Chapter 12: Missing Something

Freya was tired by the time their impromptu tour of the textile mill ended in Juliana's office, glad to sink down into the cushioned chair offered, glad Della had warned her of the lack of heat in the mill, and the woolen underclothes she'd donned.

Della dropped into the other available guest chair, while Juliana rounded her desk, followed – watchdog-like – by the mill's foreman, Wiley. He resembled that animal in looks as in actions, with grizzled gray hair, mutton-chop whiskers, and sleeves rolled to show thick hair on his muscled forearms which hung somewhat in front of him when he wasn't using them.

Edwyn hovered to the side of the desk, between Della and Juliana. Merlin leaned against the wall beside and behind Freya, hands tucked behind his back. She hoped it was just coincidence that he had a knife belted there beneath his jacket, but he'd been quiet through the tour, observant and wary, cool to Juliana's persistent flirting.

"It's quite an enterprise," Edwyn was saying. "You are to be congratulated on the success you've made of the mill – both of you."

Della leaned forward. "But what about this missing messenger, the delivery we never received? Showing off our looms and dyes and shipping facilities is all well and good, but we came here this afternoon for a reason."

"Well, that's why we brought Reeve Merlin of Emmett's Creek," Edwyn said jokingly, and the four others turned to look at Freya's husband.

Because she didn't take her eyes from them, and because no one took much notice of her in that instant, she noticed something curious. Della and Edwyn, though they showed little similarity of features in spite of their familial relationship, wore identical expressions of open and relaxed expectation. In contrast, Wiley was frowning with thinly disguised antagonism, and Juliana's face – much different from the calculating sensuality of the previous evening – was a mask of smooth, cool haughtiness, the protest showing only in her blue eyes. Freya's opinion that she was unhappy about Merlin being asked to find the messenger was strengthened.

She suspected Merlin held the same opinion about their hosts here at the mill. Maybe that was why he'd never strayed more than two paces from her side, never had his hand more than a foot's distance from one of his knives, the whole time they'd wandered around the busy mill.

Juliana's attentions, sharper since he'd been re-introduced as a reeve, had turned caustic the more indifference he showed. Any true attraction she'd felt for Merlin, Freya thought, had been dampened with the mention of his credentials, and discarded as soon as it became obvious it would be unrequited. But Freya still wondered if he had reservations about what he'd do if he found the woman guilty of any crime. Still, the penalty a reeve might administer would be far different from that expected of a revenger.

"So – time to earn your keep," Juliana said acidly.

"The messenger's name?" Merlin said neutrally, not moving from his relaxed stance.

"Simon," Juliana said. Why did that name sound familiar to Freya?

"He was one of your regular employees?" Merlin continued.

Juliana glanced up at her foreman. Wiley growled, "No, just someone we use for an odd job, now and again."

"So you'd not expect him to be present every day at the same time?" Both shook their heads. "Did you habitually contact him for work?"

"No," Wiley repeated. "He'd come here asking. If we knew where to find him, don't you think we'd have done it already?"

Merlin allowed a pause; Freya didn't dare look to see his expression. Then he said, his tone cool, "Did he have friends here among your other workers? Anyone who'd pass along a tip about extra work?"

Juliana looked up at Wiley again, who returned the look, bushy gray eyebrows bunching over his nose, his animosity partially submerged in consideration of the question, more focus given to the matter at hand than their shared pique at the stranger's interference. He finally conceded, "One or two."

"Edwyn," Merlin said, and the gentleman startled a bit. "What arrangements have you made about gathering in the trade goods still owed for the tax region, or transporting the sum you already have to Camelot?"

Edwyn's grin was guilty. "None at all," he confessed. "I just haven't thought of it since–"

"Here's what you do," Merlin said, speaking over Edwyn's excuse without offense, "you let these one or two friends overhear you discussing the important and well-paying jobs that Edwyn has available, and your Simon will be back tomorrow when the mill opens. Unless–"

He was interrupted himself by Wiley, belligerent again, "So what if he's stolen the shipment he was supposed to deliver? What if he's sold it and skipped town?"

Skip. Somehow that was tied to the name Simon, for Freya. But how? And why?

"Unless," Merlin repeated with stern emphasis, straightening away from the wall, "it's not a case of an honest mistake. But that might not be something these few friends are aware of, and they can be followed back to him."

Follow – that meant something to Freya too, something that was connected somehow. Oh, if she could only remember!

