As always, a huge thanks to my wonderful beta, ARandomDream , for her insightful comments throughout the chapters and for helping correcting my mistakes. You're awesome! ❤️
Chapter 18: Crossroads of Conscience
At two o'clock that afternoon, Killian found himself standing beside his wife at the summit of a wind-swept rise, gazing out over the untamed moors.
She had requested he escort her to Haytor Rocks after luncheon. The pale cast of her skin and the delicate lines of weariness etched around her eyes and lips had made it abundantly clear: she was hardly in shape for the climb—nor for the capricious weather. Even in mid-July, the moors could greet you with a bone-deep chill and a drenching mist. Down along Devon's southern coast, subtropical blooms thrived as though in a glasshouse. Dartmoor, on the other hand, obeyed no such rules. The moors were their own sovereign land, conjuring weather on a whim, entirely divorced from whatever sunny tranquility might reign just a few valleys away.
Killian had swallowed his unease, and kept his misgivings to himself. If Emma felt compelled to scale one of the rugged peaks that carved the horizon of the moors, she undoubtedly had her reasons. And if there was any hope of repairing the fracture between them, he needed to offer at least the appearance of trusting her judgment.
Hadn't she said, after all, that she was exhausted by his endless suspicion... not to mention a litany of other complaints?
So, once again, he held his tongue, resisting the urge to tell her she'd be better off huddled in the lee of the towering rock than braving the icy gusts at the ridge, where the wind had the sting of something fresh from the Arctic.
As if summoned by her will, the savage wind had kicked up the moment they reached the massive granite monolith that crowned the hill. Overhead, the clouds were roiling into a brooding, slate-colored mass, brewing a classic Dartmoor storm—while just a few miles to the west, in Ashbourne, the sun was no doubt cheerfully oblivious, shining down as if nothing were amiss.
"I imagined it would be more like the Yorkshire moors," she remarked, her gaze sweeping over the jagged rock formation below. "But it's entirely different. Harsher. More... volcanic."
"Dartmoor is essentially a colossal heap of granite," he replied. "My tutor used to drone on about it—said it's part of a fractured chain stretching all the way to the Scilly Isles. Most of it utterly defies cultivation, as you can see from the flora. Not much can sink roots here besides gorse and heather—only the most stubborn survive. The only soft spots of green—" he gestured toward a patch in the distance. "There, for example. Looks like a lush oasis in a barren wasteland, doesn't it? But at best, it's a marsh. At worst, quicksand. And that's a tiny patch. A few miles northwest lies Grimspound Bog, one of many pits that's swallowed sheep, cattle, even men whole."
"How would you feel, Hook," she asked, her eyes never leaving the rugged expanse before them, "if you found out a child had been left to wander these moors alone for days—perhaps even weeks?"
An image of a dark, brooding child flashed in his mind.
A cold sweat prickled his skin, and a heavy weight settled in his gut, as if he'd swallowed a stone.
"Bloody hell, Emma."
She turned to face him then, her eyes shadowed beneath the wide brim of her bonnet, as stormy as the clouds gathering above. "You know exactly which child I mean, don't you?"
He couldn't keep himself upright, buckling under the crushing weight inside him. His limbs quaked with the effort. Desperate for stability, he staggered to the mountainous rock, planting his clenched fist against the unyielding granite, pressing his burning forehead to his knuckles as if willing the stone's solidity into himself, hoping its steadfastness could fortify him enough to face whatever Emma was about to say.
She approached him, her voice cool but edged with something softer. "I misunderstood," she began. "I thought your hostility was reserved for the boy's mother. I assumed, in time, you'd see that a child's welfare outweighs any ancient grudge. Other men manage their illegitimate offspring with ease—some even wear them as badges of pride. I thought you were simply being stubborn. But clearly, this is a dilemma of cosmic proportions."
"Yes," he rasped, drawing in a sharp breath that seared his lungs. "I know it. But I can't... untangle it. My mind... seizes up. It's paralyzed." He let out a brittle, humorless laugh. "Absurd, isn't it?"
"I had no idea," she admitted quietly. "But at least you're telling me now, which is progress, I suppose. Unfortunately, it doesn't exactly help. I find myself in a rather difficult position, Hook. I'm ready to act, of course, but I wouldn't dare proceed without first informing you."
