“That’s why I’m worried,” the bartender said.
“I wouldn’t worry about her,” Royce told him. “From what I’ve seen of the people in this town, I’d vote Miss Dodge ‘Most Likely to Survive.’”
Scarlett led them toward the door.
Hadrian paused and looked back at Clem, whose nose had bled like a spigot down the front of his tunic. “Cold water,” he said. “Don’t use hot. Believe me, hot water will set the stain and it’ll be ruined.” He shook his head. “What a shame. That was a nice tunic.”
The three of them followed the cobbled street downhill toward the river. Morning light shone blindingly bright on a two-story whitewashed clapboard building with a stone foundation and a big waterwheel. The wheel creaked and trickled as it slowly turned.
“Royce, you hungry?” Hadrian asked.
“A little,” Royce replied. He walked behind the other two, forcing Hadrian to peer back over his shoulder.
“I didn’t get dinner last night.”
He stared at Scarlett.
“What?”
“You know the town. Where can we go?” Hadrian asked.
“We?” She laughed, but there was nervousness in it. Scarlett glanced back at Royce before answering Hadrian. “I drugged you last night, and you want to eat with me today?”
“Sure, just don’t do it again. If you do”—Hadrian jerked his head toward Royce—“he’ll probably kill you.”
“Probably?” Royce said.
“So where can we find food?” Hadrian asked again.
“Ah…” Scarlett hesitated.
“Someplace isolated,” Royce said. “I don’t like crowds.”
“He’s not kidding,” Hadrian said. “And as far as Royce is concerned, two is a crowd.”
“We can go back to my place. I have a slab of pork and some eggs I can cook up.”
“Wonderful.” Hadrian smiled at her.
“Is he always like this?” Scarlett asked Royce.
He nodded. “Annoying, isn’t it?”
Scarlett Dodge lived in a small, ivy-bedecked stone cottage with a dirt floor, a yellow thatched roof, and a bright-red door. Chimneys stood at both ends, with the ubiquitous ivy hiding everything else. Inside were two rooms: a clean kitchen, and a disaster of a bedroom. Blankets, sheets, undertunics, kirtles, a bright-red cloak, and red gloves lay scattered across the rush-covered floor. There could have been a fight in her bedroom more violent than the one held at Caldwell House. A spinning wheel rested in the corner, tilted against the wall. A line of thread coming off the drive wheel was tangled around the bobbin in a massive wad. A nearby basket of unspun wool was tipped over, the contents looking like foam spilling out of a beer keg.
In contrast, the kitchen sparkled. Wood was stacked neatly near the fire, as were a series of six copper pots. Not a single one showed even a hint of soot. On three rows of shelves, ceramic and wooden bowls grouped by type descended in size from left to right. Plates and cups were proudly displayed, herbs hung in neat bundles from the rafters, and a series of sharp knives were stabbed into the support beam near a clutter-free table.
Scarlett paused, looking at her home with an embarrassed grimace, then shrugged. “I like to cook.”
The fire was still smoldering in her hearth. She added wood, pumped it with a bellows until a flame caught, then went to a barrel. Popping the lid off, she hooked out a slab of pork. Scarlett clapped it onto the table, jerked a knife off the post, and began slicing a section free.
“Well?” Hadrian asked, taking a seat on one of only two stools in the house.
Royce remained standing. He walked around, studying the place.
“Well what?” Scarlett replied, expertly trimming fat. She handled a knife well, holding it lightly with a finger on the blade and using the whole edge. Hadrian had never been a butcher, but he knew when someone was at ease with sharp things. While Scarlett probably hadn’t been a butcher, either, she certainly could have applied for the job.
“Why did you ruin a perfectly good glass of rye whiskey that might have led to a sleepless night for the both of us?”
Scarlett paused. She smiled then shook her head, clearing the expression. “You make it hard to hate you.”
“Really?” Royce said. “Funny—I have the opposite problem.”
“You mentioned something about us, the church, and Bishop Parnell?”
“Yeah, well, I may have been mistaken about that. It was before I saw…Royce, is it?”
“Pleased to meet you.” He nodded. “Dodge?”
“Scarlett. Scarlett Dodge.”
“Scarlett? Seriously? That’s the best you could come up with?”
She scowled. “Hey, that’s my real name. Thank you very much.”
Royce shrugged.
Hadrian had one heel hooked on the crossbar of the stool and the other on the floor. He considered tapping his toe but figured they’d still ignore him. Instead, he said, “Can we get back to the subject at hand, please?”
“Which was?” Scarlett asked.
“Hello? We were talking about why you drugged me.”
“Oh, that.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Definitely a mistake. I thought you were hired muscle watching over Pastor-Pain-in-the-Ass. I had no idea that…” Focusing on Royce, her eyes became serious. “How much are they paying?”
“How much is who paying for what?” Royce asked.
“How much is the church paying you to kill Lady Dulgath? If I make you a better offer to leave, you’d be okay with that, right?”
“You’re that wealthy?”
“No, but I’ll take up a collection. If everyone pitches in, and they will—”
“We’re not here to kill Nysa Dulgath,” Hadrian said.
Scarlett rolled her eyes.
“We aren’t.”
She ignored him and continued to address Royce. “What do you say?”
“Let me get this straight—you’ll pay us not to kill Lady Dulgath.” Royce was nodding. “I think I might be able to do that. If you can—”
“Royce!” Hadrian slapped the table.
“What?”
“Stop it.”
“She’s going to pay us not to kill Lady Dulgath. That’s easy money.”
“It’s dishonest.”
Royce folded his arms and glared.
“Wait…” Scarlett looked from Royce to Hadrian. “You really aren’t here to kill her?”
Royce scowled at Hadrian. “You ruin everything.” He turned back to Scarlett. “Up to a minute ago, I thought you were part of it. Why else would a Black Diamond be hiding in Brecken Dale?”
She shook her head. “I’m not hiding—not really—and I’m not in the Black Diamond…not anymore.”
“Freelancing?”
She shook her head. “Straight.”
Royce looked skeptical.
Scarlett appeared confused. “If you’re not here to kill her, then…I don’t understand. Why are you here?”
“We were hired to help protect her,” Hadrian explained.
“Ha!” Scarlett followed the outburst with mock laughter. She dumped strips of pork into a pan, then hooked it to a blackened rafter chain and let it dangle over the fire before adding another small log. “And exactly who hired you?”
“The Nyphron Church.”
“Ah-hah!” Scarlett turned to Hadrian with a there-you-have-it look.
“Ah-hah what?” Hadrian said.
“The church is using you to help kill her.”
“Churches don’t kill people,” Hadrian told her. “They burn incense, collect tithes, and mutter words in forgotten languages—they don’t put out contracts on high-ranking nobles.”
Scarlett and Royce exchanged glances, then both shook their heads.
Royce hooked a thumb in Hadrian’s direction. “See what I have to put up with?”
“Adorable,” Scarlett said.
“Look,” Hadrian went on, certain they just didn’t understand. “Lady Dulgath has had a number of attempts made on her life, and everyone insists a professional has been hired. But Lady Dulgath isn’t acknowledging there’s a problem. So the church is concerned for her welfare and hired us as consultants. Royce is an authority when it comes to assassinations.”
“You don’t say,” Scarlett said with a bemused expression.