Her hands moved with their usual steadiness. Still, her expression made me ask, “What’s the matter?”
“Mary was good?”
“She was fine,” I said. “A fainting spell worthy of Drury Lane.”
Amelia sipped her wine. “Anything unusual at the shop?”
I studied her. Her tone told me that this second question was why she’d held me back.
I drank the wine—bitter to my tongue—and thumbed the corners of my mouth to remove any purplish stain. Mary and I would deal with Sid, so there was no need to mention him being late. And if I told Amelia about the detective, Amelia might wonder if Mary was fit to work. “No,” I lied.
“Did you see more constables than usual?”
I answered, honestly, “We didn’t see any.”
“Good.” Amelia’s face relaxed into a smile. In silence, we finished our wine, and she corked the wine bottle, putting it back inside the cupboard along with our glasses after wiping them with a towel. It was supper hour, and the jolly rowdiness rose through the floorboards. Amelia flapped her hand toward the door. “Get on with you, now. Have some fun, yeah?”
I made my way downstairs, pausing at the landing to observe the pub room below. A bright fire threw light fitfully, forming and dissipating shadows upon the beamed ceiling, the tattered chairs closest to the hearth, and the three long wooden tables that crossed the room, where men, women, and children crowded the benches. Card players sat at the square tables along the far wall. We thieves gathered by the fireplace. Sid watched worshipfully as Caleb drew a grand arc in the air with his glass of ale, telling a story that brought shouts of laughter. Mary watched him from the bar, her expression amused. He caught her eye and winked. Caleb flirted relentlessly with Mary, who was friendly with everyone, but she saw him for what he was—a fine-looking bloke, but shiftless, like most of the Castle men.
I started toward Mary and the bar, where people stood two deep. The barkeep, Pat Hollings, passed glasses of ale across the high wooden plank to open hands, the tattoos on his forearms rippling as he worked the taps, his thick fingers quick but not sloppy. While I waited my turn, I surveyed the room. It wasn’t family, but it was familiar to me.
Except at one of the tables sat a striking woman, new to the inn. She was about forty years of age, decently dressed in blue wool, her thick dark hair threaded with gray but still lustrous. Her countenance was lined around the mouth and at the brow, as if her life had been hard, but even so it was evident she’d once been a beauty, with large dark eyes under well-shaped brows, high cheekbones, a firm chin, and a full mouth. It was an arresting face, handsome rather than merely pretty. I might not recall people’s names, but I have a peculiar memory for faces, and I’d seen hers once before. Not here, and only briefly, some months ago, somewhere dim, as if I’d passed her on a bridge in the late afternoon or observed her in a market.
She sat at the end of a long table with a group of four women who gathered there daily, joining the conversation, laughing at their remarks, leaning in with her chin in her palm, as if she’d done it every Friday night since forever.
Her pretense of belonging made me wary.
I’m not one to ignore that feeling. I attend to it, for more than once it has kept me from choosing a poor mark or showing too much of my hand. Having the mother I did, I’m quick to detect when folks are acting a part or passing lies.
Perhaps the woman felt my stare, for suddenly she returned it. Her gaze sharpened, held, shifted away for a moment, then settled back on me, hardened, as if she recognized me somehow, or at least knew a good bit about me.
It set a chill like a cold finger at my neck.
Then she gave a bland, indifferent smile and turned back to her new friends, making me wonder if I’d imagined it.
Beside me, Mary nudged my arm. “What’s the matter?”
I started. “Ah, nothing.” I looked pointedly at Mary’s half-empty pot. “None for me?” I teased.
“I didn’t know how long Amelia would keep you. She asked about me?”
“Of course,” I said. “But she was more concerned about constables.”
“Constables?” She drew back. “I didn’t see any.”
“I didn’t, either. That’s what I told her.”
“Ah.” She raised her pot with a smile. “Well, get yours and come on.”
“I will.” I turned toward the bar. Like a tide, people shifted forward and back to make room for others, and I nudged in between old Connors, who raised a sloshy pint and belched his greeting, and Mrs. Wiggins, whose upper lip with its dark hairs held droplets of ale. Connors flung an arm around me, but I was ready and slithered away before he could squeeze my arse. Pat winked at me with his one good eye—the other having been put out years before in a ship’s brawl—and passed me a glass of ale, hoppy and bitter at once, which I drank down thirstily until it was half gone. Mrs. Wiggins stepped away and James Kinnon materialized beside me, his hazel eyes bright with laughter. “Hullo, Kit.”
“Hullo,” I replied. “Haven’t seen you in weeks.”
“I’ve been working extra.” He set his empty glass on the bar. “Took the afternoon off to help Emma fetch a shipment from the wharf.” He leaned in close with a show of sharing a confidence, though he had to speak up to make himself heard over the clamor. “Josie says you’re sticking your hands in men’s pockets now. It has Robbie all excited.” One side of his mouth curved up, and his voice was sly with teasing.
I rolled my eyes. “You can tell Robbie I won’t be sticking my hand in his pocket. I’m sure I’d be disappointed.”
He laughed and set his elbows beside mine, avoiding the spots sticky with spills. “How’ve you been? How’s Sarah?” He’d always had a soft spot for my sister. “Is she getting along?”