The clouds were beginning to spit icy rain, which the wind flung mercilessly against his neck. He lifted his head, turning to her, his expression weary. "We should get back to the carriage before you catch a fatal chill."
"I'm dressed warmly enough," she replied, unfazed. "I know how to handle the weather."
"We can talk about this at home," he said, casting a glance at the brooding sky. "In front of a roaring fire. Preferably before we're soaked through."
"No!" she suddenly exploded, stamping her foot into the wet earth. "We're not putting this off any longer! I'm going to speak, and you're going to listen, whether or not you catch pneumonia and whooping cough at the same time. If that little boy can survive the moors—alone—wearing nothing but rags, his boots falling apart, his stomach empty except for whatever scraps he can steal, then you can damn well stand here and listen!"
Again, the boy's face flickered in his mind's eye, haunting and unshakable.
A wave of revulsion swelled within him, thick and bitter, threatening to choke him. Killian forced himself to breathe—long, deliberate breaths—each one a battle.
Yes, he damn well could bear it. Weeks ago, he had demanded she stop treating him like a child. He had wanted her to stop playing the role of the agreeable, docile wife. Well, now she was no automaton, and he realized with stark clarity that he could endure anything, so long as she didn't leave him.
"I'm listening," he said, his voice rough. He leaned against the solid, unfeeling rock, needing its support more than ever.
She studied him, her eyes clouded with concern. "I'm not trying to torment you, Hook. If I had the faintest idea what's going on inside your head, I'd help. But whatever it is, it seems to need time—time we don't have. Right now, your son is in far greater need of help than you are."
He forced himself to latch onto her words, shoving the sickening image to the recesses of his mind. "I understand. Out on the moors, you said. Alone. Unacceptable, quite."
"And so, you see why I had no choice but to act when I found out. Since you made it clear you wanted nothing to do with him, I had to go behind your back."
"I understand," he muttered. "You did what you had to."
She hesitated, her voice softening. "And I wouldn't trouble you with this now if I weren't about to do something I fear you might never forgive."
He swallowed hard, forcing down the nausea and pride in one swift motion. "The only unforgivable thing you could do is leave me," he said, his voice hoarse. "An me afiseis, den tha epivioso. If you leave me, I won't survive."
"Don't be absurd," she replied, shaking her head. "I would never leave you. Honestly, Hook, where do you come up with these ludicrous notions?"
Then, as if her abrupt pivot settled all disputes and explained everything, she seamlessly returned to the matter at hand, launching into the tale of the day's extraordinary events. She recounted how she'd tracked the boy like a seasoned hunter, cornering the wild creature in its makeshift lair—Killian's own park, no less, where the imp had broken into the summerhouse and taken up residence for the better part of a week.
The nausea that had twisted Killian's gut drained away, along with the oppressive weight that had been bearing down on him, swept aside by sheer astonishment. The Devil's spawn he'd fathered with Milah Lydgate had been lurking in his own village, prowling through his own estate—and not a single soul had thought to mention this?
Speechless, he could only gape at Emma as she recounted the boy's capture with the cool efficiency of someone relaying a grocery list, her voice brisk as she shifted to the inevitable confrontation with the gutter-rat's mother.
Meanwhile, the sky had grown even darker, an ominous shroud looming overhead. The light drizzle had evolved into a persistent shower, soaking everything in its path. The once-elegant spray of feathers and ribbons on Emma's bonnet had drooped, sagging pitifully and clinging to the brim like wilted flowers. But she remained completely indifferent to the sorry state of her hat, as she did to the relentless wind, the fine stinging rain, and the storm brewing above them.
No, what consumed her now was the crisis at the heart of her story, and nothing else. A furrow had appeared between her perfectly arched brows, and her gaze had dropped to her tightly clasped hands, betraying the tension she otherwise refused to show.
"Milah wants the icon in exchange for the boy," Emma said, her tone cutting through the damp air. "If I try to take him without it, she's threatened to raise hell—because that would drag you into the mess, and she knows you'd send them both packing. But that, I cannot allow, and I brought you here to make that clear. If necessary, I'll keep him out of your sight, but I willnotlet him be carted off to London with that reckless woman, only to be swallowed up by a city teeming with pickpockets, predators, and worse."
