Page 41 of The Thief and the Traitor Bride

She used to think so, too—but the truth was: “I’m better than that.” Nore shoved her gloved hands in the pockets of her cloak as another wretched gust of wind pinked her cheeks. “The company and the craft have been entwined for longer than I’ve been alive.” She shrugged, uncertain why she was being honest. Maybe it was an explanation for all the things he failed to pick up on years before; maybe she was respecting the fact he had been honest with her in his questioning, and she was responding with honesty in turn. “Besides, it builds trust—people associate age with quality, and both Miller & Sons and its association with the Gordon name are well established.”

“But Elinore Gordon doesn’t exist.”

Nore smiled tightly. “Well, they don’t know that,” she said. “And after three—four?—generations of false Gordons at the helm, there is no reason to suspect otherwise.”

Caspian only sighed. Nore thought it was the end of the conversation, and she turned her attention to searching for the clerk, when he said, “And she protects you, then? Not the Gordon name—you.”

“She does.”

Caspian said no more. Nore found the clerk and paid the fees she needed to—whomever she’d overheard at the Swine was correct; the import fees were ridiculous—and turned her attention back to searching for their well.

“Finch,” Caspian said. He nodded toward the road that came from town.

She easily found the figure he indicated, clad in black, walking quickly in their direction with their head down.

Nore scanned them over. They wore a dark cloak, but she knew enough of fabrics and techniques to know that it was expensive, especially when the person drew closer and Nore spotted the gold dove pin that held the cloak closed.

The duchess’s symbol.

“Mr. Borrel,” she said when he was within range. “Well met.”

“Nore,” he said, taking the hand she offered and pressing it to his lips. When he rose, she could see him properly, despite his hat: Gail was a thin-lipped, clean-shaven man in his late thirties or early forties, pale skinned and dark eyed. His hands were gloved like Nore’s, but if she peeled them away, she was certain they would be smooth and uncalloused. “Well met. I hope your journey wasn’t too taxing.”

He spoke Idistran with an accent Nore didn’t recognize, but she was fairly certain it wasn’t the impact of an Ortissian accent on Idistran common. She’d never heard a Nestrian accent before—she’d never actually been to Idistra, so of course she’d be unaware of dialects and accents. Her familiarity with the language was borne from speaking only with Caspian.

“It was as expected,” Nore said.

He smiled at her. His eyes were set deep in his skull, overshadowed with bushy blond eyebrows. “And this must be your mage.”

Nore forced a smile. She was unaccustomed to being responsible for anyone, unaccustomed to caring what anyone thought of Caspian. “Yes. This is my husband, Caspian.”

Beside her, he stiffened. Nore stilled, ready to elbow Caspian in the ribs if the moment called for it—but to her surprise, his face broke into a familiar, dashing smile. Caspian inclined his head in a mock bow. “It’s a pleasure, Gail,” he said. “I’m looking forward to getting to know you better—I so rarely get to watch my wife work.”

Nore’s stomach turned to lead. She did not like the sound of that, nor the poisonous charm on Caspian’s tongue.

Gail clapped his hands together. She noted the large opal-faced ring he wore. “Well, then it will be an adventure for us all. Let’s be off, then, shall we? I’m sure you must be hungry and tired after your journey, and there is much to discuss.”

“After you,” Caspian said, gesturing toward the passenger compartment of their laden carriage.

Gail directed the driver to take them to a cottage nearly an hour away from the port. He chattered the whole way about the Ortissian court, the kind of small talk that Nore was used to from lower aristocrats. She settled into the pattern of it, the pointless gossip that hinted at the depths of Gail’s greater knowledge. Caspian was content to sit back, listening—he seemed truly interested only once, when Gail informed them the moment they passed over the bridge that crossed the river from Scaela into Luthar.

“This is your land, isn’t it?” Gail asked, his gaze flicking to Caspian. Without his hat on, Nore could see his appeal: he wasn’t handsome, necessarily, but he had a strong cut to his jaw and the kind of bearing and attitude unique to those who have quite a lot of money and the power to do what they want with it. She could see, easily, how he was trusted with secrets—and just as easily how he could use them without a second thought.

“It is,” Caspian said, his tone light, but Nore could see the caution in his eyes. She wondered what he read into Gail’s demeanor.

“Are your people close?”

“No,” Caspian said. “I grew up in Lindan. Anyone else who remained here is either dead or out of my contact.”

Nore glanced over at Caspian. Gail thought they were married and in love, and if she were his wife, she would’ve reacted to this. That was why Nore reached out and laid her hand over Caspian’s. It was the kind of comfort a beloved wife would offer.

But this show of affection did seem to surprise Gail: he studied their hands with a faint crease between his brows, reminding Nore that this situation between her and Caspian was an anomaly. After all, a person with fewer attachments made a better spy.

Gail did not pursue further conversation after that. They arrived at the cottage in late evening, and Gail directed the driver to lock Nore’s samples in one of the outbuildings. Finished, the driver took one of the horses and set off toward town. For safety purposes, they would switch drivers on every leg of the journey.

Inside, Gail shucked off his fine cloak. Nore glanced at the clothing he wore underneath: a standard lightweight hardened leather breastplate, still fashionable here for cross-border travel, lightweight enough that it barely showed under his cloak; an Isle-made sweater, she suspected, in a local pattern; slate-gray trousers in a continental cut that looked vaguely Isbetan. She would have to see what he chose to drink that night and make further judgments based on that.

The cottage was cozy: one main room with a stove and table, a large sofa, and two chairs set around a fireplace. Two doors downstairs, then a staircase to an upstairs room. Gail pottered about, setting a pot to boil for tea—he was not so wealthy that he had no idea how to cater to his own comforts, she noted, relieved. She hung her cloak and removed her gloves.