With a nod, Mistress Bell slipped out into the grey morning with her salt and her new story, and for a moment the hall was quiet.
Then Alyson whispered, “May I have honey bread now?”
“Wash,” Amelia said.
The child groaned as if cleanliness were persecution.
Everyone went back to their tasks. Dogs settled. Walter began muttering about the linen count. Hob cut bread with a knife that looked as if it had seen more battles than some knights. Huck poured watered mead from the jug someone had fetched, because apparently a friar could produce food, drink, theology, and social strategy at any hour of the day like a traveling tavern with opinions.
Thomas crossed to her while the household made itself busy pretending not to listen.
“You should have told me,” he said.
“I was going to.”
“When?”
“After I decided how much of it would make you look murderous.”
His jaw tightened. “Amelia.”
He was close enough now that she could see raindrops lingering in his hair and the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, lines carved not by age so much as guilt and responsibility. His cloak smelled of wet wool and cold air. The scar along his jaw was pale where the hearthlight touched it, and one hand flexed once at his side before going still.
He wanted to touch her. Or maybe she wanted him to so badly that she had invented the thought.
“If Belmaine is feeding this talk, he means to make trouble for you.”
“I know.”
His gaze hardened. “You are safe here.”
The words should have soothed her. They did, and that was the problem. They slid beneath her ribs and settled there, warm and heavy, in the place where common sense had once lived before Thomas Ashcombe came stomping through it in muddy boots.
“Because of you?” she asked softly.
His eyes held hers. “Aye.”
That simple aye did more damage than a speech would have.
Huck, curse him, chose that exact moment to pass behind them with the honey jar. “Protection is grand, but it sits better with bread.”
Thomas looked as though he might commit violence upon a friar, which Amelia was fairly certain carried religious consequences.
Huck handed her a slice of honeyed bread.
She took it because refusing would make Alyson cry and because her stomach, traitor that it was, had noticed breakfast had been several hours ago. The bread was coarse and warm, the honey floral and rich, catching at her fingers in golden threads.
“Winifred does good work,” she said.
“She does,” Huck said. “And she dislikes cowards, fools, and men who meddle near hives that are not theirs.”
Thomas’s gaze sharpened again. “What else have you heard?”
Huck’s humor faded. Even Hob stopped cutting bread.
“Men in murrey and gold were seen near the ridge again.”
The cold that went through Amelia had nothing to do with the brisk fall air.
