Chapter 11
That grim murmur set my whole body trembling in fine shivers. Tears welled in my eyes. Peterson gave my cheek a light, tapping pat with the flat of the knife and smiled.
Folding the blade with an easy flick, he let go of my hair. As I drew a ragged breath, tears spilled helplessly down my cheeks.
His parting words jabbed like needles in my skull. Peterson turned, signaling to the clerk seated in the corner, and I spoke up as if to catch him before he could leave.
I lifted my head, and Peterson stopped in his tracks, looking back at me. Stifling the sobs that threatened to burst out, I forced my eyes wide open.
No matter how hard I thought about it, it made no sense.
I knew very well that to magistrates and nobles, the life of a maid like me was no better than an insect’s.
Yet even setting me aside, the dead man was a nobleman, and still Peterson showed no sign of trying to hunt down the real culprit. His only goal seemed to be wrapping the matter up as quickly as possible.
In the silence, Peterson’s lips curled into a slow arc. It was the contented expression of a tutor whose pupil had just answered correctly. Walking back, he rested a hand on my shoulder and leaned in to whisper in my ear.
“A wretched creature’s life, isn't it? Not as though staying alive will bring you any real joy anyway. Keep from being a nuisance, and I’ll see you buried whole in a decent place. That’s a promise.”
Patting my shoulder twice, Peterson left the room with the clerk. Left alone, I stared at the torch burning with the greasy stench of oil.
Someone’s agonizing scream, thinned by the wind, drifted through the dark vault like a mournful echo. The mountain cabin was rather weathered, but solidly built. Jason had the sort of towering frame that could easily be mistaken for a bear in the dark, but right now he had drawn that massive bulk inward as small as he could manage, attending to his unexpected visitors.
The two men who had barged unannounced into the cabin claimed to be from the household of Baron Beekman. The one barking out rough, clipped questions was the bearded man, yet the one making Jason distinctly uneasy was the hooded figure seated on the chair.
His features were largely hidden, but even from the silhouette, it was plain he was remarkably handsome. He hadn't said much, but his posture alone made it obvious who held the upper hand.
Jason’s instinct around nobles or men of authority was to grovel on the spot. Ever since childhood, when he was kicked by a noble youth’s mount and beaten within an inch of his life simply for getting in the horse's way, he had never acted otherwise.
Though the bearded man had asked the question, Jason answered deferentially toward the man seated behind him. The bearded man cast a glance back at the other, who listened as though this deference were only natural. Crossing his legs, the hooded man spoke in an indolent voice.
In this country, the Kingdom of Edmus, people were fairly open about relations between men and women, and few hesitated to discuss them. Keeping many lovers was, if anything, a mark of pride.
A sudden click of a tongue startled Jason into rolling his eyes in alarm. Showing clear displeasure, the man shifted his legs.
When Jason shook his head, the man lifted his gaze. Through the shadows cast by the hood, brilliant green eyes gleamed, prompting Jason to drop his head in a hurry. A piercing, icy glare sent chills creeping over the back of his neck.
Letting out a dry breath, the bearded man folded his arms. Past the worn shirt, Jason caught sight of forearms as thick as his own, and he blinked. Another question flew at him.
The man raised a hand slightly to cut him off, sinking into thought. Jason, who had been half-crouching and rolling his hips to demonstrate, shrank his shoulders back down and watched their faces.
The bearded man’s brow furrowed at that.
The man and the bearded subordinate traded glances. Jason worked his mouth with an uneasy look.
Contradicting the bearded man’s remark, Jason scratched at the nape of his neck.
The seated man let out a faint breath and rose to his feet. Though smaller in build than the bearded man, he gave off a peculiar aura of command, prompting Jason to bow politely without even realizing it.
Leaving Jason bowing behind them, Lars stepped out of the cabin. Once the door clicked shut, Yanken lowered his voice.
Yanken asked, falling into step behind him as Lars headed toward the horses tethered to a tree. Lars shook his head.
At Yanken’s blunt remark, Lars turned slowly toward him. In the gloom, his long eyes narrowed slightly with amusement.
Yanken raised his voice in disbelief before letting out a groan and rubbing his temples. Lars gave a soft chuckle, lightly patting the back of his placidly waiting horse.
Instead of voicing his thought that her death would be no great loss, Yanken merely wrinkled his nose.
Lars swung himself into the saddle with clean, fluid grace. The horse let out a soft snort beneath its rider. Pulling a pocket watch from his waistcoat to check the time, he looked down at Yanken.
At his subordinate’s curt reply, Lars smiled soundlessly and dug in his spurs, sending the horse galloping forward. Yanken shook his head as he mounted his own horse.
He knew Lars’s disposition well enough, but his own primary duty was to protect him under any circumstances—even if it meant acting against Lars’s wishes. So if that girl had wagged her tongue about Lars’s description, there was no reason to save her.
…Before going to see Nora Allmon, he’d check on the guardhouse first. Twisting that woman around his finger wouldn't take much effort anyway.
“Hah!”
His horse broke into a powerful gallop into the darkness, its mane whipping in the wind. Yanken’s eyes glinted fiercely as his hands gripped the reins.
