Page 66 of The Thief and the Traitor Bride

He came up behind her, nestling his nose against her neck. “Yes or no, Finch?”

She pulled away, unable to wrestle with her own anxiety when he was right there and doing his level best to distract her. “No. I’m tired. I think I’ll go to bed.”

He hesitated. “Do you… possibly want to take a couple of days away? You’ve been working so hard.” Cas rarely looked insecure, but he stood now with his head tilted as he watched her, twisting his ring with one finger. “It’s been… what, a year since we last went away? Two?”

Nore rubbed her eyes. “I can’t. It’s just… work. I can’t leave.”

“Not even for a day?” He crept closer, tipping his forehead against hers. “We could spend the day in bed. Don’t even need to leave.”

She pulled his hand to her lips and kissed the fourth finger of his left. “As lovely as it sounds,” she said, “you know all the reasons why I can’t.” She traced her fingertip over the edge of his lip. “Not when Edith is still at the helm, and it’s only a matter of time before she—”

“On that subject,” Cas said. “Have you given any more thought to moving operations? Getting out of Nettlepool?”

Nore looked away. She hadn’t mentioned it to Celestine in months; she knew there was no point. “I’ve been thinking about it,” she hedged. She caught the flicker of hurt on his face, tightened her hold on his hands. “But Edith won’t carry on for much longer, and when she hands operations over to me, things will change. I promise. We can move on with our lives, and I can make my own hours, and you can come with me on our trips. I don’t have to keep you a secret.”

He sighed. “I don’t mind being your secret, as long as you’re keeping me.”

Nore closed her eyes against the warmth of him. “I’m keeping you,” she promised. “Nothing to worry about there.”

She slept restlessly, waking more than once under the weight of Cas’s arm or entangled in his legs. When she could bear it no longer, she dressed in black and slipped out of the apartment. She had an extra dress at her office—but first, she needed to check. Needed to see for herself.

In her soft-soled shoes, it was easy to slip into the hungover quiet of the Friesen house. She tiptoed down the hall, ducking into an alcove when a servant passed, keeping her breathing level. It took her a quarter of an hour to reach the room where the urn was kept, but it was good practice, if nothing else.

Nore opened the door and crept across the empty room—and her heart dropped. The urn was still there. Her trap had not been sprung.

Nore sighed, picking up the urn. She turned it around—and froze. The small tracking stone, the identical pair to the one she currently had in her pocket, was no longer glued to the bottom. There was a noise as she flipped the urn: a rustling, and the sound of a small pebble.

Nore frowned. She carefully opened the lid and upended the urn, expecting Mr. Friesen’s stash of bank notes or some other paraphernalia.

The tracking stone tumbled out, so clearly that had been discovered. A note fell out, too, floating to the floor. Nore set the urn back and squinted at the writing. Her Nish was still a work in progress, but she could make out the words written there, in tidy cursive: Bon issa.

In Lindle, it translated to, Nice try.

Investigating the lore of this land is one of my greatest joys in life. It contains within it the hopes, joys, and losses of our people—and in studying it, I find a greater understanding of the hopes, joys, and grief of my own heart.

Lecture transcription from Professor Terlo Augustine, University of Rinka, 1633 UCE

twelve

NORE HAD APPROXIMATELY THIRTY seconds of blissful silence when she woke before the consequences of the night before caught up with her:

First, the ache in her head, which started as a distant buzz, swooped close and hard, focusing over her temples.

Second, when she dragged a hand over her face to press her fingers to her temple, hoping to soothe the ache, she remembered the pain in the middle of her face; her nose was swollen and tender.

She sat up, confronting the third horrible realization of the morning: Caspian sat in a chair facing her, fully dressed for the day. He had his elbows on his knees and was leaning forward, his face serious as he regarded her.

He’d seen her scars. He knew.

Fourth: Caspian did not say anything about her scars, or about what happened between them the night before. Instead, worse, he said, “Finch, I have a proposal for you.”

“Gods,” Nore said. She lay back down.

He sighed. She kept her eyes firmly closed through the rustling and other sounds as Caspian moved around. Then, there was a gentle hand brushed across her forehead. “Take this,” Caspian said.

She opened her eyes. He’d retrieved a pain relief draught from his pack and poured her a glass of water. She looked at him, narrow eyed. Perhaps it would be worth suffering through the pain if she didn’t have to hear his attempt at some sort of truce.

“Finch,” Caspian said again, exasperated. She felt the mattress move as he sat on the edge of the bed.