"The icon?" he repeated, barely registering the rest. "She wants my Madonna—a Stroganov—for that wretched little—"
"Harry isnotwretched," Emma interrupted sharply. "Yes, he's behaved badly, but he's had no discipline at home and has been provoked at every turn. He didn't even know he was a bastard, or what that meant, until he was cruelly enlightened by the village children. Nor did he understand his mother's trade, not until they shoved that ugly truth in his face. He's frightened, confused, and painfully aware he's different—unwanted by everyone." She hesitated, then added softly, "Except me. I might have pretended not to care, and perhaps Milah would have asked for less. But I couldn't. I couldn't heap more misery onto that child's shoulders."
"Damnation take the brat!" Killian bellowed, pushing himself away from the rock. "That wench will not get her hands on my icon!"
"Then you'll have to deal with her yourself," Emma replied calmly. "I don't know where she's hiding, but I highly doubt she'll be found before she's ready to board the coach tomorrow. Which means someone needs to be at the Postbridge stop early in the morning. If that someone isn't me with the icon, it'll have to be you."
His jaw tightened as a flood of outrage threatened to spill over. He opened his mouth, then shut it, forcing himself to count to ten before speaking.
"You're suggesting," he said with chilling composure, "that I stroll down to Postbridge at the crack of dawn…await Milah Lydgate's grand arrival…and, in front of a bunch of gawping yokels, bargain with her?"
"Certainly not," Emma responded coolly. "There's no need to negotiate. He's your son. All you have to do is take him, and there's nothing she can do about it. She can't claim trickery—not if you do it."
"Take him—just like that? In front of everyone?"
She peered up at him from beneath the bedraggled brim of her bonnet. "I fail to see what's so scandalous. I'm merely suggesting you do what you do best—barge in, take charge, and tell Milah to go straight to the devil. And let the rest of the world be damned."
He gripped the last shreds of his composure with both hands. "Emma, I'm not a fool," he said through gritted teeth. "I see what you're up to. You'rehandlingme. The thought of steamrolling Milah Lydgate is meant to be irresistibly satisfying. And conveniently practical, since I have no intention of handing over my icon. Which, by the way, I absolutely will not."
"I know," she replied calmly. "That's precisely why I couldn't steal it from you. I can't believe Milah thought I would. But then again, she's utterly devoid of scruples. I imagine the word 'betrayal' means as much to her as 'modesty' to a peacock."
"And yet you're prepared to take the icon if I don't fall in line, aren't you?" he asked.
"I am," she admitted, unflinching. "But I couldn't do it without telling you first."
He tilted her chin up with a rough knuckle, bending down to meet her gaze with a fierce, unwavering stare.
"Did it never cross your razor-sharp mind, Mistress Logic, that I wouldn'tletyou take it?"
"It crossed my mind you might try to stop me," she said coolly.
With a weary sigh, he released her chin and cast his eyes toward the looming rock. "And I'd have as much success, I suspect, as I would convincing this boulder to stroll over to Devon."
Killian caught the distant growl of thunder, as if the heavens themselves were murmuring their assent to the futility of his plight.
A wave of confusion, fury, and helplessness crashed over him, much like that storm in Paris—another dark force that had once crept toward him with ominous intent.
Just the mere thought of that wretched creation he had wrought with Milah Lydgate made his stomach churn violently. How, in all the unholy depths of hell, was he supposed to face it? To gaze upon it, speak to it, touch it, and—worst of all—claim it as his own?
The Haytor storm seemed to chase them all the way back to Ashbourne, hammering the roof and lashing the windows with a fury only matched by the infernal lightning that illuminated the house in bursts of searing white.
Anyone within earshot of His Lordship's tirade might have easily mistaken him for Beelzebub himself, whipping the elements into a frenzy with his wrath.
But, as Emma mused wryly, Hook had never been a man to gracefully manage his emotions. His repertoire for addressing life's little inconveniences was pitifully narrow: demolish the problem, terrify it into submission, or simply throw money at it.
When none of these tactics proved effective, he was utterly lost—left with only one recourse: a grand, theatrical tantrum.
He stormed at the servants, incensed that they hadn't whisked his wife out of her dripping outerwear fast enough, only to let the sodden garments pool on the marble floor—because, of course, wet clothes magically levitate and muddy boots leave no trace.
His fury then turned to the absence of steaming baths, which hadn't been drawn to perfection the moment they stepped through the door—because naturally, the staff were meant to divine the exact second Lord and Lady Hook would return.
Finally, he bellowed about his ruined boots, as if his vast collection of footwear wasn't already an embarrassment of riches.