"If they know he's dishonest," Merlin went on, "you have a much bigger problem here. If he's sold the shipment illegally, odds are you'll not get it back, or find him if he's in the wind. Best adjust for the loss, in that case – it'll cost more to find your goods and your thief than you've lost by the theft."

"I suppose you could find a revenger to do that for you," Edwyn suggested.

Freya had to look up at Merlin, then. But his face was composed, watchful, and she realized he was still carrying out his own investigation of the mill and the JLN who'd corresponded with Whatley. It made her dizzy to try to think about hidden meanings in the conversation, and who might know what. It seemed second nature to Merlin, with his intuitive mind and sharp memory.

Memory. That was the key. Simon – follow the leader – skip like this, he'd said, trying to show her as she tripped over her own feet. And her mother had called her inside and scolded her for playing with boys.

"Would you be the one to follow these friends back to Simon?" Wiley challenged Merlin.

But, Freya wondered, would Merlin be angry with her for interrupting, when maybe her thought was tangential at best? How likely might it be that her childhood acquaintance was the same person?

"I can," Merlin returned evenly, but his eyes sparked like struck flint.

Freya cleared her throat, feeling her face flush when Edwyn looked at her, then Della, and Wiley and Juliana. Merlin, however, kept his eyes on the mill foreman as Freya asked, "How long has Simon been working for you?" There was silence, and she added apologetically, pushing her idea forward – too late for second thoughts, now – "How old is he? What does he look like?"

After a moment, Wiley answered, sounding puzzled and impatient at the same time. "Early twenties. Brown hair. Built like that one there." He indicated Merlin.

Freya felt a brief moment of despair – how could she tell from such a vague description if the boy she barely remembered was the man in question?

"Anything else?" Merlin asked the foreman; he was the only one who hadn't looked surprised when she'd spoken. "Anything more specific?"

Wiley shrugged his bulldog shoulders, but thought a moment, then added, "Had him one gray eye and the other was blue."

The face jumped out of her memory, childishly round, the eyes bright with enthusiasm. She blinked and Merlin was looking down on her, one quick glance that seemed to tell him what he wanted to know. And he smiled.

It was Juliana who prompted, curiously and not kindly, "Why? Do you know him?"

Freya said, addressing the information to Merlin, "Cleo's son was named Simon, and he had one gray eye and one blue."

"That's probably not coincidence," Edwyn said to the room at large, somewhat pointlessly.

"I didn't know you knew anyone else in Redwillow," Della remarked.

"So you know where Simon lives?" Juliana said to Freya, rising from her seat behind the desk, statuesque in a tailored dress of wool dyed dark red and blue in a tiny woven pattern.

"I know where his mother used to live," Freya corrected cautiously.

"Let's go, then," Edwyn said. "The sooner, the better."

"I also know the location," Merlin said. His voice was soft, but there was something there that made Freya apprehensive. "If you, Edwyn, will take my wife home, I can go myself, or accompany anyone who wishes to go to this Cleo's home."

"Not a chance," Edwyn said jovially, oblivious to whatever Freya sensed from Merlin. "Why don't we all go?"

Juliana and Wiley shared a swift glance, then Juliana said smoothly, "I need Wiley here to oversee the mill's operation, but I'd certainly love to see a country reeve in action. Della?"

Della agreed – unenthusiastically, Freya thought. Beside her, Merlin seemed tense, dissatisfied. She watched him evaluate the four others, lightning-swift, and knew he trusted her only with Edwyn, who had refused to return home.

She opened her mouth to offer to make the trip on her own, but his eyes were tight as he turned to her, his outstretched hand a help to rise and also a gesture tacitly assuming she'd accompany them. She swallowed her words.

What was he thinking? What was he afraid of? What had he seen or heard in that room and that conversation that she had missed? She was glad she trusted him to take care of her, but couldn't shake the uncomfortable feeling, as when he'd faced the two drifters in Percy's Place, that she came between him and his ability to handle danger or risk.

They took Edwyn's father's carriage, left at the front entrance of the mill, though with five of them, the space was tight. Freya sat between Edwyn and Merlin, facing forward; Della and Juliana shared the opposite seat, the sister across from her brother, and Juliana's eyes sharp on Freya and Merlin.

