Though beneath her cover is possibly a stone-cold killer.
Like calling to like indeed.
My throat seizes, and I force a hard swallow, not letting myself linger on the flashes of that highborn man’s house. His body on the floor.
“Well, that changes things, my lady.” I bow as best I can in the saddle. “I’m Samson of Clan Maxwell. I’m Lord Latimer’s secretary—raised in London by my ma,” I tack on, and she grunts.
“Anyone can say that. Especially an Englishman with intentionsthat could—”
I whip out some of my papers from my saddlebag before she’s done talking. Latimer’s seal. Clan Maxwell’s.
The girl doesn’t reach out, just stares at them, her distrust peeling back in the smoothing of her forehead.
“I moved up to be with my father in Latimer’s court after my ma died,” I tell her. “I’m going to Stirling as Latimer’s proxy for the christening.”
I tuck the papers away, and the girl wilts. Imperceptibly, but it’s there, something like resignation. “Laird Latimer is not attending the baptism himself? Is he unwell?”
“Ill. Gout,” I say.
She cocks her head. “I am sad to hear that. Latimer is always a welcome addition to court.” Her eyes lock on mine, assessing again, and I sit there, allowing it, because I can feel her resistance waning.
If I can get her on my side, it’ll be far easier to search Mary’s apartments.
The girl’s watching me now with something like her own sort of tentative resolve.
On a sigh, she cuts her head up the road.
“Come on, then, Samson,” she tells me, then kicks her horse to face north again.
I grin. “Yeah? You aren’t set on running me through, then?” It’s the first time I’ve acknowledged her murderous inclinations. And I may say it lightly, almost teasing, but there’s a current of weight to it.
She stiffens in her saddle, dragging her horse to a stop. Not facing me, not even turning a bit backward, she says, “That’s yet to be determined.”
I shiver, tongue working over my teeth as she twists her reins andmoves to kick her horse.
“Wait. What’s your name?”
She finally glances back at me, her expression gaunt, like she’s considering lying or simply not answering at all.
Her blink is slow, unaffected. “Alyth.”
7
Alyth
I simply don’t know what to make of this Samson of Clan Maxwell.
His aura is innocent. Confused, curious, nervous…but he’s not fae or Leth, and he’s not got ill intentions as far as I can see.
It was odd though. He definitely didn’t recognize that the cauldron was made by fae. But hedidsee the man die—
He didn’t just die.
He was murdered.
By me.
—but Samson was aware the body turned to dust. I hadn’t had time to cast a glamour over the man’s death, but most humans would not have been able to process what happened. Their brains would have made up some more believable lie. I’ve seen humans write off fae creatures or magic as shadows or tricks of the eye, but few ever register the truth like this Samson did.
