Ragne returns just as I realize I have made a truly unfortunate mistake.
Is it that I just dropped another human being into an icy river in manacles and thus (probably) to his death? Hardly. I think we can all agree that the encyclopedic prick had it coming.
It’s that right now, his satchel is (probably) sinking to the bottom of the Yssar with him. And inside that satchel is Yannec’s ledger. The one I need so I can find Yannec’s buyer and get rid of the Eisendorf jewels.
I’ve only just walked in through the veranda door when I make the realization. Ragne flaps inside from behind me. She’s a black barn owl now, blinking in the candlelight as she perches on a bedpost.
I hurriedly point back out the door. “Ragne. There’s a boy in the Yssar, and I need his bag. Can you take care of it?”
She hoots and launches herself out into the night. I run my hands over the tangled mess of my braids, trying to think.
Poldi crackles politely as he swings his legs, sitting on the hearth.
“Right. The mead.” I slap paste and gauze over the ruby, duck into the servant corridors, race down to the kitchens, and return with a bottle.
By the time I make it back up, Ragne has returned, human again. She’s also stark naked and dripping on the carpet.
“Just . . . why?” I ask, exhausted.
“Humans dry faster. No fur.”
“Humans use towels. And clothes.” I hand Poldi the bottle. “Thank you for your help.”
He snatches it up and vanishes into the chimney. “I’ll keep the fires warm for the half god.”
I turn back to Ragne and set about finding her a towel. “Well?”
“I took care of it,” she says brightly, and shakes her head. Water flies everywhere.
“Where’s the satchel?”
“With the boy.”
I frown as I pull a clean towel from a basket. “And where is the boy?”
“On the other side of the river.”
“Is he . . . ?” I draw a finger across my throat.
Ragne tilts her head, confused.
“Did he drown?” I clarify.
She pokes at her own throat. “Why would you drown like that? Does he have gills?”
“Dead! It means dead. Like having a throat cut. Is he dead?”
“Oh. I don’t understand.” Ragne plants herself by the fire. “He’s still alive.”
I throw the towel at her. “What part of that istaken care of?”
“The boy,” Ragne answers, bewildered. “I pushed him to the shore and—”
“I needed you to get his bag, Ragne!” I throw up my hands. “I didn’t care what happened to him, I needed thebag!”
My fingers twitch with pinpricks. I swear and shake them out, and find a dusting of tiny rubies erupting over my knuckles.
“I can see that,” Ragne says.