There wasn't much leg room in the middle, but Freya noticed almost immediately as the carriage rocked forward, that Juliana's foot was placed where it would rub Merlin's leg upward of his boot with every movement the vehicle made. Juliana was watching her as she looked up from observing that proximity. A smile played about her lips that was cruel and calculating – as if she flirted only to keep her options open – for a fleeting second.

Then she said to Freya in a falsely cozy and gossipy way, "So tell me, how did you and Reeve Merlin meet? Don't you think he's a bit old for you, dear?"

"Oh, Julie," Della murmured, faintly scolding. She slapped her partner's arm lightly, giving Freya an apologetic look.

Freya had to bite back the urge to giggle; Juliana couldn't know how ridiculous her question was, in light of the difference between her age and Merlin's, that had taken her by surprise early that spring. In feeling sorry for the other woman – who was probably closer to Morgana's age than to Merlin's herself – any jealousy fell away.

Merlin's eyes were fixed on his own knees in apparent absorbing study; absently he shifted out of Juliana's way. At the same time and just as absently, he reached to gather up Freya's hand from her lap and hold it, gentle and protected in the hollow of his hand.

She felt warm all over, despite the cold drafts in the carriage. She didn't know if the action was an answer of sorts to Juliana or if it was as unwitting as it seemed, but the blatant claim inherent in his move was exhilarating in the confidence it inspired in her.

He cared.

Freya couldn't help remembering his kiss the night before – that was burned into memory forever, to resurface at the most inopportune times, she was sure.

But what had he meant when he said, don't you know by now, when she'd asked the reason for it. What was it she didn't know? He'd felt guilty, sorry for his attentions to Juliana – so the kiss was an apology? Or maybe a reassurance that the act toward JLN was just that? She was still puzzling over that when the carriage jerked to a stop.

Merlin reached to open the door, but instead of stepping out and reaching back in to help the ladies out, he simply pushed the door open and gestured politely for Juliana to precede them. She hesitated the merest fraction of a second, then moved gracefully but swiftly. Freya wondered if Merlin didn't trust the woman behind his back, and then she wondered if he didn't mind Juliana knowing that.

Then they were all standing outside the carriage, gazing at the humble hut next to the neat two-story inn, themselves the object of attention for everyone else going about their business on the street. Freya had the idea that she was the only one who noticed – or at least the only one who felt self-conscious about the fact. She still thought that she should be one of those shabby, harried people, not someone who wore nice clothes and stepped out of a carriage in the company of ladies and gentlemen. It was disconcerting to reflect that if her mother hadn't died, she would be one of those people on this street, gaping at the five newcomers.

And Merlin would be a stranger to her, instead of husband.

"This one?" Edwyn said, indicating the correct house, but no one stepped forward.

"Well?" Della said tartly, crossing her arms over her chest but making no move to approach the dwelling first herself.

Merlin leaned to whisper in Freya's ear, "Back door?"

She thought for a moment, then shook her head. No back door that she remembered on the neighbor's house. "I don't think so…"

"Come," he said aloud to no one in particular, but put his arm around her to shepherd and shield her across the street to the door, at the same time nudging Edwyn into Juliana, so the two of them were forced to stay abreast of Merlin and Freya – in his line of sight, she noticed.

Once at the door, Juliana raised her lace-gloved hand to knock. The one front window was to the left; Merlin angled his body so he had his back to it, blocking the view, Freya assumed, of anyone who could be recognized by any within.

After a moment, the door creaked open about a foot, and a young man peered out at them. Freya thought she could recognize her childhood neighbor, as little as she remembered of him, in the narrow face and unshaved stubble, brown hair almost as short as a cadet's, one blue eye and one gray. There was a look on his face half-apprehensive, half-relieved. It seemed an odd combination for someone suddenly faced with his employer on his doorstep; she would have expected furtive guiltiness or genial confusion. She wondered what Merlin made of it.

"Simon," Merlin said.

"Yes," the young man answered in a hesitant voice.

Juliana took charge. "You know who I am," she said in a condescending way; Simon ducked his head once. "Do you know why I'm here?"

He licked his lips nervously, his eyes darting from one face to the next. "No'm," he said, showing no recognition for Freya.

She thought, He's lying.

"You were supposed to deliver a package to our mill yesterday evening," Juliana continued. "A package we never received."

"Never – received?" Simon said. "Ah – but I delivered it."

"Where and to whom?" Juliana demanded.

