Page 97 of When the Sky Breaks

“Glad to hear it,” I said, taking the files Ansel handed me without breaking eye contact.

“We liked your father,” said another, this one named Matthew Eckert, sandy-blond hair, tan skin, and shorter beard.

“Then you should like her,” Ansel said drolly. “She’s got all of Cormac’s more admirable qualities but smokes far less and is just argumentative enough to be a good time.”

“Speaking of arguments,” I said, opening the folder Ansel had given me, “you have a peryton problem. And you don’t want us on your land.”

“That about covers it,” Matthew said.

“See, I don’t care how you get rid of this particular herd of giant, suicidally idiotic, flying deer. But I do need you to get rid of them. Efficiently,” I said. “Infestations are heavily correlated with accident risk, and populations too close to human habitation up disease incidence as well. If you know what to do and feel confident it won’t interfere with any of the human settlements near your mining operation? Fantastic. If not—we can discuss options.”

The four Ironmoot men exchanged a glance.

“Options might be good,” one admitted, Timothy Paxton, the youngest by a significant margin.

“It really depends on your confidence level and also your budget,” I said.

“Budget?” Albert asked, raising an eyebrow. “Who said anything about a budget?”

“You did,” I said. “Implicitly. When you refused to let us handle the problem on our terms. So now either we can send you with materials on how to deal with our flying ungulate problem or send you a consultant—who’s not to step onto your official land allotment—to field questions in person. Fee schedule is on the sheet Ansel gave you before we started our meeting.”

And I simply leaned back in my chair and waited, trying very hard not to look smug.

The four men murmured amongst themselves and exchanged a couple of pointed glances.

“Consultant please,” Caldwell said.

“Fantastic,” I replied. “I’ll have someone bring paperwork over tomorrow morning for you to sign. Anything else?”

A long moment passed in silence.

“In that case I hope you have a lovely day. Address is at the bottom of our contract in case you need us,” I said, letting Ansel help me up and following him to the door.

“Were you expecting her to play hardball?” I heard Paxton murmur under his breath.

“I was expecting a young, pregnant, scared little housewife,” Caldwell replied. “I got Cormac Wilson with ten times the balls.”

I couldn’t help but smile.

“Are we entirely certain I have to go?” I asked for what must have been the fifth time.

I sat slouched in my office, nursing my third cup of tea that day. Neal perched on the desk, hand absently tracing circles on my knee. Ansel leaned back against the windowsill, the picture of confidence.

“Yes,” Ansel repeated, “you do have to go.”

“But what am I doing there?” I asked.

“Having tea,” Ansel said.

“And what? Signing a treaty? Negotiating a trade deal? Why do I have to be there?” I pressed.

“Because aristocratic women are nosy and bored,” Ansel said, “and you have already created more than your share of scandal by marrying your Steward, disappearing without a trace, and then showing up across the country, nearly five months pregnant.”

“And how many of those actions were your idea?” I challenged.

“That does not matter,” Ansel replied. “What matters is you have to show up. Or it will seem like you’re hiding, and hiding undermines confidence.”

“None of my new dresses are done.” I was fairly certain that argument wouldn’t help, but I had to try.