Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
My eyes prickle with emotion, and I lower my voice. “He’s like that.”
Merc opens the door, and we’re quick about the exit. The storm’s only gotten stronger somehow, the rain riding the gusts of wind and lashing at us with such ferocity, he puts an arm around my waist to hold me on the ground lest I be swept off.
And he waits. Until the bolt is thrown.
Then we are off, into the horizontal rain, the bracing gale, the deep muddy puddles. Merc is undaunted. The way he moves against the fury, how solid he is, how strong, is a reminder that both sexes have their utility in the harsh world. Without him, I would become a tumble that is carried away.
I also stay dry. So this is the why of the felt, I reflect, as the water beads off as it would the back of waterfowl.
When we get to the first of the entries into the pub and lodging house, Merc tries the doors and they’re locked. He goes to the second set, with the same result—and I begin to worry. At the final entry, he releases me, and puts both hands on the grips, clearly prepared to rip open the panels if necessary—
They open just fine. And he all but throws me inside. As he jumps in behind me, he shuts things—
So many eyes upon us.
Though most of the chatter in the pub continues, and I avoid all the gazes, I can feel the attention like I’m too close to a fire.
Hide.
Except I would have hunkered down anyway. Merc, at my side, does the opposite. Instead of skirting the edges and ducking the pub’s patrons as we head for the stairs, he tucks me into him with an arm around my shoulders, and he walks us right through the center of it all, as if there aren’t easily a hundred or more roughheads, ne’er-do-wells, and gamblers measuring us for opportunities and weaknesses.
He doesn’t care. Then again, he’s used to this, no doubt. Me? I look around furtively, assessing the place for spots to take cover behind—which is more reflex than anything I’m going to act upon.
Staying with him is the very best course.
Similar to the Gauntlet, a bar runs down the far side, the difference being this establishment and everything in it is three to four times the size of Mr. Lewis’s ale emporium. Round tables fill this space, barmaids deliver food and drink, and ladies who make their money upstairs drift around and sing in low-cut gowns that are not made of felt, but rather of proper, colorful silks that are fitted beautifully to their bodies. Lanterns hang from the low rafters, lighting it all—except for a stretch against the back wall, which is so dim, I can’t see what is there.
A warning tingles up my spine as I focus on that darkness, and as my eyes adjust, some details emerge. It seems as though a single trestle table runs parallel to the rear of the building, and all its chairs face outward toward the open area with the patrons. The group of men sitting along its far flank have arranged themselves such that their heads are secreted outside of the dim glow of a couple of black candles.
There’s a single man at the head of the group, and he’s in an armchair.
That’s when I see the hat. A top hat—
As if he senses my regard, the king of them all leans forward, only the bottom half of his visage entering into the flickering light, the rest hidden by the hat’s edge. It’s the rider, from the refreshing stream—and he’s looking in my direction.
Touching that brim, he gallantly tilts his head … and smiles in that way he did when he told me the water I was in was poisoned.
I look away quickly, and trip on something.
“Watch it, wench—” The angry patron shuts himself up as Merc stops short. “She—um, she hit my chair.”
The bearded man, who’s not in felt clothes, goes back to his mead with a wince as the two others sitting with him also stare down into their tankards. After a moment, Merc keeps going, although I suspect, were I not with him, there would have been conversation.
If not more.
All I want to do is make it to the stairs in one piece and get away from the crowd. There are too many chances already being taken here, and I don’t want to be rolling any more dice, literally or figuratively.
I’ve already won the pot tonight—
Fate is not done with me. We’re nearly to the steps when I see someone bursting out of what appears to be the kitchen. It’s the short-haired maid with the lovely singing voice—
“Oh, hello,” I call over to her.
She ignores me, dropping her head and putting an empty tray up on her shoulder like she wants to hide underneath it. And it’s then I see the man in a dirty butcher’s apron who props open that swinging panel.