Simon was vague in his answer; it could have been any of a number of warehouses or foremen; Freya got the impression that maybe he trolled for work along the row of warehouses, and therefore might have confused his orders. Then he added, almost eagerly, "I could show you, ma'am. I could take you there."

Freya looked up at Merlin; his expression was unreadable as always, but his eyes were narrowed. She was glad he was there; if she felt uncertain about Simon's story, she knew Merlin probably had three different options for the reason, and three more for possible outcomes for the situation.

"Fine, at once," Juliana snapped. "I've wasted enough time on this matter today."

"I'll go too," Edwyn offered. "Merlin? Going to see this through to the end?"

Merlin's eyes moved from Simon to Juliana. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Freya found herself hoping suddenly he would decide to take her home, but didn't know why she should feel so nervous.

"Well, I'm going home," Della announced. "Julie, I'll leave this matter for you, then? Freya, do you want to go with me? Edwyn or Merlin can find us a carriage for hire."

Freya looked at Merlin, who'd tensed almost imperceptibly; he shifted back from the group and closer to her, but made no other movement. So she took his sleeve and drew him back across the dirt-packed yard a few steps – let them make of that what they would.

"What do you think?" she said softly.

"It feels wrong to me," he said quickly. "But – Della knew who we were, and where we were from, the minute we walked in the door. Either she knows nothing of Padlow, or she's been playing us since we met her." He hesitated. "That possibility is real enough, I don't want you going anywhere alone with her, right now." He met her eyes almost apologetically. "You'll have to come."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

With Della on her way home alone in a hired carriage, there was room in theirs for Simon. Edwyn took Della's place beside Juliana, and Merlin squeezed Freya into the corner away from the young messenger. He didn't like having her along, but couldn't very well take her home himself.

He didn't know much about textiles or mills, but the facility – as well as Juliana's clothes and jewelry; as fine as Della's, without the family connections to explain – seemed to him to exceed reasonable expectations by enough to support suspicion. There were areas of the warehouse Juliana had avoided on the tour, so skillfully that Edwyn and Della didn't notice – unless Della was up to her ears in whatever was going on, anyway.

Because there was something going on. Something Wiley the foreman also knew about, Merlin would bet. And that was before the messenger's story about a mishandled delivery.

Simon hadn't been surprised to see them. His attitude had been resigned, as if he'd expected them, and now had to follow some pre-arranged script. And because Merlin was set to find out about the JLN of Reeve Whatley's letter, the investments and the business, he needed to, as Edwyn put it, see it through to the end.

But he didn't like having Freya along. If he protected her adequately, he risked raising their suspicions of him, which always made an investigation more difficult. And more dangerous – which led back to her, again.

Simon darted glances at all of them, but mostly Juliana; Merlin had no idea how well he'd known Freya, but he didn't appear to have recognized her, which suited Merlin fine. The less she was involved, the better. The messenger directed the driver back to the neighborhood of the textile mill, but they stopped behind the row of warehouses two down from the business owned and operated by Juliana and Della.

There was barely room for the carriage to negotiate the track behind the buildings; on the other side a rocky bank dropped steeply into the wide rushing river, gray and snarling. The sky was gray also, which made the time of day hard to tell, but Merlin figured dinnertime nearing.

They disembarked once again from the carriage; Juliana raised her hands to her hips, saying impatiently, "Well?"

The area was deserted and quiet; Merlin would lay money the building wasn't used for any legitimate business. Abandoned, though, was a different prospect. The back of his neck was itching, and he had to concentrate on keeping his hand from the knife hidden behind his belt.

"This is where I brought the box," Simon said, gesturing to the back door. Neglecting any sort of excuse for the mistake – dark night, one too many drinks…

Merlin didn't for one second believe the error was an innocent one. But whatever was in that undelivered box, the prospect of recovering it seemed to have blinded Juliana to other possibilities. And Edwyn, Merlin knew for a fact, was more likely to accept a situation at face value than not. And neither of them was asking his opinion. And ultimately, he was investigating the woman, not her missing property.

But because no one else was likely to say it, and because he hated walking blind into the unknown – accompanied by his wife - he asked Simon, "Was there someone here who accepted the delivery?"

Simon didn't look at him as he reached ingratiatingly to open the door for Juliana, answering vaguely, "There was – a man."

"What man?" Juliana said irritably, stepping over the threshold.

"Merlin, I don't think–" Freya began in a low voice.

