“She would,” Amelia said, wiping beneath one eye. “She’d bring a ladle.”
“Likely the heavy one.”
The sword lay between them, gleaming.
Thomas touched the table edge. “Is it a threat to you?”
Amelia stared at the sapphire. “No.”
“To Ashcombe?”
“No.”
“To me?”
Her eyes flew to his. “Yes.”
Hob muttered, “That’s less comforting.”
Thomas didn’t move. “How?”
Amelia’s lips parted. No words came. Then she looked at the sword again, and he somehow saw the answer without understanding it. The blade was not a threat because it could cut. It was a threat because it could take.
Thomas’s skin went cold.
“What is it?” he asked, softer.
Amelia wrapped her arms around herself. “It’s a door.”
Hob crossed himself and shut the door to the solar.
Rain began against the shutters, though when they had entered the solar, there had been sun and not a cloud in the sky. The new sound was faint, a tapping at first, then a patter, then the low roll of thunder beyond the hills.
Amelia heard it too. “No,” she whispered.
The sapphire flashed.
Thomas looked down as blue light moved in the stone, so faint he might have doubted it had he not seen Amelia’s face.
Hob swore, softly and with great feeling.
The latch lifted.
Thomas had his sword half-drawn before Friar Huck pushed into the solar, breathing hard, robes hitched above his ankles,rain in his beard and a small jar of honey clutched in one hand as if he had been summoned from some urgent negotiation with bees. He took one look at the sword and stopped dead.
“Well,” Huck said softly. “That’s not natural.”
Amelia made a strangled laugh that was perilously close to a sob.
Thomas glared at Hob.
Hob lifted both hands. “I did not fetch him.”
“The bees did,” Huck said.
Thomas closed his eyes for half a breath.
“Huck.”