As Emma soaked in her bath, luxuriating in the calm, she could hear his outraged baritone thundering through several walls. She couldn't help but wonder whether poor, long-suffering Smee might finally throw in the towel.
But it seemed that Hook's bath had soothed him—if only marginally—for by the time he prowled into her chambers, the roaring tempest of earlier had diminished to a low, disgruntled growl, and his thunderous scowl had mellowed into a sulky glower.
He entered, his injured arm now nestled in a sling. "Adjustments," he grumbled, after Cecilia wisely scurried out, not waiting to be dismissed. "Marriage is all about bloody adjustments. You want a sling, Emma? You get a sling."
"It doesn't disrupt the cut of your coat," she observed, eyeing him with an appraising gaze. "In fact, it's rather dashing."
She refrained from mentioning that he looked rather prepared for an outing, as he was fully attired for a ride.
"Don't coddle me," he snapped, before striding into her sitting room. Without a word, he snatched the portrait of his mother from the easel, carried it out, and kept marching right through the door.
Curious, she trailed after him, down the corridor, the south stairs, and into the dining room.
"You want Mama in the dining room?" he muttered darkly. "Fine. Mama hangs in the dining room."
He leaned the painting against a chair and gave the bell rope a sharp yank. A footman appeared almost instantly, as though conjured by Hook's temper.
"Tell Murphy I want that blasted landscape taken down and Mama's portrait up in its place," Hook commanded, voice as sharp as a whip. "And tell him I want it done now."
Without hesitation, the footman disappeared, no doubt sprinting off to fulfill his master's latest impulsive demand.
Hook strode out of the dining room and into the short hall leading to his study, his footsteps sharp against the floor.
Emma hurried after him, her voice calm but deliberate. "The portrait will look striking over the mantel," she said. "I found a stunning set of drapes in the North Tower. I'll have them cleaned and hung in the dining room—they'll suit the portrait far better than what's there now."
He had moved to his desk but didn't sit. Instead, he stood with his back half-turned toward her, his jaw clenched, eyes shadowed with something darker than mere frustration.
"I was eight," he began, his voice tight as a drawn bowstring. "I sat there," he nodded at the chair in front of the desk, "and my father sat there," he gestured to his usual seat. "He told me my mother was Jezebel, that dogs would feast on her. He said she was bound for Hell. That was his only explanation for her disappearance."
Emma felt the blood drain from her face, cold shock settling into her bones. She turned away, fighting for composure, though it was no easy feat.
She had suspected his father was harsh, unyielding—but she had never fathomed such monstrous cruelty. To speak that way to a child? A boy lost and grieving for his mother?
"He was angry," she forced herself to say evenly, though her heart hammered in her chest. "Angry, humiliated—but if he'd truly loved her, he would have gone after her. Instead of poisoning you with his bitterness."
"If you run away," Hook said suddenly, fiercely, "I will hunt you down. I will follow you to the ends of the earth."
If she had managed not to faint when he declared he couldn't survive without her, she could certainly handle this now, she assured herself.
"Yes, I know that," she replied, her voice steady. "But your father was a bitter, miserable man who married the wrong woman, and you are not. Clearly, she was high-strung—that's where you get it—and he made her life intolerable. But I am far from high-strung, and I certainly won't allow you to make me miserable."
"Just as you won't allow that bedamned woman to cart off her devil spawn to sinful London," Hook shot back, his voice still laced with bitterness.
Emma nodded calmly.
He leaned against the desk, shooting a glare at the floor as though it had personally wronged him. "It hasn't occurred to you, perhaps, that the child may not want to leave his mother. That such an event might..." He trailed off, his hand tapping impatiently on the desk's edge, the unspoken words hanging in the air.
He didn't need to finish. She understood all too well—he was referring to his own wounds, the festering pain of his mother's abandonment, a wound that still hadn't healed.
"I know it will be hard on him," Emma said, her tone softer now. "I asked his mother to prepare him for the change, to explain that where she's going is too dangerous for a little boy. That it's better for him to stay somewhere safe, where she knows he'll be well cared for."
He shot her a quick glance, but his eyes quickly dropped back to the floor, seemingly absorbed by the pattern of the carpet.
