“Unfortunately, I think I might,” she said with a sigh. “Open the door, please.”
The warder gave her a long look, but the Dowager’s orders were stronger than his sense of propriety. He fumbled a key out of his key ring and opened the door.
The walkway was shorter than the one through themurderer’s row, the cells smaller. All of them were empty. Slate stepped into the hall, feeling the flagstones cold and slippery underfoot.
She walked to the end, to the single occupied cell, and turned to look at the prisoner.
Rosemary hit her so strongly that she nearly choked. Slate had to throw her sleeve across her suddenly dripping nose. If it had smelled like crushed leaves before, now it was as if someone had poured purest rosemary oil directly into her nasal passages.
She choked on a sneeze. Bad things happened in the back of her throat.
Fine. Fine. Igetit.
It was a very small cell with no windows.
The prisoner was a tall, dark-haired man with a shaggy growth of beard. His age was indeterminate, but she wouldn’t put him over forty, probably less. The beard didn’t help, and he was far back in the shadows.
He was sitting with his back against the wall, watching her with unreadable eyes.
Slate tried to say, “Excuse me,” snuffled, and sneezed twice.
An eyebrow went up, but he didn’t say anything.
I suppose “Bless you,” is a little much to ask under the circumstances.
“Are you—damn—urrrggghhkk—” Her tongue pressed itself to the roof of her mouth as rosemary stormed the castle of her sinuses. There were no survivors.
She sneezed until she could sneeze no more. Her eyelids ached. She put her hands over her face.
“I’d offer you a handkerchief, but I’m fresh out,” the prisoner said. He had a dry, abrasive voice. “I’m sorry if the smell offends you.”
“It’s not—” she waved a hand, still scrubbing at her traitorous nose and watering eyes. “It’s—snorgggk—allergies. Sorry.”
The other eyebrow went up, whether at the allergies or the apology. Slate wondered if it mattered which one. He didn’t say anything.
She got herself under control, sniffled a few times, and put one hand on the bars. “What are you in for?”
The prisoner looked away contemptuously.
“He killed eight nuns and two guards,” said the warden behind her. She could hear the glower without turning around.
“In fairness,” said the prisoner, holding up a finger, “it was three nuns and five novices. And Iwaspossessed at the time.”
“Possessed?” she repeated, barely registering the word. He looked intelligent enough, at least compared to the alternatives, and the odds of their success hinging on his ability to, say, do long division in his head seemed unlikely.I’ve got that bit covered anyway.There was muscle enough on his frame for her purposes, but there was a slight hunch to his shoulders that worried her.
She moved suddenly, experimentally, and he flinched. Only a fraction, barely noticeable, but she’d been watching for it.
He’s not broken, but he’s got something. Shock, maybe. Definitely damaged goods. Could just be from being locked in here for a while, though. Hmm.
Still, I’m only asking him to die, not reintegrate with society, so maybe that won’t matter. I suppose being possessed could be problematic.
Unless it helps.
The rosemary smacked her again. She turned away from the cell, groping for a handkerchief that, at this point, provided only emotional support.
“Snerrrghghk…”
“Generally, the gawkers actually know who they’re looking at,” the prisoner said. “If the temple is sending women to minister to me in my hour of need, they might consider screening them better.”
