The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)(118)

Royce sighed. “Melborn.”

Evelyn glared. “I thought your names were Baldwin and Grim!”





Returning from the stable that had quartered their animals, Hadrian led their horses down Mill Street. He’d felt guilty about not checking in on Dancer all week. The stable hand had complained, saying he should have been warned if they were going to abandon their horses for so long. In truth, the man was probably more disappointed when Hadrian showed up. Any hopes he might have had of selling a set of orphaned animals had vanished, and now he would have to settle for the ridiculously steep caretaking fee that he imposed. Dancer showed no signs of ill treatment or ill will, nuzzling Hadrian’s shoulder as they walked.

Returning to Hemsworth House, Hadrian found Royce waiting on the stoop out front, surrounded by their gear like a man washed up on a deserted island.

“What did you do now?” Hadrian asked.

“Nothing,” Royce said, standing up and throwing Hadrian’s saddlebag at him. Royce hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “The new occupant is here, and Evelyn wanted me and our things out so we didn’t upset her.”

“Her?”

“Yep.” He wore an odd smirk, part surprised, part amused. “The new guest is that mir mother who told us about the place.”

Hadrian put his little finger in his ear and made a show of wiggling it before pulling it out and saying, “Sorry, sounded like you said Evelyn let the room to a mir.”

Royce nodded. “Don’t know how she did it, either. Tracked the mir down somehow. I suppose she’s lived here her entire life and knows this city pretty well. Old woman is full of surprises.”

Royce tossed his own bag on his horse, but before tying it, he lifted and hooked the stirrup on the horn, double-checking the cinch.

“Seriously?” Hadrian leaned on Dancer, shaking his head in disgust. “You had to check? You don’t think I know how to cinch a saddle?”

Royce didn’t even look up as he ran fingers along the strap, checking its tension. “No, I don’t.”

“Trust. You have to learn to trust people, Royce.”

He dropped the stirrup without making any changes. “No. I don’t.”

They finished lashing bags to their mounts. The animals stood impatiently, stomping hooves to express their desire to be on the road. Along the street the milkman was back to delivering his jugs, and a flower girl was going door-to-door with a basket of fresh-cut purple pansies. Only a day later and the city was back to old routines.

Hadrian pulled himself up onto Dancer and grasped his reins, but Royce hesitated. He had his things secured but remained staring up at the window of what had been their room.

“Forget something?”

“The rug.”

“What rug? Oh, wait . . . you’re not serious!”

“It’s just that it would definitely fit nicely through that window and hit the street with hardly a sound.” Royce looked up and down the thoroughfare. “There are never any constables on this street. I bet we could sell it in Little Gur Em for five gold, maybe six.”

“I’m leaving.” Hadrian started to urge Dancer into the traffic, then stopped.

“What?” Royce asked. “You’re having second thoughts about the rug, aren’t you?”

Hadrian gave him a sharp look. “No.” He pointed across the street at a little pug-nosed dog sitting on a patch of recently turned earth. “Must be a stray. I’ve seen that dog around here a lot. I wish I had some food.”

“It’s not a stray; it has a collar,” Royce said and continued to stare. Then his eyes narrowed and a stunned looked filled his face. “That’s not possible.”

“What’s not?”

Royce abandoned his horse and crossed the street.

Royce famously hated dogs, and, thinking he might harm the animal, Hadrian leapt off his mount and raced over, catching up just as Royce bent down to study the little mangy pup’s collar.

“I can’t believe it.”

“What?” Hadrian asked.

“It’s Mister Hipple.”

“No! That’s not possible. You don’t mean . . .”

Royce nodded. “Lady Martel’s dog. The one who sounded the alarm at Hemley Manor and nearly got poor Ralph the guard killed. How could that dog possibly be here?”

Hadrian looked around at the unkempt field filled with crooked posts. “This is a cemetery, a paupers’ graveyard. Maybe this is Lady Martel’s grave.”

“Lady Martel wouldn’t be buried in a pauper’s grave in Alburn. She’s the wife of a wealthy Melengar lord.”

“But didn’t Puck say something about the diary belonging to a monk named Falkirk?” Hadrian asked.

“No. He said the diary was written by someone named Falkirk, and that she got it from a monk.”

“Whoa, that’s really weird. Wonder what she’s doing here, and how she died.” Hadrian looked at the dog, sadly. “That’s one loyal pet. I’ve heard stories about things like this. The dog gets so attached that it waits on its owners’ grave for them to come back. Some end up dying because they just can’t leave.”

Royce didn’t say anything. He merely stared at the dog and the grave.

“Maybe we should take Mister Hipple with us,” