Mince entered the loft by climbing to the roof of the warehouse, pulling back a loose board near the eaves, and scrambling through the hole. The Nest, as they dubbed their home, was the result of poor carpentry. A mistake made when the East Sundries Company had built their warehouse against the common wall of the Bingham Carriage House & Blacksmith Shop. A mismeasurement had left a gap, which was sealed shut with side boards. Over the years, the wood had warped.
While trying to break into the warehouse, Elbright had noticed a gap between the boards that revealed the hidden space. He never found a way into the storehouse, but he had discovered the perfect hideout. The little attic was three feet tall and five feet wide and ran the length of the common wall. Thanks to the long hours of the blacksmiths, who usually kept a fire burning, it was also marginally heated.
A collection of treasures gathered from the city’s garbage littered The Nest, including moth-eaten garments, burned bits of lumber, fragments of hides tossed out by the tanner, cracked pots, and chipped cups.
Kine lay huddled in a ball against the chimney. Mince had made him a bed of straw and tucked their best blanket around him, but his friend still shivered. The little bit of his face not covered by the blanket was pale white, and his bluish lips quivered miserably.
“How ya doing?” Mince asked.
“C-c-cold,” Kine replied weakly.
Mince put a hand to the brick chimney. “Bastards are trying to save coal again.”
“Is there any food?” Kine asked.
Mince pulled the wedge of cheese from his pocket. Kine took a bite and immediately started to vomit. Nothing came up, but he retched just the same. He continued to convulse for several minutes, then collapsed, exhausted.
“I’m like Tibith, ain’t I?” Kine managed to say.
“No,” Mince lied, sitting down beside him. He hoped to keep Kine warm with his body. “You’ll be fine the moment the fire is lit. You’ll see.”
Mince fished the money out of his other pocket to show Kine. “Hey, look, I got coin—five silver! I could buy ya a hot meal, how would that be?”
“Don’t,” Kine replied. “Don’t waste it.”
“What do ya mean? When is hot soup ever a waste?”
“I’m like Tibith. Soup won’t help.”
“I told ya, yer not like that,” Mince insisted, slamming the silver in a cup he decided at that moment to use as a bank.
“I can’t feel my feet anymore, Mince, and my hands tingle. I ache all over and my head pounds and… and… I pissed myself today. Did you hear me—I pissed myself! I am like Tibith. I’m just like he was and I’m gonna die just like him.”
“I said ya ain’t. Now quit it!”
“My lips are blue, ain’t they?”
“Be quiet, Kine, just—”
“By Mar, Mince, I don’t want to die!” Kine shook even more as he cried.
Mince felt his stomach churn as tears dripped down his cheeks too. Victims never recovered once their lips went blue.
He looked around for something else to wrap his friend in and then remembered the robe.
“There,” he muttered, draping the robe over Kine. “After all the trouble you’ve been, try to be of some use. Keep him warm or I’ll toss ya in the smith’s fire.”
“W-what?” Kine moaned.
“Nothing, go to sleep.”
Royce heard the key turn. The bolt shifted and the door opened on well-oiled hinges. Four pairs of feet shuffled on the slate of the foyer. He heard the sound of the door closing, the brush of material, and the snap of a cloak. One pair of feet scuffed abruptly as if their owner unexpectedly found himself on the edge of a precipice.
“Mr. Jenkins,” Merrick’s voice said, “I want you and Dobbs to take the rest of the evening off.”
“But, sir, I—”
“This is no time to argue. Please, Mr. Jenkins, just leave. Hopefully I will see you in the morning.”
“Hopefully?” This voice was familiar. Royce recognized Poe, the cook’s mate on the Emerald Storm. It took him a moment, but then Royce understood. “What do you mean you will—Hold on. Is he here? How do you know?”
“I want you to go too, Poe.”
“Not if he’s here. You’ll need protection.”
“If he wanted me dead, I would already be lying in a bloody puddle. So I think it is fair to surmise that I am safe. You, on the other hand, are a different story. I doubt he knew you would be here. Now that he knows your connection to me, the only thing keeping you alive is that he is more interested in talking to me than slitting your throat, at least for the moment.”
“Let him try. I think—”
“Poe, leave the thinking to me. And never tempt him like that. This is not a man to toy with. Trust me, he’d kill you without difficulty. I know. I worked with him. We specialized in assassinations and he’s better at it than I am—particularly spur-of-the-moment killings—and right now you’re a very tempting spur. Now, get out while you can. Disappear for a while, just to be safe.”
“What makes you think he even knows I’m here?” Poe asked.
“He’s in the drawing room, listening to us right now. Sitting in the blue chair with its back to the wall, he’s waiting for me to join him. I’m sure he has a crystal glass half filled with the Montemorcey wine I bought and left in the pantry for him. He’s holding it in his left hand so if, for whatever reason, he has to draw his dagger, he won’t need to put the glass down first. He hates to waste Montemorcey. He’s swirling it, letting it breathe, and while he’s been here for some time, he has yet to taste it. He won’t drink until I sit across from him—until I too have a glass.”
“He suspects you poisoned it?”
“No, he hasn’t tasted the wine because… well, it would just be rude. He’ll have a glass of cider waiting for me, as he knows I no longer drink spirits.”
“And how do you know all this?”
“Because I know him just as I know you. Right now you’re fighting an urge to enter the drawing room to see if I’m right. Don’t. You’ll never come out again, and I don’t want you staining my new carpet. Now leave. I will contact you when I need to.”
“Are you sure? Yeah, okay, stupid question.”
The door opened, then closed, and footsteps could be heard going down the porch stairs.
There was a pause and then a light flared. Merrick Marius entered the dark room holding a single candle. “I hope you don’t mind. I prefer to be able to see you too.”
Merrick lit four sconce lights, added some logs to the fire, and stirred the embers to life with a poker. He watched them for a long moment, then placed the tool back on its hook before taking a seat opposite Royce, next to the poured glass of cider.
“To old friends?” Merrick asked, holding up his drink.
“To old friends,” Royce agreed, and the two sipped.
Merrick was dressed in a knee-length coat of burgundy velvet, a finely embroidered vest, and a startlingly white ruffled shirt.