This was not the first time I'd woken up in an inn with the faint scent of alcohol clinging to my clothes as I tore apart the room looking for my purse and the person I'd fallen asleep beside. It was, however, the first time that person had been in a separate bed and hadn't left of their own accord and definitely hadn't stolen my purse.
Trouble was sitting by Michael's bed, his tail not wagging for once.
"Where's Mike?" I asked him. "Where'd he go, boy?"
He tilted his head. Okay, so maybe asking Trouble wasn't the best idea. He was a blithering idiot and a mute dog to boot. And he was now my sole responsibility.
"You'd better hope Michael comes back soon. I'm not as nice as him and I will kick you out if you annoy me."
A knock at the door interrupted my speech to the dog. A messenger walked in without my heeding and handed me a letter wordlessly before vanishing with a lingering gaze over his shoulder. I was too interested in the letter to be suspicious.
All it said was Fisk on the back, in nondescript handwriting.
I opened it and nearly discarded it. An advertisement for a bay horse and a newspaper? This was right up Judith's alley and I wasn't going to entertain her little games today, not when Michael was—
It was Michael's handwriting. And below it was more of that nondescript, eerily familiar script.
I scanned Michael's first. My heart dropped and I hurried to read the rest.
Fisk:
Your unredeemed friend was the perfect candidate for my revenge. You cost me a lot of money last time I saw you. Feel free to contact law enforcement. They can't do anything, no matter what I do to poor Sir Michael.
Sincerely,
"The man whose name is not Jack Bannister"
I crumpled the paper. Law enforcement couldn't do anything, but I could. And so could other people.
x-x-x-x-x
"No." Baron Sevenson said firmly when I finished giving a rough summary of the events leading up to Michael's capture.
"He's your son." I said in disbelief. "He's been rude and disrespectful and disobedient. But he's your son. You can't leave him in the hands of Jack Bannister."
"Michael and you got yourselves into this mess. The two of you can get yourselves out of it."
I looked around at this cold-hearted family. Mother, father, and brother were identical in their stony expressions. "His blood—and mine—is on your hands." I said, before getting up and walking out.
Before I reached Tipple and Chant, however, I heard a shout.
"Fisk! Fisk, wait!" Kathryn was running across the lawns.
"I'll send you a letter when we're safe." I told her.
"You don't have to." She replied eagerly. "I'm coming with you."
"No, you're not. It's a death—"
"A death sentence, you mean? Of course it is. You can't do this alone, and I can't stand by and let you and Michael die. I'm smarter than Rosamund and I've been teaching myself to fight. She came along on an adventure with you and survived."
"She didn't come up on the cliffs, and you're so not coming with me to Jack's little lair."
"Fine. But you need someone with money if you expect to get back to Gorgepoint." She held up a bag that jangled in the muffled way only tightly-packed coins do.
I sighed. "You can't ride, especially not in a dress like that. How do you expect to get there?"
Without hesitating, Kathryn tugged her skirt down. I turned away instinctively, and she laughed at my hasty movement. I turned back to see she'd worn a pair of breeches under the dress, which was really a long shirt paired with a skirt in the same dark green.
"Are we going or not?" She asked as she climbed up into Chant's saddle.
"I'm moreover interested in disappearing with Tipple and the gold as soon as you turn your back." I answered, hoping to scare her. "I am a knave, after all."
"Not anymore. I inherited my father's Gift of reading people. That's another reason you need me. Oh, and by the way, if anyone asks—we're half-siblings on our way to visit our father's grave in Gorgepoint."
"I may not be able to teach you to sew, but I might be able to make a criminal of you yet."
"I'd rather learn that then learn to sew."