Cohen studies me in meticulous measure as he would survey the forest during a hunt.
My pointer finger tugs at the collar of my top, needing a breeze. The room is too stuffy. “If you were to lie, I would know that too. A lie feels cold, chilly.”
“Are you ever wrong?”
“No. Never.”
He doesn’t blink. “Apparently not never.”
I start to roll my eyes and then stop. At least he doesn’t think I’ve gone mad. “Lord Jamis must’ve been fed wrong information. Maybe it felt like truth to me because he believed the accusation.”
I knot my hands in my lap when I realize I’ve been moving them awkwardly while talking, waving the dagger around like an imbecile. Quietly, lamely, I add, “I wanted you to be innocent. I just needed you to say you didn’t do it.”
Cohen stands and crosses the room to where the forgotten porridge now lies in a gooey mess on the floor. I watch, waiting for a response, as he scrapes up the breakfast. When he finishes and turns to face me, a dark shadow has crossed over his face. “What will happen when you don’t deliver me to Omar?”
I want to hide my face in my hands, but I force myself to hold his gaze. “I was caught with poached meat and the captain was going to hang me. Lord Jamis proposed a trade. My life for yours.”
Cohen’s face pales. His hand clenches on the bowl of porridge. He stares at me hard, saying nothing for an uncomfortably long stretch of time. “Good,” he finally snaps. “I would’ve done the same.”
I recoil, feeling as though he’s smacked me. The strangest part about his comment is it registers in my gut with a mix of warmth and cold sensations. Truth and falsehood. What does that mean?
Cohen stands and walks toward the door.
“Where are you going?” He wouldn’t leave me here, would he? He took off before and never returned.
“To the kitchen.” He gestures to the bowl.
I push myself off the floor. “I traded my life for yours. I confessed that I could sense when someone’s telling the truth. Have you nothing more to say?”
“Your explanation is all I wanted.”
Perhaps he doesn’t believe me. Perhaps he’s too angry with me to care. “Cohen, I’m sorry I kept my secret from you.” The apology rushes out.
He gives me a sad sort of smile. “We all have our secrets, Britt.”
Cohen returns to the room with two more bowls of breakfast.
“If I promise this isn’t poisoned, you have to promise not to stab me in my sleep.”
My lips flatten into an amused line.
It takes only moments to devour everything in the bowl. I’m going to need my strength. I’ll never turn Cohen in now. There’ll be no reprieve for me until I find the real killer and bring him before the high lord. Captain Omar wouldn’t allow anything less. And if I cannot produce my father’s murderer in exchange for my life, then the captain will have me strung up.
Setting the empty bowl on my lap, I turn to Cohen. “I have a plan.”
“Do you, now?” Cohen stands across the room with a half smirk on his face, his earlier anger gone. “I hope it involves trekking west, since you’re coming with me to Shaerdan.”
“Er, no. Heading into a country that’s going to war with ours doesn’t sound like a plan. More like suicide. I’m not going to run. I’m going to find Papa’s murderer.”
His lips quirk. “You’ve been tracking me from Brentyn to here. Where did you think I was headed?”
“I thought you were dodging the guards.” As soon as I’ve spoken, I want to retract the words. He clearly wasn’t solely evading them. I should’ve figured as much earlier when his path was too direct. The clergyman mentioned a woman named Enat. “You’re already tracking the murderer.”
The corner of his mouth turns up more in approval. “There’s the Britta I know.”
Guilt sneaks up and kicks me in the lungs, stealing my breath. I shouldn’t have doubted his loyalty.
“Is Enat the murderer?” I ask.
He crosses the room and sits down beside me on the bed. “Possibly,” he says. “Though I don’t think so.” Cohen explains that he’s been following leads to figure out who wanted my father dead. Most people have been tight-lipped. But he has informants listening in on tavern talk who report to him.
“That explains the cleared path and partial shoe print,” I say, realizing he must’ve met with an informant in the woods before changing directions and heading north.
He seems surprised and then pleased. “You always were an excellent tracker. Knew you’d catch me, Dove.”
The familiarity of his comment propels me up and off the mattress in need of space to breathe without him nearby. The rush of old emotions is suffocating. He opens his mouth but doesn’t say anything, though I’m sure I look rabid for how crazed I suddenly feel.
“I should get going,” I tell him.