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He nodded. “Indeed they will. Which is why we must take advantage of the distance we've gained. Approximately two miles from here, there's a sugar shack where we can stop. I suspect you are eager for rest?”
“An astute observation,” she grumbled.
“I am given to those.” The smile he sent over his shoulder was disarming.
Thea refused to be charmed. “An assassin shouldn't try to be so personable.”
His brows arched, the expression less distinct than his teeth had been in the moonlight. “Do you know many?”
“Do I seem like the sort of person who would want to associate with killers?”
“You seem like the sort of person who wouldn't want to associate with anyone at all. I've met scholars with fewer books on their shelves.”
She didn't know whether to be offended or disturbed. “How would you know anything about my books?”
“I was on the stairs while you packed.”
If that was true, then he'd also been there while she'd changed clothing. Heat blossomed in her cheeks and she was grateful for the cover of night.
Gil returned to the original subject unprompted, sparing her the embarrassment of discovering whether or not he'd stayed to watch her dress. “For the record, a cordial killer is often more effective than one who makes himself standoffish. Charm engenders trust, and trust gives rise to vulnerability. There's a reason kings keep few friends.”
“While assassins have many?” She was short of breath again, trying to keep up with him. Her words were ragged.
“Assassins have none.” He spread his hands as if in lament. “But they're the only ones who know it. Look. Our destination is there, at the edge of that grove.”
Thea could barely make out the shape of the sugar shack against the dark trunks of the trees, its roof shaded by leaves that lacked vibrance in the moonlight. Instead of replying, she hefted her sewing basket from one hand to the other and walked with a more deliberate stride.
By the time they reached the shack and Gil undid the lock, she was ready to collapse. He ushered her inside and lingered at the door for a time, watching the countryside for any sign their pursuers might be closer than anticipated. The night was still, save the song of crickets, and he shut the door when he was satisfied. Darkness swallowed them, but the sound of his footsteps made it easy to track him across the shack. “Give me a moment. I'll ensure the windows are covered, then I'll start a fire.”
A fire sounded pleasant, but she still shook her head as she sank to the floor, despite knowing he wouldn't see. “They'll see the smoke. No one should be in here this time of year. It'll be suspicious.”
“If you believe yourself capable of working in the dark, I won't dissuade you.” He shifted something and what little moonlight had reached the inside of the shack disappeared.
Whoever owned the place, they'd already boarded over most of the windows, from what Thea could tell. Preparation for winter. More proof their presence would be obvious and out of place. “A lantern would suffice.”
Gil continued without acknowledging her again, but when a light flared to life, it was trapped within the glass panes of a square lantern. He sat the lantern on the floor beside her. “Begin sewing.”
“Now?” She was so weary she could hardly lift her arms. How could she so much as thread a needle at a time like this?
“We both have work to do. The sooner we both start, the sooner we can continue our journey in safety.” He sat cross legged on the floor and moved his bag before him.
The bag with the head. Thea's stomach lurched.
Her expression must have changed, for Gil paused with the satchel's top only partway open. “If you are squeamish, I will turn so you have the ability to look away. But my work requires light as much as yours, and this cannot be put off, or the royal dogs will follow us to the ends of the earth.”
“Turn, then.” She put her chin down and opened her own things. Not the sewing basket, as he'd ordered, but her personal belongings. At the very top, the cake from Elia waited in its wrappings. A consolation indeed. Thea pulled it out, her stomach more hollow than ever before. She would need water, too, but something to eat was a start.
Gil's brow furrowed at the sight of the package, but he didn't look for long. As he'd said, he turned before he removed the head from his satchel. The stench of hours-old blood hit her like a slap in the face and made her reconsider her meal.
“I know,” he remarked as he positioned the dark leather bag to hide whatever it was he meant to do. “But try to eat. You'll need to keep up your strength.”
“I didn't say anything.” Thea tugged at the strings that held the paper closed, though she was unsure she'd be able to eat now.
“Your face said plenty.”
The cake inside the paper was dense and smelled heavenly. She scooted farther away and lifted it to her nose, hoping it would remain enticing if she focused on it. “What do you mean to do with that, anyway?”
“Preserve it. I won't disturb you with details, lest I harm your appetite. But he must remain recognizable, and we have a long way to go.” He removed something else from his satchel. Tools, she assumed. Perhaps herbs or oils. As if to confirm her suspicion, a cork popped and a spicy aroma touched the air. That addressed one problem, at least. If she turned away, maybe she could pretend he was doing something innocent. Wood carving, or something equally mundane.
