The words were Walter’s. Or might as well have been.
Thomas’s jaw hardened. “I can afford less than I’d like.”
“This isn’t a joke.”
“No,” he said. “It is not.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“Then you know I’m right.”
“I know you’re frightened.”
Her chin lifted. “That’s not an argument.”
“It wasn’t meant as one.”
“Good, because it’s a terrible argument. I am frightened. I’d be an idiot not to be frightened. I have no papers, no family, and a wardrobe that’s itchy. I’m also not wrong.”
Against his will, his mouth twitched. “Itchy?”
“It’s a technical term.”
“I shall inform Edith.”
“Please don’t. She’ll tell me wool builds character, and I already have all the character I can safely manage before supper.”
There she was. Only a glimpse. A small flash of the woman who had once informed him that eating off trenchers was a health code violation, then tried to explain health codes to Hob, who had listened with the solemn horror of a man hearing of a French invasion.
Then she looked back toward the hall, and the moment shuttered.
“Belmaine is using me,” she said. “Or he will.”
“Aye.”
“You said no because he made the bargain about me.”
“I said no because it was no bargain worth having.”
“That sounds noble.”
“It was anger, mostly.”
“That sounds more like you.”
This time the smile did reach him, brief and rough. “You wound me.”
“I’ve seen you repair a cart wheel, terrify a tax collector, and make three grown men stop arguing over a goat by looking at them. I think you’ll survive.”
“I was not terrifying the escheator.”
“You absolutely were.”
“He arrived terrified. I merely maintained conditions.”
A reluctant laugh escaped her, and it was so much like light spilling through a cracked door that Thomas nearly forgot himself and reached for it.
