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“Because the name they keep saying is Little John this, Little John that. Chief o’ the Merry Men.”
A gasp ripped out of my throat.
I started to recognize the amorphous shape in the bag, and a chill ran up my spine. I hurriedly untied the bag and upended it over my open palm—
And out dropped a thick, rotting human finger.
Chapter 23
Robin
My cheeks paled. I felt drained of all my blood. Horrible nausea took root deep in my belly. I’m going to vomit.
“Fuck,” Will growled.
Rosco leaned forward, grimacing. “Hoy. That’s nasty, ain’t it?”
Will and I glared at him.
The young guttersnipe raised both lanky arms in surrender. “Alls I’m saying is it looks like someone has it out for you, aye? To be placing it on your old abode door?”
True.
“Whose it belong to?” He was clearly excited to be seeing a human finger detached from a body. My guess? It probably wasn’t the first human appendage he and his boys had found rummaging through the alleys and garbage of Nottingham.
“Little John.” I rolled it into the bag. If I looked at it any longer, I’d lose my dinner. I knew the size of my giant sentinel’s limbs and digits intimately—every single one of them. I knew this one belonged to John.
Will took Rosco’s suggestion and went further with it. “It’s clearly a message, little thorn.”
“Aye,” I muttered, getting confused from the lack of air in my lungs. “Why put it here? Why not just send it to us with a messenger if—”
“Think, girl. The Sheriff nailed it to the door because he didn’t have our exact location at the time. Likely why he sent Emma on that carriage down the road, too.”
I started nodding along, understanding coming to me.
“The Sheriff didn’t know how to reach you,” he continued. “Guesswork wouldn’t work for something like this, so he put it somewhere he expected you’d return to.”
“. . . Like my old family estate.”
Still a step ahead of us. As always. That bastard.
There was no note with the bag, of course. I didn’t need one. This macabre discovery gave me all the proof I needed: Sheriff George had Little John captive, and was planning on executing him soon.
He’s pushing time against us—forcing our hand.
“This was an act of rage and vexation,” Will said, tapping the bag with a finger. “I’d know. He’s growing frustrated with his failure to find us or bring us down.”
“So he’s making us act,” I said.
“And quickly, no doubt, to keep us unbalanced. Clearly this is a set-up.” Will tugged at his chin, wincing while trying to think. Then he turned to Rosco. “When did you say the execution is set for?”
“I didn’t, penny-snatcher.” Rosco shrugged his bony shoulders. “Last announcement was nearly a fortnight ago.”
Will looked pointedly at the taller, younger lad. “Then you have your mission, don’t you?”
Rosco worked his jaw, furrowing his brow. With his lanky neck reeling, he clearly didn’t like being told what to do. Hence why he had probably left the almshouse in the first place—to eschew the rules set in place there.
“That is, if you’d like to impress Emma and hear news from her . . .” Will trailed off, letting the silence speak for him as he picked at his fingernail absentmindedly.