"I wish it were true," Emma said softly. "If she truly loved him, she'd never gamble with his safety. She would prioritize his well-being—just as your mother did," she added, daring to tread carefully. "She didn't whisk a helpless boy away on a perilous sea voyage with no guarantee she could care for him—assuming he even survived the ordeal. Her story was tragic, and it's only right to grieve for her. Milah Lydgate, on the other hand... Well, in many ways, she's still a child herself."
"My mother's a tragic heroine, and Milah Lydgate is an overgrown child," Hook muttered. He pushed away from the desk and moved to the window, staring out as though the storm could offer some answers.
Emma noticed the tempest outside was finally losing its fury.
"Milah craves pretty clothes, shiny trinkets, and the adoration of every man in sight," Emma continued, her tone sharp with disdain. "With her looks, her wit, and her undeniable charm, she could've made a name for herself as a famed London courtesan by now. But she's too lazy, too much of a creature of impulse."
"And yet," Hook said, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, "this so-called 'creature of impulse' is apparently fixated on my icon, as you kindly informed me on our ride back. A thing she's never laid eyes on. A relic whose existence she's betting on based on the babbling of a village fool, who heard it from someone else, who heard it from one of our servants. Yet somehow, she's convinced this mythical object is worth a tidy sum of twenty thousand pounds. Which, I believe, she made clear to you, is the only counteroffer she'll accept—and in sovereigns, mind you, because paper currency simply won't do. I'd love to know who planted this absurd number in her head."
Emma joined him at the window, looking out at the receding storm. "I'd like to know that as well, but we haven't time to find out, have we?"
With a dry chuckle, he turned to her, an amused glint in his eye. "We? It's hardly 'we,' and you know it. It's 'Hook,' the poor, henpecked wretch who must follow his wife's orders to the letter—if he knows what's good for him."
"If you were truly henpecked, you'd obey me without question," Emma countered, her tone teasing. "But that's hardly the case. You're not just following orders—you've already sought explanations for my motives, and now you're trying to decode Milah's. You're even preparing to navigate your son's emotions, putting yourself in his shoes so you can manage whatever challenges come your way with intelligence and finesse."
She stepped closer, her fingers straightening his neckcloth with a flourish. "Go on then, tell me I'm 'humoring' you or 'manipulating' you, or whatever other tiresome wifely crime I'm committing."
"Emma, you are a pain in the arse, do you know that?"he growled, shooting her a scowl. "If I didn't happen to be insanely fond of you, I'd toss you out the nearest window."
She wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her head on his chest with exaggerated affection. "Not merely 'fond'—but 'insanely fond'? Oh, Hook, I do believe I might swoon."
"Not right now," he grumbled, pulling away. "I haven't time to pick you up. Now get off me, love—I've got to dash off to bloody Postridge."
She stepped back, eyebrows raised. "Now?"
"Of course now," he muttered, sidestepping her and making a beeline for the door. "I'll wager the she-devil's already there, and the sooner I deal with this idiocy, the better. The storm's letting up, which means I've got a few hours of daylight left to avoid careening into a ditch and breaking my neck."
He was halfway out the door when Emma called after him. "Hook, do try not toexplodeon them."
He halted, turning to throw her a look of sheer exasperation. "I thought I was meant to mow her down," he retorted.
"Yes, but don't terrify the child. If he bolts, you'll be chasing him through hedges till kingdom come," she hurried to his side. "Perhaps I should come along?"
"Emma, I can manage," he said, his tone bordering on offense. "I am not a complete imbecile."
"But you're hardly an expert with children," she pointed out. "They can be... a bit puzzling."
"Love," he said through gritted teeth, "I'm going to collect the little brat, not write a thesis on his behavior. I'll scoop him up, drag him back to you, and you can puzzle over him to your heart's desire."
He yanked the door open and paused, casting her one last glance. "And once he's here, you can figure out what on earth to do with him, because I'm damned if I have the faintest idea."
Killian decided to take his coachman along, but leave the coach behind. Marco knew every twisting lane, hidden path, and sheep-trodden track in all of Dartmoor. Even if the storm regrouped and came barreling after them, Marco would have them in Postbridge quicker than a fox outwitting the hounds.
Besides, if Marco could aid his mistress in stirring up trouble for her husband, he could bloody well help Killian navigate his way out of it.
Killian still hadn't figured out how Emma had managed to sweet-talk his fiercely loyal coachman into bending the rules these past few weeks. But it soon became clear that, while she had a persuasive charm, she hadn't completely turned Marco into her puppet. When Emma darted to the stables with a last-ditch plea to join them, Marco offered a diplomatic solution.