"Stay close to me," he said. There wasn't really a good choice anymore, and he'd been wrong before…

He took her right hand in his left, pulling her close to his side as he entered, Edwyn close behind. A sideways glance told him Simon's expression was relieved, of all things. The doorway was black with darkness; diminished daylight penetrated yards only before being swallowed.

His instincts screamed Ambush!

Merlin pushed Freya immediately sideways and to the left. They'd been led here, and it would come now, when their eyes were unadjusted, their persons vulnerable against the light from the open door. He would shield Freya with his body against the back wall – he squinted, furiously willing his eyes to adjust.

Half a dozen shouts echoed through a sizeable room, impossible to pinpoint in the near blackness. Juliana screamed; Edwyn let out a startled yelp.

Freya gasped.

There was a hint of movement behind her, a whisper of touch against the cloth of his jacket over his shoulder, a suggestion of momentum that didn't originate with her. She drew her breath in sharply even as he reacted, reaching to follow that brush of another's touch.

The fingers of his left hand locked around a thick, strong wrist, just above her shoulder level, pulling steady and desperate pressure away from her. His right whipped his belt knife around and forward – he'd time it just right – remember her figure and movement precisely – and have no fear of duplicating the wound Padlow had inflicted.

The tip of his knife met cloth, met flesh – the unseen assailant hissed.

At the same second that Merlin felt the edge of cold steel just above his collar, another hand fisting roughly around a handful of his clothing over his left shoulder.

Freya, sandwiched between his body and that of her attacker, was motionless, but he could feel her breathing, trembling. And nothing else mattered as much as that; he went still.

Somewhere behind him, a match struck, and light and shadow flickered over Freya's face – eyes wide but calm, fixed on him – a stranger's bearded face, expression uncertain. The light flared and rose – a lantern was lit. The edge of light played along the blade held maybe an inch and a half from the soft skin of Freya's throat. He could pivot his wrist in the blink of an eye and lose fingers, but keep it from touching her.

In the entire room, nothing else concerned him but that six and three-quarters inches worth of sharpness. He'd die before letting it touch her.

The glow heightened behind him – several lanterns, then. Or a window opened, maybe.

The blade at his own neck pressed into his skin, and a rough voice demanded, "Drop your knife. Or the last thing you'll see is your blood spraying across her face."

Freya's upraised hand held the lapel of Merlin's jacket; her eyes were still on his face. Simply and patiently waiting for him to make it right.

Merlin twisted his own blade, held just under the bearded man's lowest rib, where one flick would half-disembowel him, his hand between Freya's elbow and side.

"You drop yours," he said to the other, ignoring the man who clutched him from behind. "Or we both die."

The bearded man's eyes flicked uncertainly to whatever companion was behind Merlin. The voice behind his left shoulder snarled, "Give over, fella, you ain't in any position to bargain."

"You let her go," Merlin told Beard, furiously quiet. "Or there will be blood."

Pause. Silence. Uncertainty.

"Let her go, Coleman." A third voice, someone close to the lanterns, as far as Merlin could judge what he couldn't see. A voice of authority, and one that pricked Merlin's memory. But that wasn't as important as the blade threatening his wife. "Sal still has him. And she's not going to try anything."

Merlin released Coleman's wrist as the bearded man backed away; Freya side-stepped away from Merlin's blade so he could keep his eyes on Coleman. Just in case.

"Who are you? What do you want with us?" Juliana demanded, her voice trembling.

"Stop talking," the voice in charge said, almost at Merlin's right elbow.

The man stepped around him, just outside the possible swing of Merlin's knife. He was dressed neatly, carried himself with assurance, and Merlin saw several days' growth of beard-stubble and the intelligent glint of brown eyes that didn't quite cancel a sense of compassion, also. He stopped where he could see Merlin.

The face was familiar. Add several bruises, hair long overdue for cutting, and the fatigue of being held captive in an upstairs bedroom of a country farmhouse – Agent Lancelot.

Merlin said nothing. If Lancelot hadn't given up his writ in favor of leading the sort of banditry he'd sworn to hunt and capture, then he was conducting some kind of investigation – and if it involved Juliana and the mill, the agent and Merlin both were probably not far off their mark. He reached out to pluck Merlin's blade from his hand, which he wordlessly allowed.

"Tie him and bring him," Lancelot instructed the unseen Sal, who sheathed his own knife to gather Merlin's hands behind him roughly. "Coleman, put her with the other two." He added, seeing Merlin's expression, "Gently." Lancelot started to turn, to take the first step to walk away; Coleman took hold of Freya, moving her hands away from Merlin.

