He didn’t have the slightest trouble reaching the tower, where an open window gave him access to—he struggled not to laugh—Lady Dulgath’s bedroom. The chamber was paneled in dark-stained oak, had a little hearth all its own, and a luxurious bed with a red velvet canopy and silk sheets. She had four freestanding wardrobes, a dressing table, a wash table, three wood-and-brass trunks, a full-length mirror that tilted on a swivel, a table littered with seashells, shelves filled with books, a painting of an elderly man dressed in black and green, two chairs—one with a cushioned stool before it—and a set of thick candles, three-quarters melted.
She wasn’t in the room. He didn’t expect her to be. If this had been a real job, he’d have waited until late and slipped in while she slept. Then, placing a hand over her mouth—to hold her still and keep her silent—he’d slit the lady’s throat. The red covers would help hide the blood. There would be a dark stain, but it could just as easily be spilled water. He’d pull the covers up to her throat to cover the wound.
Royce preferred to be neat when he didn’t have a point to make. He’d wash off any blood in the basin, assuming he got some on him, which was unusual but did happen. With everything in order, he would climb back down the unwatched ivy, walk along the unmanned parapet, and saunter out the unguarded, and always open, gates.
It’s a wonder she’s still alive.
Footsteps made Royce slip between a pair of wardrobes as the chamber door opened. Nysa Dulgath entered, guarding a candle flame with a cupped hand. She set the light down, closed the door behind her, and then stopped. Pressing down on her left heel, she spun upon it like a child’s top.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, but her eyes weren’t on him—they were searching.
Royce hesitated. He was good at hiding, always had been. In the dark, no one ever saw him. The only light in the room was the single candle, hardly enough to give him away. Her tone also threw him. Too relaxed, too calm. If she really saw him hiding in her private chambers, if she’d spotted him, the pampered girl would have begun caterwauling not unlike Mister Hipple’s little fit. The inflection of her question wasn’t without emotion, of course: She was decidedly annoyed.
A moment of silence followed. She huffed and folded her arms roughly, as if that might mean something. She then shifted her weight first to her left and then her right hip. “Are you going to answer me?”
She was staring directly at him then, an indignant frown on her lips.
How can she see me?
No point in pretending he wasn’t there or that she hadn’t caught him, he replied, “My job.”
“Your job entails lurking in my bedroom?”
“I didn’t expect you to be here.”
“Where else would I be at night?”
“I—”
“And why are you here at all? Have you been going through my clothes?” Once again she pivoted on that left heel, moved to a wardrobe, and flung open the doors, sending Royce into retreat.
“Why would I go through your clothes?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. But it’s really all that’s here, so why else would you be in my room?”
“I was hired to determine how a professional assassin might go about murdering you.”
“You think hiding in my wardrobe might be a good tactic, do you?”
“I wasn’t in your wardrobe.”
“I can only hope that’s the truth.” She slapped the doors shut.
Such an odd girl.
That was always true of those with noble blood. They failed to act as any normal person would. For a time, Royce had been convinced that nobles were another species and that the idea of blue blood made them different from others, just as they claimed. While they boasted about being superior, Royce always found the opposite to be true. Nobles were born without the survival instincts granted every other living thing. Believing themselves special, they were oblivious to dangers and surprised when catastrophe followed. Lady Dulgath was a shining example.
For a moment, he thought she was about to show a degree of intelligence when she picked up the candle. He expected her to flee. Instead, she held it up and came closer.
“Pull back the hood,” she told him.
“Not that again. And let me explain in advance—a stay in your dungeon really isn’t going to happen.”
Her eyes narrowed, and a smile formed on her lips—not a friendly one, more of an amused, curious grin. “So sure of yourself. Your problem is that you lack the capacity to imagine a young woman could be a threat.” She lowered the candle, accepting, he hoped, that the hood was staying up. “I know that particular arrogance all too well. Assumption of superiority is quite dangerous.”
“When I was first hired, I wondered why anyone would want to kill you. I don’t anymore. Honestly, I’m surprised there isn’t a line.”
Lady Dulgath laughed, nearly blowing out the candle. She crossed to one of the tables and set it down.
Royce continued, “I’m not kidding. The good news—for me anyway—is I’m not here to protect you, find the assassin, or even determine who hired him. That’s Knox’s job. Given this castle’s security, and—as I mentioned—the fact that it could be literally anyone, I don’t envy the sheriff. He’s doomed to failure. If you don’t already have one, make out a last will and testament as soon as possible. That way at least you won’t leave a mess for others to clean up.”
“I wonder who your parents are,” she said, leaving Royce baffled.
“What?”
“Your parents—who are they?”
“Hatred and disillusionment, how about you?”
She smiled at him, the same unperturbed grin, as if he were great fun.
“You know,” Royce said, “most young ladies would be terrified to find someone like me in their room.”
“You know, most men would be terrified to be caught uninvited in the bedroom of a countess, but then…” She took a slow step forward. “You’re not a man, are you?”
Royce took a step back. He wasn’t sure why. The woman before him was small, thin, and delicate. And while the gown she wore, with its high collar and long sleeves, wasn’t provocative, it did emphasize her feminine frailty.
“Does your partner know?” she asked.
“Know what?”
“What you are?”
“What am I?”
She smiled again.
“Is this a guessing game?” he asked, annoyed.
“I was only—” She stopped and her eyes widened. “You don’t know.” She clasped her hands before her, touching fingertips to her lips while grinning. “You have no idea, do you?” She looked him up and down and nodded. “You hide it well, and you’re still young. In your first century?”
“You’re a very odd girl.”
“And what about you?” She let out a childlike giggle, which somehow managed to sound frightening. “No human could have caught the paint bottle Sherwood threw. You didn’t even see it. You heard it. And the speed you displayed was beyond that of a mere man.” She turned and blew out the candle. “I can hardly see you, but you have no trouble seeing me. The starlight entering the window is enough to reveal the color of my eyes.”
That wasn’t a question, and she spoke with complete confidence. “Heat and cold don’t bother you nearly as much as they do your friend, but ice, snow, and boats—oh, ships! You never go sailing.”
Royce was pleased the candle was out, but not so certain she couldn’t see him. She seemed to see him all too clearly, and he didn’t know how.
“No, Mister Royce Melborn, your parents weren’t hate and disillusionment,” she said, her pale, white face lit by starlight that did, indeed, revealed the brown of her eyes. “At least one of your parents is what people call an elf. I think you sh—”
Chapter Seven
A Game of Ten Fingers
Royce had never been one for etiquette. Appearing in the bedchamber of the countess had to rank high on anyone’s list of faux pas; leaving while she was still mid-sentence was probably worse. He was halfway back to Brecken Dale before it even occurred to him to wonder why he’d done it.
She’d rattled him.
This was the only explanation he could come up with. A spoiled, noble girl had shaken him so badly he’d run away.