Page 71 of The Swindler’s Daughter

“Besides,” Tyson continued, “if His Grace, the Duke of Winberg, isn’t going to appoint trustworthy peacekeepers, he can at least lend us the use of his empty house.” His voice grew stronger and louder with his indignation.

“That’s not the way it works,” Rowan said, kneeling in front of the fireplace, which still had a collection of old wood in a nearby basket. “The duke doesn’t appoint magistrates directly. The magistrate picks his constables and when the time comes, the senior-most constable takes over as magistrate.”

“And no one realized that was a crackpot idea?” Tyson demanded as he flung a dustcover off one of the couches, coughing when he breathed in the grime. The cover tangled around his arm and he shook it off as he cursed in frustration. “Give a man authority and it’s easy enough for him to become greedy and corrupt. But sure,” he said hotly as he waved a hand in front of his face. “Make it so we can’t oust the bad ones.”

“The ruling class doesn’t care about corruption,” Rowan stated without emotion as he pulled a flint and knife from his boot. “They care about control.”

“Laws, I hope that’s not true of everyone,” I muttered. It was such a depressing thought. “It’s certainly not true of Princess Marilee,” I commented as I watched Rowan.

“In my experience, morality among the ruling class is just as varied as morality among the working class,” John said as he stepped to a window, moving the drapes aside with his staff so he could peer out.

Rowan harrumphed. “You’ve had better experiences with the upper class than I have. Though,” he said, cutting his eyes over to me, “I do agree about Her Highness.” It took him a couple more strikes to get the fire to light.

I moved toward it as he coaxed the flame higher and stayed there when he stood to help the boys clear off couches. I should have helped but my legs didn’t want to cooperate. An almost numb coldness was settling over me and I did my best to hide the shaking of my hands, hating that I couldn’t control it. It made me feel weak.

I listened with half an ear as the boys made a plan to steal food from the kitchen. “It’s food that Tyson and I would have eaten anyway,” John rationalized.

Despite the heat radiating from the fireplace, the shaking in my hands wouldn’t stop. The racing in my mind wouldn’t ease, and the tumbled emotions of my heart would not quiet. It was like being inside the bell tower of the church with its clanging, reverberating chaos.

I jumped a little when Rowan’s hands settled on my shoulders. I hadn’t noticed him behind me. “Are you cold?” he asked.

“No, I—I think the past two days are catching up with me,” I admitted, rather than trying to brush it off. “I was able to ignore the intensity of it all when we were busy. But now—” I wrapped my cloak more tightly around me as I turned to face him. “I’m terrified of what tomorrow brings. And before you ask, no, I don’t regret it. But there will be consequences, and not knowing what those will be leaves a pit in my stomach.” I reached out, framing his face with my hands. “I worry so much for you.”

He blinked. “For me?”

“Yes. It’s your face they know. You’ve been the most visible. You’ll receive the most blame.” I’d seen the way the magistrate had focused his wrath on Rowan when he had us in that tent.

He covered my hands with his own, pulling them gently from his face. “Perhaps. But I have a feeling that they won’t be lenient toward any of us, which is why I’m terrified for you.”

I stepped forward, wrapping my arms around his waist and resting my head on his chest. “Tell me it will all be worth it.”

“I think it already has been.”

Despite the reassurance of his words, my trembling continued.

“What’s wrong, Miri?” he asked, his voice thick with worry.

“I don’t like this place,” I confessed into the darkness.

His hands ran up and down my back, offering comfort. “A bit too gloomy for you?”

“It’s not just that. It’s the stories I’ve heard. Princess Marilee’s first husband, Lord Damian Rockwell, was a brute and a tyrant. He turned this place into a prison for her.”

“But he’s dead now.”

“I know that.” I burrowed deeper into his arms. “I just don’t like it here,” I said, desperate to make him understand—to understand myself. “The stories and the dust and, yes, even the gloom, make it hard to breathe.”

He pressed a kiss into my hair. “Let’s go for a walk.”

I nodded. He led me to the door, through the corridor and down the stairs with an arm wrapped around my waist.

We stepped out into the night and somehow the darkness blanketed by stars felt safer than the dense loneliness of Bridgefield’s old wing.

It was odd that my trembling stopped after we stepped outside. Logic said that the cool air and breeze should have made things worse. Instead my breathing evened out and the reassuring warmth of Rowan’s hand in mine eased the tension in my spine, allowing me to relax. I could feel Rowan’s gaze on me as I regained my composure. I’d been paranoid out here just a little while ago, but there was something inside the old wing that felt more threatening than the black stillness of the open air.

His thumb caressed the back of my hand, trying to soothe. “I didn’t realize what I was asking of you when I begged for your help,” Rowan said suddenly as we meandered through the garden. “It was selfish of me.”

Puzzlement no doubt twisted my features. “I’m not sure how. You were asking me to help other people, not you.”