"Merlin?" she said uncertainly.

As he looked at her to reassure her, try to convey the sense that the situation was under more control than she knew, he noticed Agent Lancelot falter, hesitate, then recover.

Sal bound Merlin's hands tightly with a length of something thin and rough – baling twine, he supposed. The man pushed him from behind, but he refused to take a step til Coleman and Freya went first, where he could see them.

There were two more men in this band, he saw as he turned, standing in the middle of the circle of light with Juliana and Edwyn. The one behind Juliana was almost as young as Merlin, casually flipping his blade as she held her elbows and tried to retain her composure of icy disdain. The other, broader in the hips than the shoulders, held a thick, thirteen-inch blade down at his side; Edwyn's open hands were held shoulder-high, but it was probably apparent to everyone there that he had no moves to make.

Agent Lancelot stepped to the door, where the messenger Simon waited, speaking to him too quietly to be overheard, as Sal pushed Merlin further into the warehouse.

Far empty recesses were only glimpsed as they entered a large inner room without windows, lit by candle stubs stuck to crates, equipped with six cots, stacks of canned food, some eaten and some unopened; there was a packet of papers on a side table. A stakeout, if Merlin ever saw one. He wondered how long Agent Lancelot and his men had been watching Juliana's mill.

Sal spun Merlin around, left him standing in the middle of the room while he leaned against the wall to watch him with hard slitted eyes that matched the rest of his lean form. Moments later Agent Lancelot appeared, still carrying Merlin's knife, which he flipped quivering into one of the crate lids between two candles.

"So," he said. "Merlin. The cadet of Sage Springs."

"Yes," Merlin acknowledged.

"Prove it."

"Kid with a lamp," Merlin returned.

Lancelot reached to push Merlin's hat back from his forehead; the scar was fading but still visible. The agent's lips twitched in a more genuine smile. "Your negotiating skills haven't improved," he observed. "Who's the girl who couldn't take her eyes off you?"

"My wife."

"Ah." Lancelot nodded. "That explains that. Care to tell me what you're doing here?"

Merlin said the only thing Agent Lancelot would believe. He told him the truth. "Investigating Juliana."

Lancelot scrutinized him. "For what?"

Merlin began to relate the details of the situation in the tax region of Emmett's Creek, a bit of Padlow's history, his own inauguration as reeve. When he came to the letter that brought them to Redwillow, Lancelot crossed to the packet of paper, took a pen from the inkwell, and began to write as Merlin spoke.

"I see," he said finally when Merlin had finished.

Merlin said, "And you?"

"Smuggling," Lancelot answered succinctly and without hesitation. Sal pushed upright from the wall, probably not agreeing with his superior's decision for candor. "I've been following rumors of the trade since mid-summer. They weave and dye silk in the south, you see, and the taxes and tariffs required to sell it legally by the bolt up here are steep. This is one avenue of illegality – this textile mill receives the raw material, weaves and dyes it along with the legitimate business of wool and cotton and linen, then sells the silk to certain confidential customers. As a black-market commodity, it's highly lucrative."

And Padlow would have no interest in the product as such, only in the high investment return, the greedy miser. Steal and swindle, only to invest it in an illegal operation in order to… make more money. Merlin didn't understand it, but from what he'd seen of criminals, their reasons only needed to make sense to them. And Padlow was long past explaining.

"If you can prove this, what more are you waiting for?" Merlin said. The question wasn't theoretical or rhetorical; of course there was something Lancelot was waiting for.

"This mill is just one handler of the illegal goods," Lancelot said. "We want the supplier, and the list of buyers."

"She'll never give that to you," Merlin said, knowing it was true.

"Not to agents, no." Lancelot gave him a slow smile. "But we are a gang of thieves. We intercepted her messenger to lure her here. In ransom for her life, we want the list of buyers – it'll be the perfect place to start for a rash of robberies – and we want to meet the supplier, maybe expand into the business of smuggling." At Merlin's look, the agent added, "We also need to know if Juliana's partner is aware of the smuggling, or not. If she is, there's a good chance Gilbent knows – and then we'll need to investigate him and his other businesses also."

"What if she refuses, goes to Redwillow's reeve?" Merlin asked.

