“Oh, I’m sorry,” snaps Shea, her patience frayed, “I must have missed that chapter in the handbook onmurder. I guess it’s only acceptable when it’s a head shot from a hundred yards away.”
Asher’s eyes go wide. “Parker, he tore out someone’s heart with his bare hands.”
“Oliver did?”
Their host has reappeared, a wide rattan tray in hand. Instinctively, both Asher and Shea go quiet. Poppy knits faster, avoiding the man’s gaze as he peers at each of them in turn.
“This is very troubling, if true.”
Asher says nothing. Neither does Shea.
Frowning, the man sets the platter onto the table, shuffling the contents into order. There’s a waxy truckle of cheese, a wedge cut loose. A sleeve of crackers and a handful of nuts. A large copper kettle rests on a shallow trivet, steam rising from the spout. Taking a seat in a nearby rocking chair, he regards them across the top of his spectacles.
“Please,” he says, gesturing toward the tray. “Help yourselves. And perhaps while you do you can fill me in on what happened to Oliver.”
“It was a private conversation,” says Asher tightly.
“Of course.” The man smiles. “You’re reluctant to share sensitive information with a stranger. I understand. In that case, let’s begin with introductions. Perhaps, by the end, we won’t be strangers anymore.”
“I don’t need an introduction,” says Asher. “I know who you are. You’re Egor van Haut.”
Egor’s eyes sparkle. “Oliver told you about me?”
“He didn’t. But your property is pretty clearly marked on the geospatial maps back at the garrison. Anyone stationed out this way has strict orders to stay at least sixteen klicks from the border on all sides.”
“And yet here you are,” Egor notes.
Asher’s expression tightens. “I’m on leave.”
“You mean to say you’re a fugitive.” Egor tips back in his chair, fingers laced over his stomach. “Don’t worry. As someone who has long been morally opposed to some of the more—oh, what should we call them—sadistic methods employed by the wood watch, you won’t hear any criticism from me. Although I’ll admit Oliver makes a strange ally for a soldier.”
“We have a shared interest,” says Asher.
“Do you? Intriguing.” Egor’s eyes drift to Shea as he reaches for the kettle. Water pours into a set of chipped porcelain cups, steam releasing into the air in thin tendrils. “Does anyone take sugar in their tea?”
“I’m set,” says Asher.
“None for me, thank you,” says Poppy, who has stopped knitting to pick at a handful of almonds.
“Suit yourself.” Egor spoons out three lumps of sugar into his cup and sits back, his chair creaking beneath him as he stirs it in. His eyes find Shea for the second time in as many minutes. “How about you? A cup of tea is an excellent remedy for mild hypovolemia.”
“Blood loss,” says Poppy, in response to the look of confusion that plays across Shea’s face. “Youdolook a little sweaty, Shea.”
“I’m fine.”
“There’s no need to be ashamed,” says Egor. “You wouldn’t be the first human to form a symbiotic bond with one of Oliver’s kind.”
Symbiotic.Another ugly word for this ugly thing they’ve done. Her stomach turns over. She can’t bring herself to look at Asher at all.
“That’s not what— It isn’t—” She falls off, flustered. “I’mfine.”
“Drink,” insists Egor, gesturing to the still-steaming cups. “You’ll feel better.”
Sensing it would be rude to turn him down a third time, Shea leans forward and takes a cup from the tray. The porcelain is hot in her hands, and she breathes in the flowery scent of hibiscus. Several yellow shoots swim to the top. It makes her think of her mother, trimming the blossoms from the calendula out back. Pressing the petals between the pages of a book.Good for fever.
“Thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure.” Egor smiles affably at her over the lip of his cup. “Now, if nobody minds, I’d like to direct the conversation back to our mutual friend. Oliver killed someone. Who?”