"Perhaps if Her Ladyship were to pack a little bundle for the lad, she might find some peace of mind," Marco suggested, his tone soothing but firm. "She's fretting he'll be hungry, or cold, and you're in far too much of a rush to notice. A toy, maybe, to keep him occupied?"
Killian turned to Emma, eyebrow raised.
"I suppose that will have to do," she sighed, though it was clear she still thought her presence would be the better option.
"You will not be there, so get that notion right out of your head," Killian shot back. "I'll give you a quarter of an hour to assemble this cursed bundle—and not a minute more."
Fifteen minutes later, Killian sat astride his horse, glowering at the front door of Ashbourne with all the patience of a man being slowly boiled alive. After five more exasperating minutes, he kicked his horse into motion, leaving Marco to juggle parcels and placate Her Ladyship's endless concerns.
Marco caught up with him just beyond the estate's main gate, riding with an easy stride. "'Twas the toy that held her up," he explained, falling into pace beside Killian. "She went all the way up to the North Tower, found one of them paper peepshows—said it was a sea battle."
"Ah, that must be Nelson and Parker at Copenhagen," Killian mused, a chuckle escaping. "If it's one of mine, that is. I dare say it's the only one I didn't have time to obliterate before being shipped off to school. Got it for my eighth birthday. One hardly needs to guess how she found it—my lady could track down a needle in a haystack in the dark. It's one of her rather inconvenient talents, Marco."
"True enough, Your Lordship does have a knack for misplacing things now and again," Marco said, casting a sidelong glance at his master's left arm, which had mysteriously freed itself from the sling the moment they'd cleared the estate. "Lost your arm saddle, have you, m'lord?"
Killian glanced down as if he hadn't quite noticed. "Good grief, so I have. Well, no use hunting for it now, is there?"
They rode in companionable silence for a stretch, the sound of hooves the only conversation.
"Reckon I shouldn't've helped her find the lad in the first place," Marco said after a pause, his brow creasing. "But truth be told, I've been fretting ever since I heard old Granny Lucas finally kicked the bucket."
Marco explained that the old midwife had been the only mother Harry had ever known.
"When Granny passed, there wasn't a soul left willing to look after the boy," Marco said, his tone grim. "Far as I reckon, his ma stirred up trouble right in front of your new bride, thinking you'd have to do something—maybe toss her some coin to disappear or hire a nurse for the lad. But you never sent anyone, not even when the boy started tearing up the village—"
"I didn't know he was causing trouble!" Killian snapped, his irritation flaring. "Because no one bloody told even you."
"It wasn't my place," Marco replied steadily. "Besides, how was I to know you wouldn't handle it like your father? Her Ladyship said you had transporting in mind—that's what you wanted. Both of 'em, mother and boy. Well, that didn't sit right with me, m'lord. I kept quiet once, years ago, when I watched your father make a mess of things. I was young then, worried about keeping my job, and thought the gentry knew better than a village boy. But I'm past fifty now, and I've learned to see things differently."
"Not to mention," Killian muttered darkly, "that my wife could convince you there were pixies in your pockets if it suited her purposes. I should count myself lucky she didn't talk you into smuggling her along in one of your saddlebags."
"She gave it a go," Marco said with a grin. "I told her she'd be better off getting things ready for the boy. Like digging out the rest of them wooden soldiers of yours, picking a nursemaid, and setting up the nursery."
"I said I'd fetch him," Killian replied icily. "I didnotsay the filthy beggar could live in my house or sleep in my nursery—" He stopped short, his stomach twisting in knots.
Marco said nothing, keeping his eyes fixed on the road ahead, leaving Killian to wrestle with his thoughts in uneasy silence.
He waited for the churning in his gut to subside, the tension slowly loosening its grip as they covered another mile. Finally, the knots inside him eased to a bearable level.
"She called it a problem of 'cosmic proportions,'" he muttered, voice laced with irritation. "And yet, I'm expected to untangle it somewhere between here and Postbridge. We're approaching the West Webburn River, aren't we?"
"Another quarter mile, m'lord."
"And from there, Postbridge is, what—less than four miles?" Killian asked, his tone a mix of disbelief and dread.
Marco nodded.
"Four miles," Killian repeated, sighing deeply. "Four bloody miles to solve a problem of cosmic proportions. God help me."