around again. He holds his top hat with both hands, and his brows are drawn so tightly together, they seem to curl his upper lip, his white teeth making an appearance.
“What kind of knife is it?” I ask.
He stops and stares at the closed shutters. “It’s made from a chip off the Crystal Gate.”
Thale stares at those floorboards, as if he can see down through to the trestle table and who sits around it. When he finally glances in my direction, Inote the way he avoids my eyes and wonder about all the people I’ve looked at thusly over the course of these many years.
“You do all this, just to protect a stranger?” he asks. “Or is there more of a story.”
“The maid is being beaten and raped. Isn’t that enough of a ‘story.’ In fact, all your maids need protection—and you’re going to have to be more careful who you hire next for the cook position. You need to take care of the girls you pay, not only those who bring in money to you.”
There’s a beat of silence. And then his voice softens with incredulity. “I wouldn’t have believed you, you know. If you hadn’t… you knew where one of my hidden pistols was. You knew the latch—there’s no way…”
“You will tell no one of this or who I am,” I say in a strong voice.
Thale laughs in a harsh burst and puts his hat back on. “Not a soul.Ever.”
With the gallantry of a nobleman, he bows to me and then straightens to his full height. “It shall be done. For all of them.”
I take another deep breath. “Thank you.”
For a moment, he just stares at me without meeting my eyes, his head tilting in what I recognize is a habit of his. Then he nods once and goes to the door. With every step, he becomes once more the man I first met by the stream, his shoulders moving back, his jaw extending out, his air of unquestioned authority like a cape that he pulls on about himself.
He pauses as he puts his hand on the knob. Then he says slyly, “How do you know I will have to hire a new cook?”
“I see deaths, remember.”
“And you have nothing to do with his demise?”
“I only have visions. I am no killer.”
His eyes slant over to Merc’s pack. “You know someone who is, however.”
When I don’t reply, that taunting smile returns to his lips. “You know, I think I shall let you in on a little secret. After all, someone as altruistic as you should get something for themselves every once in a while.”
“What secret would that be.”
Thale’s chuckle threads through the rain hitting the roof. “When your husband went to avail himself of Miss Bethle’s charms, he couldn’t perform. And without becoming indecent, allow me to say that I am very well versed on how… inspirational… she can be. I reckon he picked her because she looked like you, her blond hair so close to your own color. But apparently, the substitute does not hold a candle to the real thing.”
My breath catches. Is this true?
As the man just stares in my direction, I know it is, and there’s an uncoiling of tension in me that I cannot deny.
Thale’s half smile seems self-mocking. “Ah. It appears as though I have made good on something for once. I shall have to toast my virtue later—after I take care of a problem all my own thanks to you—”
A muffled voice cuts him off. “Sorrel. It’s me. Open up.”
“Speak of the devil,” Thale drawls as he ducks his hand into his fine jacketing, no doubt to secure a weapon. “Or rather… your husband.”
Fifty-SevenWhat Has Started, Finishes.
“Sorrel. Open up.”
Before I can respond, Thale opens the door. “Worry not, mercenary. My business here is done so I’m leaving.”
