‘You haven’t told me why I’m here.’
‘I will, in my time.’
‘In the meantime—’ She couldn’t let it go. It was unwell; she was certain of it. Maybe it was the fact she had been a neglected child, or maybe it was the care of Helewise and Vernon that compelled her. Either way, she asked, ‘Is the child yours?’
He swiped a dagger from his waist. If she had taken those steps towards him, it would be buried in her belly.
‘Why do you keep asking me questions about the child?’
‘You’re...’ she swallowed ‘...you’re holding her in front of me.’
The blade looked well used and fit easily in his hand. It was a weapon this man had used many times before. He held still. So did she.
‘The child isn’t mine,’ he answered, watching her watch the blade.
Her entire life she’d lived with Death and his scythe. If it wasn’t the icy cold of winter trying to kill her, it was another person trying to survive. When threatened, she’d learned it was always the person behind the weapon she should be wary of. But this man wasn’t like another thief on the streets trying to steal a blanket. This man didn’t pull his blade to take something from her, for she had nothing. He pulled the blade because she asked about the child. He did it to protect the child—from her.
Fear from being kidnapped swirled with her usual mistrust. But his deeds ceased every emotion in her. She’d never seen a person defend a child before. Not like this. Certainly never her own parents and even a mother with a suckling infant put the infant aside if there was food to be had or a customer to pull up her skirts for.
Five winters past, it had been bitterly cold and she had come across what she thought were wadded-up old blankets. But instead of a treasure, it was a swaddled baby. Frozen, its skin pale, lips blue, with ice feathering along its tiny eyelashes. She’d cried for days afterwards. The babe haunted her dreams still. To this day she avoided that part of town in winter and found herself wary of piles in corners.
But Darkness drew a blade for a child who he awkwardly held and something ripped through her chest. She couldn’t breathe right.
‘You’ve gone pale,’ he said, sheathing the dagger. ‘Are you fainting?’
She felt far away. As if she was here, yet not in the same place she was before. As if she recognised everything, but nothing was the same. Because Darkness guarded a child from harm.
She swallowed. ‘Have you...have you ever taken care of a child before?’
‘No.’
‘Can you put her down?’
His smile curved cruelly. ‘Are you ordering me?’
He said it as though she was an insect who could talk. ‘I’m not ordering you. I...simply want to see her.’
He did a double take. Another. A cant to his head, waiting for something.
She wasn’t about to do anything else. This was enough and he made it clear it was too much. Never trusting anyone, she shouldn’t care about anything other than getting as far away as possible from this madman.
This killer. Who happened to cradle a child and was overly protective about her. But the child was too quiet. Aliette needed to see her.
‘You can place her over there, unwrap her and I can see her from a distance.’
‘You know something of children?’
‘Is that why I’m here?’
‘Hmm.’ He took two strides forward. So swiftly she braced herself for a curled fist. It didn’t come. Instead, he held the child towards her. ‘She feels warm.’
‘All children feel warm if you hold them too long.’
She took the child who, despite her length, was light, and carefully unwrapped the swaddling.
Thin, gaunt cheeks. Bone-like arms, a swollen stomach and sunken hip bones.
‘How old is she?’
His brows drew in, his eyes searching the child as if asking her to answer. ‘Around a year.’
She did know something of children and this condition, she knew it very well. Thin, emaciated. Greyish skin. Listless. An unwise anger swept through her. ‘She’s—’
‘Yes.’
‘She’s...hungry,’ she blurted. ‘You’re starving her! When was the last time she ate?’
At his mystified look, she demanded, ‘Did you give her something to drink?’
Lips clamped shut and his eyes narrowed.
‘You haven’t fed her, or given her a drink? Has she been crying? Restless?’
Another bout of silence. Aliette had no patience with it. Maybe the wealthy had time for waiting, but if she stalled or waited for anything she’d have starved to death. ‘She needs oats or bread all warmed with milk and honey.’
‘You want me,’ he said in that terrifyingly even voice of his, ‘to provide that for you.’
‘I don’t know this place. These men don’t follow my orders. How else am I to get it?’
‘This isn’t—’
‘Whatever you want of me, I won’t do it, not when this child needs me.’
He looked to the child and to her. He looked to argue, the superiority of his expression one she’d seen many times when a shopkeeper thought to abuse a street urchin. She stared him down. If he meant to kick or strike her, he could join the others. She’d survived many such blows over the years.
If he intended to kill her, there was nothing she could do to defend herself, though she’d try to protect the child first. But if this was her day to die, it was simply like every day she ever lived. In truth, she wasn’t meant to have made it this long.
With another narrowed gaze, he pivoted towards the door, but not before she saw a flare of victory in his eyes.
What he thought he’d won Aliette didn’t care about, as long as the child had what she needed. She’d seen enough suffering in her lifetime—the fact that this child was surrounded by gold and silk and was still hungry she couldn’t tolerate.
Reynold left the room and closed the door. The two men who had escorted the thief were on the other side and he gave them the unusual tasks. If they wondered about the requests, they didn’t ask. He paid them not to question. Although one of them looked behind him. To see if the thief was unharmed? He would have to be dealt with later.
When they marched down the stairs, he turned to go back into the room, but stopped. The door was partially closed and the thief wasn’t looking his way, her attention fully on the child in her arms.
She was doing this walking, swinging motion and singing softly.
The morning sun filtered through the unwashed windowpanes delicately lighting its two occupants, the shimmering reds and greens of tufted cushions and the rich browns of well-polished carved furniture.
The woman was slight, not much more substantial than the babe she held. Her clothes were an odd, but practical mixture of layers. Two coarse surcoats, one much shorter than the other, over a thick, overly large chemise. She had no gown and her shoes had distinct holes. Grace’s greying swaddling dragged on the floor as the thief swept them from side to side. Both were slight, filthy, their clothes unkempt.
The