Page 47 of The Courting of Bristol Keats
“No. There won’t be a next time. Sleep, Daiedes,” Tyghan ordered.
The snake’s stomach rumbled, and it rooted back into the frame, its dreams unsated for now.
Sometimes Tyghan thought the snake was useless. Daiedes was only two decades into his sentence, and had already forgotten he had once been a man. But the philanderer certainly hadn’t forgotten his lesson. Never cheat on a witch. Especially not the High Witch of Danu.
Tyghan walked up the stairs to his study. He avoided the room and hadn’t been back there in months. As soon as he stepped inside it again, he felt the room sway, like he had stepped back in time. Every corner was in shambles, ravaged by a madman who fell into a hole six months ago and was still trying to climb his way out. He couldn’t remember most of the time he had spent in there. But he remembered enough, the shadows and the voices.
He stepped out again and closed the door behind him, steadying himself against the wall. What had Keats thought when she saw it? What did she think of him now?
The contents seemed untouched, the thick dust undisturbed. Was Daiedes right? She was only a lost rabbit? Delusional? He doubted that.
I’ll do whatever I can to help.
Yes, she would. She couldn’t even begin to know the ways she might ultimately be useful. But as he dressed to meet her, he couldn’t shake her last expression of loathing. Her promise to do all in her power hadn’t come with extra strings attached. He was the one who had put them there.
Always angry.She was right about that much. Maybe he was afraid not to be.
CHAPTER 33
Whispers traveled as softly as downy feathers on a current of air.Knights are in the streets. Asking questions.
Of course, the knights tried to be discreet, but they rarely rode into the city in the morning, and never in such a hurry. Their white steeds breathed curling steam into the crisp air.They stopped to see Mae first, a red cap told a hob.And then they raced toward the east side.
Mae jingled the gold in her pocket as she slipped back into her shop. The gold brought her less satisfaction than it usually did, but gold was gold, after all. Only a fool passed up such an auspicious deal. Of course, it would only go into her hidden chest, as one never knew when a fortune might be necessary, and Mae had been stockpiling her riches for centuries.
Still, she wondered about the simple request and how it could possibly be worth ten pieces of gold.
Easiest money she ever made. Knights were fools.
Across the city, in a windowless room on Finvarra Bridge, a trow pleaded for his life, swearing he hadn’t spoken to the daughter, that he knew nothing about a Logan Keats. But the knight who broke into the tower room knew otherwise, knew this particular trow had been asking questions about Bristol, that he had a loose tongue and would give up his own mother for a piece of silver.
“Whether you do or you don’t, this will ensure that you say nothing—and send a message to other trows of your ilk to hold their tongues as well.”
“I promise—”
The trow leapt forward, knowing his pleas were futile, his teeth ready to sink into flesh. He recognized the knight as the one who was presumed dead. Surprise was all the trow had in his favor, but the jeweled sword slashed with skill, lightning fast and determined.
The trow’s head toppled from his shoulders, hitting the ground with a solid thunk.
The nice thing about trows was, they were mostly bloodless. The knight cleaned the sword that delivered the fatal blow on the trow’s own tattered coat until the steel gleamed once more, then shoved the blade back into its scabbard before slinking down the back stairwell unnoticed. But by then the knight had already shape-shifted into something else, a small four-footed creature skittering through the shadows.
By midday every known trow in the city was rooted out, questioned, dispatched, or had run on their own, but whispers still rippled, stretching past the city, into the Wilds.Knights are on the hunt for trows—trows who knew the Butcher of Celwyth.
And other rumors rippled lower and closer to chests, rumors passed trow to trow:The get of Celwyth is here hunting, too.
Tyghan ordered a carriage to take into the city. Keats had no experience with horses, not to mention a carriage was more discreet. Heads tended to turn when the king rode past, and he didn’t want tongues wagging. Especially not about him and Keats.
She sat opposite him, her shoes now back on her feet, her hands kneading her thighs.
It was lost, like a rabbit.
Tyghan tugged on his sleeve. All his clothing was tight tonight, and the silent ride was intolerably long. He smelled the scent of lavender on her hair. Maybe a horse would have been better. He should have ordered a couple of dapples. Surely she could handle that much. He glanced at her, then back out the window, watching for their destination. Block after block plodded past. He finally banged on the roof, and the driver stopped.
Tyghan already knew what they would find at the end of Mugwort Street, but he went through the charade anyway.
They roamed the winding cobbled lane, and he let Bristol ask the questions. “Have you seen trows down this way?”
The milliner, who had already been paid handsomely earlier that day, stepped out of his shop and pointed to a door at the end of the street. Bristol knocked, but there was no answer. Tyghan pushed open the door, and light from the streetlamp flooded in to reveal a few bits of trash, a pile of rotting fish heads, and an overwhelming stench. Nothing else. Bristol covered her nose and stared at the emptiness.
