madame, I did not see you zere,” said the serving woman, suddenly blocking her view. “What shall I bring you zis evening, eh?”
Blair asked for whatever they had that was hot.
“And may I hang your cloak, madame? Near the fire perhaps?”
Considering how drunk they were, she doubted anyone would recognize her, especially if she kept her back against the seat and her red curls in the shadows.
She handed the cloak over, ignored the way the woman’s eyes bulged when she got a look at her hair, and scooted as far back as possible, feeling far more exposed than she’d expected. But the woman had been right. Her cloak was wet and wanted hanging. And if the dark little man entered, he would still not recognize her.
Somewhere near the entrance, a man argued with a woman. The woman gasped and Blair could hear her footsteps as she ran away. A heartbeat later, the dark little man appeared, walking toward the gentlemen’s table.
She leaned forward to listen, knowing the little man would be hard to understand, especially if he turned his back to her. But he didn’t stop at the table. He walked right past it.
Was he blind? Hadn’t he been asking where to find them? Were there so many similar sets of men dining or drinking in the auberge tonight, then?
He scurried through a door at the corner of the wall, then disappeared like a rat. The door closed silently behind him and a shiver rolled through her.
Blair looked back at the table where both of Ash’s friends had lain their heads on their arms, while he sat back in his chair with the crown of his head resting on the wall behind him. With the candle on the table doused, it was impossible to determine whether he was sleeping or staring at her. For all the movement, they might all be dead.
The notion was impossible, but she panicked just the same.
She tried to remember what the little man had done as he passed the table. His nearest arm had been visible. She remembered recoiling at the filthiness of his sleeve. But what could he have accomplished with his other hand? A silent shot from a pistol? Impossible.
She pushed her table away and stood, willing the big man’s eyes to widen with recognition. They did not.
She glanced at his body. Impossible to tell if he’d been wounded. Blood would hardly show well against the black of his clothing.
Deciding there were things more important at the moment than her anonymity, she stepped around her table—just as Stanley let out a snort.
She froze.
He turned his head to the other side and rested it once again on his arm.
Alive.
The big man didn’t move, but she assumed he was in the same sad condition. And if they were all unharmed, then what had the little man wanted?
Again, she looked at the table while she wavered on her side of the aisle.
Had he simply stolen a bite of food on his way past? Had he been so certain noble men would have food on their table for the taking? If so, why had he paid the man in the alley for telling him where they could be found instead of purchasing food for himself?
Her eyes rested on a folded note next to a plate of rolls. Had it been there before? Was it their bill?
Her view was blocked by the serving woman once more.
“Ees somesing wrong, madame?” She looked from Blair’s hands and back to her face.
“No. Nothing wrong. Something smells good, aye?” Blair sat and pulled the table back toward her so the woman could set down a bowl of soup.
“A bit of mulled wine for you, perhaps? And your cloak is certain to dry quickly.”
Blair nodded. The woman smiled and turned away. Then she walked to the men’s table, put one hand on her hip, and looked them over. Blair prayed she wouldn’t start taking dishes away lest she think to take the note as well.
Finally, with a shake of her head, the woman reached up and took hold of a thin curtain and pulled it across the front of the table, creating an alcove. Perhaps she could expect a good tip if she allowed them to sleep it off.
For
Blair asked for whatever they had that was hot.
“And may I hang your cloak, madame? Near the fire perhaps?”
Considering how drunk they were, she doubted anyone would recognize her, especially if she kept her back against the seat and her red curls in the shadows.
She handed the cloak over, ignored the way the woman’s eyes bulged when she got a look at her hair, and scooted as far back as possible, feeling far more exposed than she’d expected. But the woman had been right. Her cloak was wet and wanted hanging. And if the dark little man entered, he would still not recognize her.
Somewhere near the entrance, a man argued with a woman. The woman gasped and Blair could hear her footsteps as she ran away. A heartbeat later, the dark little man appeared, walking toward the gentlemen’s table.
She leaned forward to listen, knowing the little man would be hard to understand, especially if he turned his back to her. But he didn’t stop at the table. He walked right past it.
Was he blind? Hadn’t he been asking where to find them? Were there so many similar sets of men dining or drinking in the auberge tonight, then?
He scurried through a door at the corner of the wall, then disappeared like a rat. The door closed silently behind him and a shiver rolled through her.
Blair looked back at the table where both of Ash’s friends had lain their heads on their arms, while he sat back in his chair with the crown of his head resting on the wall behind him. With the candle on the table doused, it was impossible to determine whether he was sleeping or staring at her. For all the movement, they might all be dead.
The notion was impossible, but she panicked just the same.
She tried to remember what the little man had done as he passed the table. His nearest arm had been visible. She remembered recoiling at the filthiness of his sleeve. But what could he have accomplished with his other hand? A silent shot from a pistol? Impossible.
She pushed her table away and stood, willing the big man’s eyes to widen with recognition. They did not.
She glanced at his body. Impossible to tell if he’d been wounded. Blood would hardly show well against the black of his clothing.
Deciding there were things more important at the moment than her anonymity, she stepped around her table—just as Stanley let out a snort.
She froze.
He turned his head to the other side and rested it once again on his arm.
Alive.
The big man didn’t move, but she assumed he was in the same sad condition. And if they were all unharmed, then what had the little man wanted?
Again, she looked at the table while she wavered on her side of the aisle.
Had he simply stolen a bite of food on his way past? Had he been so certain noble men would have food on their table for the taking? If so, why had he paid the man in the alley for telling him where they could be found instead of purchasing food for himself?
Her eyes rested on a folded note next to a plate of rolls. Had it been there before? Was it their bill?
Her view was blocked by the serving woman once more.
“Ees somesing wrong, madame?” She looked from Blair’s hands and back to her face.
“No. Nothing wrong. Something smells good, aye?” Blair sat and pulled the table back toward her so the woman could set down a bowl of soup.
“A bit of mulled wine for you, perhaps? And your cloak is certain to dry quickly.”
Blair nodded. The woman smiled and turned away. Then she walked to the men’s table, put one hand on her hip, and looked them over. Blair prayed she wouldn’t start taking dishes away lest she think to take the note as well.
Finally, with a shake of her head, the woman reached up and took hold of a thin curtain and pulled it across the front of the table, creating an alcove. Perhaps she could expect a good tip if she allowed them to sleep it off.
For
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