The room tilted as Amelia gripped the edge of the basin.
Joan’s eyes went wider. “My lady?”
Dead. Father Odo was dead. The attestation had named a dead priest. There it was. Not freedom. Not yet. But a crack in the wall. A thin, glorious crack.
“Joan,” Amelia said, keeping her voice calm with both hands, “are you certain?”
“I only heard what Father Martin said. Then Sir Roger told him he had an uncharitable imagination.”
“Did Father Martin believe the document?”
Joan hesitated. “He said wax remembers what men forget.”
That sounded like a priestly way of saying absolutely not, the document was nonsense, and someone had been naughty with a seal.
Amelia almost smiled. Then she remembered Belmaine was not stupid. If Father Martin suspected forgery, he would be managed and silenced. Or worse.
“Where is Father Martin now?”
“In the chapel, mayhap. Or Sir Roger’s counting room.”
Joan twisted the linen in her hands. “You shouldn’t ask too many questions.”
“People keep telling me that.”
“Do you listen?”
“Rarely. It’s a character flaw.”
Joan looked impressed.
Amelia dried her hands, her brain coming alive so fast it nearly hurt. Belmaine’s house was filled with servants who saw things, heard things, carried things.
Thomas would be looking for proof while Walter would be clawing through the parchment like a starving badger. FriarHuck would talk to lots of priests and Hob would find someone to terrify.
Amelia’s job was to stay alive, stay untouched, and gather anything she could.
Also possibly not strangle Crale with her own wimple. Priorities.
A horn sounded faintly from the yard below as Joan flinched.
“What is it?”
“Only supper gathering.”
“Do prisoners get room service?”
Joan’s nose wrinkled. “Room what?”
“Food brought here.”
“Oh. Aye. Dame Margaret said you were not to go below unless Sir Roger commands it.”
“How generous.”
Joan collected the used linen. “Do you need anything else?”
A ladder. A lawyer. A working phone. Thomas’s face when he realized she was safe and he owed her at least thirteen apologies.
