The door opened, and Rone stepped in fully clothed, his hair still wet and his feet bare. There was something vulnerable about him like that, something that warmed Sandis deep within her core.
She considered telling him about her dream. But he had been so strained lately, and right now he looked more himself. She didn’t want to ruin his mood. She owed him so much.
He grabbed his shoes from the middle of the floor, where his bedroll had been before Sandis tucked it away. “Ready?” he asked.
Sandis nodded and stood, brushing off her skirt and stepping into the shoes Arnae had gifted her. That was another person she’d need to repay—Arnae. He’d been so kind to her. In a few years, when this part of her story was over, maybe she’d be able to visit him with her remunerations at his front door. Wouldn’t that be something?
Please protect him, Celestial. Please don’t let our errors put him in evil’s path.
Her stomach growled.
Rone smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of that.”
She pressed her hand to her belly to quiet it. “Arnae said we could open one of the jars of pickles—”
He made a face. “Pickles? For breakfast?”
“He said it’d be better to eat them before they expire—”
“Sandis.” He stomped his foot into one shoe, then pulled on the other one. “Let’s get something good to eat. Just this once.”
His gaze made her stomach forget its emptiness and flutter instead. Reality tamped down the feeling. “We should be careful. The grafters—”
“Are still reeling. We’ll head into the safest part of town. I’m not worried.”
He didn’t look at her when he said that. There was something unnatural about his nonchalance, but Sandis was likely overthinking things. So she nodded, and when he smiled at her, she smiled back. Her muscles loosened. Rone was just being Rone, and her dream was just a dream . . . for now. If only she could summon Ireth for longer, somewhere it wouldn’t cause a fuss, perhaps she would learn . . . But no, she shouldn’t think of that. Not now.
Arnae had left the house early that morning, so Sandis was unable to say goodbye to him. She wanted to leave a note, but her penmanship was terrible, and she figured it was safer for him if she left as little evidence as possible of her presence in this place. She wouldn’t come back. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t come back, not until the grafters were off her trail for good. She wouldn’t do anything to hurt this kind man, or the others who had benefited from his generosity.
Rone cracked the hidden door open, surveyed the area, then took Sandis’s hand and quickly pulled her through, shutting the bricked passage behind him. He held her hand as he led the way to the road, whereupon he released it suddenly. He drew into himself, hunching his shoulders. Hiding? But Sandis didn’t see anything remotely suspicious around them. He buried his hands into his pockets, so Sandis placed hers on the crook of his arm. His lip twitched; then he set his jaw to hide whatever emotion had tried to show itself to her.
It hurt her more than it should have, but she pushed the pain away. He had called her wonderful last night. Whatever was bothering him wasn’t something she’d done or said. His mother, most likely. He had to be worried sick about her.
They went toward the Innerchord, down a small, quaint street without any garbage in the gutters, to a tiny restaurant that smelled like sugar. They got a seat in the back. Rone told her to order whatever she wanted; she’d never ordered off a menu before. It took her longer to read it than it did Rone. Having been raised by a high priest, he must have received a good education. Did he fault her for her slowness?
But he called you wonderful, she reminded herself, and hid a smile.
She found something inexpensive and asked for that. Thanked him profusely, until it seemed to make him uncomfortable. So she stopped and enjoyed her food—something called a cream puff. It was a large sugared roll with sweet white filling. It was heavenly. Sandis smiled while she ate it.
“My cheeks hurt,” she said when they left the establishment, her hand back in the crook of his arm. It fit there, which made her heart swell.
Rone turned toward her and rubbed his knuckle into the side of her face. She laughed and pulled away.
“Huh.” He pulled her hand back.
“What?”
He shrugged. “I never noticed you have dimples.”
She lifted her hand and felt the telling spots on her face. Anon had had dimples, too. They’d come from her father.
Did Talbur Gwenwig have them, too?
“Do you think we could look today?” she asked. “For Talbur? I have the map.”
Rone looked away for a moment. “Yeah, sure. Can’t hurt.”
They bummed a ride on the back of a carriage, where the footman was supposed to go, so Rone said. He stood on the step, and she perched on his feet. When the carriage started turning the wrong way, they hopped off. It was a long walk to the closest place Arnae had circled on her map, long enough to give her blisters, but she didn’t mention it. Rone was quiet most of the way.
The mortgage company was on the fifth floor of a six-floor building, tall enough that even Rone wouldn’t have been able to jump from the roof to the surrounding architecture. They got a few glances, and more than once Sandis scanned the room for familiar faces or shadowy men. There weren’t any. Rone must have been right, then.
There were two people in the office, an older man and a younger woman about Sandis’s age. She approached the latter. “Excuse me. I’m trying to find a family member of mine. He purchased a new home in Dresberg not long ago, and I lost the address. It’s very important.”
She had practiced that line a lot. She thought it sounded reasonable. The woman looked at her skeptically.
“Do you have an account number?” she asked.
“I, no . . .” Sandis turned to find Rone lurking in the back of the room. Refocusing on the woman, she said, “His name is Talbur Gwenwig. I’m fairly certain this is the place with his . . . lease.”
The woman looked at her a moment too long. Began opening a drawer at the bottom of the desk. “And you are?”
“Sara Gwenwig.” That was her mother’s name. Pins prickled her back when she said it—it’d been a long time since her mother’s name last graced her tongue.
The woman pulled out a heavy binder, then another. Looked through the first, then the second, then the first again. “You’re mistaken. None with that name here.”
“Oh.” She glanced back to Rone. “I must be. I . . . will try something else.”
She turned, her face warm, and hurried to the door. Rone followed after her.
Outside, Sandis pulled out her map. Some of the charcoal writing on it had smeared—she needed to be more careful with it. Wrapping around the side of the large building, she scanned the streets. Sparsely populated at this hour, and she didn’t see anyone who looked like a potential pursuer.
She let out a long breath. “All right, that’s done. Which means next—”
“It’s getting a little late,” Rone said, looking at the sky. He’d aged ten years, and the slouch of his body denoted fatigue.
Frowning, Sandis followed his line of vision. Not terribly late, but it was a ways to the next mortgage broker, and it might very well be closed by the time they reached it. Not to mention night was the grafters’ time.
He added, “That place I mentioned . . . it should be vacant now. We should head that way.”
Sandis carefully folded her map and returned it to her pocket. “All right. Will it be vacant until your job is done?”
Rone started walking down the street, hands in his pockets. “I think so.”
“I can look on my own, while you’re gone.”
“You don’t have to.”
She licked her lips. Watched the cobblestones pass underfoot. Her heart doubled its weight. “I’m sorry I took your amarinth.”
He glanced at her. Checked his pocket.
“Before, I mean.”
“I think you already apologized for that.”
“It’s my fault you’re involved in this mess. My fault the grafters want you, too.”