Later I findBrynna in Lord Garran's study, alone at the great desk. Her ledgers are stacked in three neat towers, and she copies figures by lamplight like the numbers have personally offended her.
She doesn't look up. In fact, her pen keeps moving as she pointedly refuses to look up at me. "You'll want a room. Ask Harek." She’s cold, and the worst part is, I completely understand why.
"I want the ledgers.” My voice comes out a little hoarse, and I swallow. “The ones that you researched."
The pen stops. At least I have her attention
"I'm going home in the morning," I say, feeling a little stronger. "And I'm taking your research with me. My suppliersare in those pages. My friends' landlords. My street. You did this work for the trade council and the Crown, and I know you’re trying to go about this the right way. But the people being strangled by it are women who have never seen a shipping manifest in their lives. They deserve to know what's being done to them before some magistrate does."
Brynna sets down her pen.
She looks at me for the first time since we left my shop. Her face is cold. Her eyes are red around the edges, but I know that she would rather eat the ledger than admit she's been crying. Every one of the Oakenshade women are strong.
"You had months to ask him," she says.
"Yes."
She sits back and crosses her arms, her gaze hard and pointed at me. "I sat in your shop with my notebook. Twice a week, sometimes. You matched my thread." Her voice doesn't rise. Brynna's voice never rises. It just gets more exact, like honing a blade or sharpening a quill. " I told people you were the most honest craftswoman I’d ever worked with.”
I fight the urge to flinch.
Brynna must see that, because she averts her eyes, like she’s disgusted with me. “I don’t know what to do with the fact that you were too afraid to ask one question."
The words hurt. They should.
"I know."
"I don't forgive quickly." She folds her hands on the desk and glances back at me. "Perhaps I am built wrong for it, but I need you to understand that before you ask me for anything from here on out."
I hold her eyes, even though every part of me wants to look away. "I'm not asking you to forgive me. I'm asking for the numbers." I lean forward and put my hands on her desk, puttingmy gaze closer to hers. Regardless of how pissed she is at me, I need to know those numbers.
"Hate me when you have time, Brynna,” I say. “But whoever hollowed out Mirelle bears the same name as the family buying my street. You've proved half of it. My friends are living the other half. I want to put everything in one room and let us see the whole thing."
Brynna watches me for a long moment. Then her gaze moves to the three towers of paper.There’s the evidence.
"Which room?" she asks finally.
The question catches me by surprise. Her asking at least means she’s considering it. "My grandmother's cottage. Thistle Lane." That gets her attention. "My friends deserve to know. Starling Vale deserves to know,” I say, stronger. “They deserve to be there to see everything. I want them to be there, and Grammy’s is the most neutral place.” It’s not my shop, where I think even Brynna would raze it to the ground, and it’s not at Oakenshade Hall, which would require them to travel. Not to mention, I don’t think I’d be able to handle the Oakenshade family’s scrutiny while we go over the ledgers.
I need to do this on my own.
“If we're mapping what they've bought, we start with the one property they couldn't buy. And that’s my Grammy’s.”
Brynna's eyes sharpen. She is still angry. Good. Anger is useful, especially when you’re searching for a needle in a haystack.
"And then what?" she asks.
“And then we have our evidence to do something about Voss Textiles. We have retribution for what happened with Mirelle.”
She frowns. "This doesn't mend anything between us."
My heart drops. "I know."
"Good." She dips the pen into the ink. "Go to bed, Lissy. I'll have copies ready by morning. You'll need the cart."
It isn't forgiveness. But she's thinking about my ride home, and from Brynna, tonight, that's as close to a truce as I'm going to get.
I stop at the study door and look back at her, small and straight-backed in the lamplight, the only Oakenshade whose anger I understand from the inside. I don't say thank you. She'd hate it.
