Midnight Jewel (The Glittering Court #2)(5)

You did what you had to do, Mira, a stern inner voice told me. You have to get to Lonzo. You can’t risk getting thrown out of here because of one petty girl’s slander. And you’re not the only one with a lot on the line. Cedric needs to get to Adoria too.

I doubted Jasper Thorn believed every girl in the house was a virgin, but he made sure everyone else believed it. He had a reputation to protect. He wouldn’t go easy on anyone he thought had sullied his “merchandise”—not even his own son.

I straightened up and slipped my old knife—which was actually too dull to cut anything, let alone a face—back into its pocket. Now I had to get inside before someone noticed my absence. We weren’t even supposed to go out at this hour, and if our housemistress found me drenched, I’d be in even more trouble.

I pulled the kitchen door’s handle, and nothing happened. I tugged a few more times, just to make sure it wasn’t stuck, and then I groaned.

Clara had locked me out.

“No, no,” I muttered, hurrying over to a set of double glass doors also on the manor’s backside. They led to a parlor—and they too were locked. I tried a window. Locked. Running back to the kitchen door, I jiggled the handle once again. Nothing. What if I knocked? I had friends here. One might be near the kitchen and let me in. Of course, Mistress Masterson might also be near the kitchen.

“Looks like you could use some help.”

I whirled around as a figure emerged from the shadowed yard. It was a man, slightly bent over when he walked, wearing tattered and oversized clothes that were as soaked as mine. At first I thought some vagrant had wandered onto our property, and then I recalled that today was delivery day. I even distantly remembered seeing a man with that same hunched posture among the workers who’d brought groceries to us from the village. Still, I shrank against the door, ready to pound on it and take my chances with Mistress Masterson. My hand moved to the knife.

“Relax,” he said in a gravelly voice. His accent reminded me a little of Ingrid’s, a girl who’d come here from a southwestern region of Osfrid called the Flatlands. “I’m not going to hurt you. You might take that knife to my face if I did.”

“You heard that?” I asked.

I was glad the darkness and rain hid my blush. I hadn’t realized I’d had an audience.

Light shining from the windows provided patchy illumination, and a wide-brimmed hat shadowed much of the man’s face. I could really only make out a long, scraggly dark beard and a number of scars scattered across rough skin.

“Don’t sound so down about it, girl. It was a good threat, and you were pretty convincing. But it’s not going to work.”

Annoyance pushed my apprehension aside. “What makes you say that? You hear a five-minute talk and think you’re some kind of expert?”

“When it comes to this sort of thing? Yes. I am an expert. You scared her. But not enough—otherwise she wouldn’t have locked that door on you. Once she’s had some time to settle down, she’s going to try to call your bluff. She’ll convince herself you won’t really go through with cutting up her face.” He paused meaningfully. “Will you?”

“I—I don’t know,” I lied. I could just barely see his dark eyes in the shadows now. Their gaze seemed to bore right through me.

“Well, you should know,” he said. “Don’t make threats you’re not ready to follow through on.”

I lifted my chin at his condescending tone. “Thank you for the insight, but now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go inside.”

“How? The door—” He paused to cough. “The door’s locked.”

“That’s my problem.”

He coughed again. Or maybe it was a laugh. “Yes, it is. And I’m going to help you with it.”

From his baggy coat, he pulled out what looked like a small wallet. When he opened it, I saw several thin metal tools of varying lengths. Some were simply straight, and others had curved or hooked ends. He examined a couple in the window’s light, angling his face in a way that gave me a glimpse of a star-shaped scar on his left cheek and a small nick on the outer side of his earlobe.

“You’re going to pick the lock?” I asked. The rain was lightening, and I pushed back strands of sodden hair.

He didn’t look up as he sifted through the tools, but his voice held surprise. “How do you know that?”

“Well . . . because you’re holding a lock pick kit.”

“That wasn’t what I— Never mind. If you’re so smart, I guess you don’t need me.” He started to close the case.

I reached toward his arm and then pulled back. “No, wait. I do need you. I’ve seen these before, but I don’t have my own.”

He waited a few moments, maybe to make me worry, and then opened the case again. He selected a tool with a hooked end and inserted it into the handle’s keyhole. After a few quick motions, I just barely heard a click. He straightened up—as much as his stooped form allowed. “There you go.”

“You got it on the first try.”

“This is a common kind of lock.” He slid the tool back into its holder. “It’s not always this easy. Sometimes you’ve got to listen. Feel out the tumbler inside.”

I reached for the handle. “Well, thank you. I appreciate the help.”