Shana frowned at me. “From whom?”
“Someone who loves fish. Do we have any meat?”
I came back to my study carrying a small plate with a chunk of not-ham on it. I put the plate on the desk.
I should probably hide.
The study didn’t offer many hiding opportunities. It was mostly shelves and small chests. There was a larger chest in my bedroom for spare linens and blankets. I went into my bedroom, pulled the linens out, and climbed into the chest. From there I could see a chunk of the study with my desk and the plate of meat on top of it. I closed the lid. Claustrophobic, but tolerable.
I climbed out, got the knife I used as a bookmark, and wedged it between the lid and the rim. The lid closed, leaving a half-inch gap. I checked it from my desk. It didn’t look suspicious. You would have to really pay attention to notice the lid.
I got into the chest, stuffed some linens into it to make a cushion, and closed the lid. Good enough. Comfortable even.
I settled in to wait. Sunshine flooded the study. The sounds of Reynald and the Magnar brothers sparring floated through the open window.
When we were in high school, Cheyenne had planned on being a high-powered business executive with cutting-edge fashion sense and an office in a skyscraper. She’d listen to this business guru motivational speaker who talked about “ideating” and thirty-thousand-foot views. One of his favorite mantras was “Stop. Look around. Take a deep dive and understand that your choices brought you where you are.”
I was sitting in a wooden chest in a house once owned by slavers in the middle of a magical city watching a plate with a chunk of meat because someone kept leaving fish on my desk. Which of my choices had landed me here, exactly?
I hadn’t thought about home once since I saw the body in the Dog Market. Guilt landed on me like a brick.
So much had happened.
Back home, having a stressful day had meant a customer got annoyed or one of the food delivery apps sneezed, so I had to hustle to make up the money. Here a stressful day meant trying to stop a serial killer and bargaining with a mercenary for the lives of your friends.
Were the Magnars my friends? I didn’t even know.
Sitting in the chest wasn’t good for my mental health. I dealt with anxiety by doing something: making soap, writing down scenes from the books, plotting, sneakily cleaning my room, reading the books in my study. Derog had a remarkably varied library.
There was nothing to do in the chest but contemplate the confrontation with the Butcher. I just sat here and marinated in apprehension.
A faint creak announced my door swinging open.
Here we go.
Kaiden walked into the study. He moved completely silently, walking on his toes. He hadn’t knocked and he didn’t seem to be in a hurry, so he wasn’t looking for me. He was sneaking in. Why? Everybody else was in the courtyard.
The boy glanced at the bedroom. He seemed to be looking straight at me.
I held my breath.
Kaiden turned away and went to my desk. He looked at the plate, tilted his head, looked at the not-ham from the side, frowned, and moved on. His hand glided over the desktop. He picked up something, looked at it, and walked out the same way he came, silent like a ghost.
Well then.
I gave it five seconds, climbed out of the chest, and checked my desk. My favorite reed pen, the one that didn’t scratch the paper, was gone.
I slipped my shoes off and padded down the hallway toward Kaiden’s room barefoot. His door was cracked open. He must’ve thought he was completely alone up here, so he hadn’t bothered locking it. I pushed it with my fingertips, revealing a simply furnished room: a bed sitting against the wall, a desk with a chair, and some shelves Will had installed. They were mostly bare except for a single book and a weird rock. Several locks waited on the desk with the lock-picking tools Gort had made neatly arranged in the lower right corner.
Kaiden sat on his bed with my reed pen in his fingers. A large chest stood open by his feet.
He looked up. Panic shivered in his eyes. He stared at me like a frightened rabbit.
I kept my voice soft. “Want to tell me about it?”
He sighed and pushed the chest toward me. I came over and looked. An assortment of items lay inside: a worn knife sheath, a random lock I’d found in the study, a whetstone, a shaving brush, an arrowhead, one of Shana’s wooden spoons, a wooden hairpin I’d seen Clover use . . .
I pointed at the sheath. “Is that Reynald’s?”