"She won't, not with the proof we already have of the smuggling conspiracy," Agent Lancelot answered. "Besides–" he paused to glance at Sal, whose lips stretched back over his teeth in a grin – "Reeve Jackson knows about all of this, and he's agreed to keep out of our way unless we request his help. He was here last night to scare some cooperation into that young messenger. Simon will be our best witness; he handled many of the deliveries and return messages."

Well, that explained Reeve Jackson's absence from Gilbent and Anetta's evening party.

"What will happen to the mill if Juliana is arrested?"

"When she's arrested," Lancelot corrected him. "We'll have to continue the investigation into separating legitimate investments and profits from illegal ones – it'll depend if the partner's involved, how many of the buyers face consequences, that sort of thing."

In other words, the mill would be closed, or remain in operation considerably diminished – struggling to stay solvent. And no investment to reclaim. He sighed; maybe he should just take Freya back to Emmett's Creek.

"We planned to send the driver back to Della and to Wiley the foreman with our demands," Agent Lancelot continued. "But we didn't expect your – company."

Merlin lifted his head to look at the agent. "What are you proposing?"

Agent Lancelot was beginning to smile, a bit of the devil showing through the calm. "This will be better than I hoped for. And you a reeve! Listen, go along with the rob and ransom story, carry the note and be our eyes and ears along the way, and I promise you I'll personally look into your investment refund, as well as giving you the standard informant's fee." Though he'd paid out on such a consideration often enough, Merlin's hackles rose at the thought, the term, and Lancelot could see it. "Fine," he said, retreating somewhat. "We'll pay you as another deputy, or swear you to a temporary agent's writ."

Merlin sighed again, twitched his shoulders to ease the tension resulting from his tied hands.

"Here, let me," Lancelot said, reaching for his hands. "I remember how that can-"

"Don't bother," Merlin said brusquely, shrugging away from him. If this arrangement was going to work, no one else was to know that they'd been previous acquaintances. No one else was to know that Lancelot was an agent leading deputies, not some cutthroat band of thieves.

He'd been conflicted about the level of Juliana's culpability, what he would do if he discovered significant guilt. But to leave her fate in the hands of an agent was much more to his liking than turning the matter over to a local reeve, or allowing the interference of whatever unscrupulous compatriots might turn up. And the thought of a stranger going to Della, frightening her with a ransom note, demands to be met, rubbed him wrong. His impression of Della was one of innocence, and there was also the aspect of helping his friend to protect his sister that probably drew on Merlin's own youth.

"If you have Juliana write a ransom note for Della and Wiley, I'll deliver it, do what I can to get the buyers and the supplier for you. Then I'm out of it, and you can write me at the reeve's office in Emmett's Creek about a fee or whatever investment you can track down and turn over."

Agent Lancelot nodded. "We'll keep Juliana here, and the brother of the partner. As for your wife–" He paused, eyeing Merlin.

He understood. Any special consideration shown him would be suspect. Any reassurance that could be given to Freya would be suspect also. She'd be perfectly safe, but she wouldn't know it. He hated to do that to her, but didn't see any help for it; he hoped she'd forgive him later. He said to the agent, "Be kind to her, please."

"I never had it, but I know it when I see it," Lancelot responded, with a crooked smile. "You're lucky to have found it so young."

"The longer we stand here talking, the more suspicious they'll be," Sal stated from his place by the door.

"We understand each other?" Lancelot said to Merlin. "Anything else?"

Merlin squared his shoulders, and said tersely, "Hit me."

"What?"

"If I'm going to do this at all, I might as well do it right," he growled. "Hit me."

After one uncertain glance at Sal, Agent Lancelot backhanded him across the mouth. It sounded worse than it felt; Merlin tasted blood but didn't even rock back on his feet.

"Harder," he demanded.

Lancelot pulled his hand back again, but Sal stopped him. "Let me."

Merlin braced himself, and for the first time in his life, didn't try to avoid the blow he knew was coming. It exploded at the side of his mouth and jaw, not hard enough to break teeth, but sent him reeling two steps back and to one knee, balance affected by his hands bound behind him. He struggled to his feet blinking away white flecks from his vision, and was perversely pleased to see the other shaking the sting of the blow from his hand.

"That enough for you?" Sal challenged.

Merlin stepped back up to him, opening his mouth to say, Again, but Lancelot interrupted with a hint of amused disgust.

"Quit it, Sal. Merlin? Whenever you're ready…"