Page 86 of Crown of Tides and Fury

“I’m glad they’re dead.”

I said nothing.

“And if Griffon knew…”

“He knows. I’m sure he saw my statement after we fled the police station.”

Wickham shook his head. “He doesnae ken the half of it.”

I gripped the doorframe until it bit into my fingers. “And he never will.”

* * *

I foundAlwyn in the butler’s pantry pulling tiered serving trays from the cabinets. Afternoon Tea, which was a light meal he served around two o’clock, smelled like buttery croissants, warm jam, and toasted sesame seeds. I knew every bite would make me feel guilty.

“Wickham’s ready for you,” I said, unable to look him in the eye. “Might take a while, he’s getting tired. So I wouldn’t leave anything in the oven if I were you.”

“The lassies can see to tea,” Alwyn said, as we passed the open door of the kitchen. He paused long enough to ensure Meral and Reem had heard him.

I stuck my head in. “I’ll be back for you when we’re done,” I said, hoping it was true. I didn’t want it to be Alwyn either, but if there really was a spy in the house, everyone else had been ruled out, except for the source of a certain pinfeather. “Parlor,” I said, when he veered toward the dining room.

He walked like a man who wasn’t worried. I walked like an unwilling executioner, dragging an impossibly heavy ax behind me.

Wickham stood when we entered and pointed to the seat I’d vacated on the couch, which Alwyn took. I sat at the opposite end, close enough to jump up and put myself between them if Wickham lost his mind. I could imagine how that might not go so well for me, but he’d asked me to stay for just such a possibility. How could I disappoint him?

“This shouldnae take long.” Wickham’s voice was flat. Alwyn would assume it was due to fatigue. I knew he was already trying to restrain himself. “It will help if ye relax. I’m only after recent memories.”

“Not worried,” the chef said. “I trust ye.” He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and leaned his head back.

I checked the clock and mentally crossed my fingers.

Wickham scowled at the man, then leaned his elbows on his knees, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply. I imagined him walking through a maze of walls made of handwritten recipes, looking for something out of place. Looking for memories of someone…wearing gold.

Alwyn shifted in his seat. I glanced up at the clock. Five minutes had passed.

Another five. Alwyn shifted again, but never complained. A minute later, he snored and woke himself, glanced at Wickham, then shut his eyes again.

Finally, Wickham’s eyes opened, but he didn’t sit back. His change in breathing was enough to signal to Alwyn that it was over. The latter opened his eyes and smiled. “I reckon I should meditate more often. Quite relaxin’.”

Wickham remained silent.

Alwyn quickly sobered. “What is it, son?”

Wickham shook his head, searched Alwyn’s eyes, his face, then let his gaze roam to his feet and back up again, like a butcher studying a side of beef, wondering which cut to make first. I shifted to the edge of the cushion, prepared to jump between them. I couldn’t sit back and watch one friend tear another one apart, no matter what the chef might have done.

Then Wickham’s face changed again, lightened, despite a scowl. “Alwyn?”

Alwyn was nervous now. He crossed his legs, his arms. “Aye?”

Wickham pointed to the name stitched into the pristine chef’s coat. “Who does the kitchen laundry?”

“Bamburgh’s. Same as always. Unless we’re in lockdown. Then I do it.”

“And do all of yer coats have yer name?”

“Not all. Perhaps half.”

“They know ye well, there, at Bamburgh’s?”

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