Page 51 of When the Sky Breaks

“You’re always safe with me,” Neal whispered into my hair.

And then suddenly someone was pounding on the door.

“Police, open up!” a man’s voice shouted.

We both startled. Neal put a hand over my mouth when I went to speak.

“Let me,” he whispered, grabbing his shirt and pants and heading to the door, revolver in hand.

“What do you want?” Neal asked, voice icy, barely cracking the door open.

“A certain Ansel O’Faelan wants you to bail him out of jail,” a man’s voice, presumably the sheriff, said in reply.

I groaned.

“Just a second,” Neal said, closing the door and tossing me my clothes.

“Ansel got arrested?” I asked, starting to get dressed.

“Seems like it,” Neal said, smile playing at the corners of his mouth. I tried not to bristle at his dark amusement. I was terrified. Both by the fact that if Ansel ended up in prison we’d be left navigating the entire journey to New York on our own before we could access Outer Court resources for support, and by the idea that the man we’d entrusted with our lives had somehow managed to land himself in jail the moment we left him unattended.

I pulled my dress over my head and let Neal fasten up the back, then hastily pinned my braids up into a knot.

“Okay,” I said, smoothing my skirts over my belly. “I’m decent.”

Neal opened the door, and I stared down the sheriff and his companions, projecting pure, entirely unwarranted, regal competence.

“Ansel O’Faelan wants you to come pay his bail,” the sheriff repeated.

“And I’m so sorry, but involvement with a crime does mean you’ll have to vacate the room,” the innkeeper said, a small man in spectacles, barely peeking out over the sheriff’s shoulder.

“What did he do?” I asked, voice still clear and composed even though I could feel myself starting to shake from heat, frustration, worry.

“H-h-he,” the sheriff stammered. I raised an eyebrow, didn’t break eye contact. “He insulted my sister, miss.”

“Ma’am,” I corrected him sharply.

“What did he say?” Neal asked.

“I’m sure he’ll inform you when you pick him up,” the sheriff replied.

Ansel—not unexpectedly—was completely nonplussed by the entire situation. He sat on a bench in the jail cell, composed and tidy as ever, chatting with the guard.

“Ah,” he said as Neal and I walked in. “Good timing. I’ve got the most splendid news.”

“You have splendid news?” I deadpanned. “Ansel, do I have to remind you that we are currently bailing you out of jail?”

“I’ll get to that in a minute.” Ansel waved me off. “I got us passage to New Orleans. First class. Thirty percent discount. All thanks to my new friend Alfred here!”

He gestured at the guard.

“My pop works for the steamer line,” Alfred said sheepishly, “and your friend was real well behaved.”

“What did you do?” Neal asked as we left the sheriff’s office.

“Oh I called his sister a conceited old cow,” Ansel said casually. Neal and I stopped dead.

“Why?” I asked—morbid curiosity.