“No, I said that thirteen-year-old boys are known for their stupidity. I know. I was a thirteen-year-old boy once, too.” He paused in his knitting and leaned forward. “I don’t want you to get mixed up in the sort of things that go on here. I promise, it isn’t worth it.”
I looked across the room to where Peter was leaning over a map with Roderick, both speaking in hushed tones and not paying us the slightest bit of attention. “Peter’s my friend.”
“Peter is a con man. He doesn’t have any real friends,” Lochlan insisted in that low voice. “He will use anyone he can and only thinks about himself. Don’t ever trust him. Don’t trust any of us.”
“Peter saved my life,” I said stubbornly. “I’m staying until I return the favor. Are you sure you don’t want any water?”
Lochlan sat back. “I’m sure, and I hope you are prepared for what’s coming.” He watched me walk out the door to get water, and his eyes were still fixed on me when I re-entered.
After a few more hours, my eyelids were drooping and Roderick ordered everyone to go to sleep. There was no extrabed for me, so I curled up on the floor’s wooden slats in the corner by the stove.
“How are your accommodations?” Peter called from across the house.
“This bed is too hard,” I joked. “But I’ll get used to it.”
CHAPTER 8
After a great deal of deliberation, Roderick and Peter assigned me to work with Lochlan at his knitting booth the next day while they went on some mystery errand related to the shipment. Before going, I’d firmly instructed myself not to think of Lochlan as anything other than another target, but my chest kept tightening each time I saw him, and I immediately decided that I hated the giddy sensation that swept through me each time Lochlan caught me looking at him.
The small handcart creaked in protest as Lochlan and I hauled it along the narrow forest path, its wheels catching on roots and stones so that the contents kept getting jostled around and the table we’d loaded into it jutted over the side a few inches. Burlap sacks filled with yarn and neatly stacked bundles of scarves weighed the cart down slightly, the smell of wool wafting about in the cool air. Lochlan leaned into the handles, while I walked ahead, clearing branches off the trail and kicking rocks out of the way to make the path easier for him.
“Why do you do a knitting booth?” I asked him, trying to keep the conversation casual. “Do you make a lot of money with it?”
“Hardly,” Lochlan said with a slight grunt as one of the handcart wheels bumped over a root. “But it’s a convenient outlook post, and the Nightsworn would never suspect a man who knits scarves and socks.”
“I’ve seen the Nightsworn,” I told him, bouncing along at his side. “Those are the king’s rangers or spies, right? And they can arrest people.”
“Right. So stay out of their way and keep your head down.”
“Is that why Roderick and Peter didn’t come with you?” I asked slyly. “The Nightsworn watch for them, don’t they?”
“You really shouldn’t talk so much,” Lochlan told me. “It’s prudent to listen more than you speak. You never know who might overhear you.”
“So then why are weactuallyhere?” I asked, kicking up clods of dirt as I walked along. “I won’t tell anyone.” I mimed locking my lips and throwing away the key.
Lochlan shot me a look. “It’s easier to move products when everyone thinks you’re harmless. And on that note, if anyone comes and asks about alpaca yarn, you let me handle them directly, understand?”
“Sure thing,” I said breezily. “I don’t like alpacas anyway. They make me sneeze.”
The market was already awake when we rattled in. Animals let out bleats, barks, and clucks; goods were already being set out; and the air was sharp with the smell of smoke from breakfast fires. Lochlan guided the handcart into a gap between a honey seller and a woman peddling chipped crockery near the intersection of two roads.
“This is a good spot,” he said, coming to a halt. “Here, help me with the table.”
We unloaded the table and began setting up, arranging the display with skeins of yarn and knitted goods in attractively placed piles.
“Put these purple socks over there,” Lochlan instructed me, handing me a pair of blue stockings.
I took them, puzzled. “You mean blue?”
“Right, right,” he mumbled. “Just put them over there. And don’t touch this basket.” He set a wicker basket loaded with extra fluffy yarn below the tablecloth, hidden from the customers’ sight. He arranged a different yarn basket next, humming under his breath, mixing reds with greens, blues with grays, all entirely wrong in terms of color coordination, and yet he was completely confident as he did so. Finally, he took out a sign that saidHandknits. Fair Price.and propped it up near the front of the booth. “Where did that green scarf go?”
I looked all around the booth and even went to check in the cart but couldn’t find a single green scarf. “Did we leave it back at the cottage?” I asked, lifting baskets and shifting around piles of yarn to look underneath.
“Never mind, I found it,” Lochlan said, pulling out a long scarf that was a rather ugly brown color.
A suspicion niggled at the back of my head. “Can you not see color?” I asked, a smile quirking at the side of my mouth.
“I see color just fine,” Lochlan grouched. “Everyone else just seems to disagree with me on what color it is that I see. And remember, if anyone asks for alpaca?—”
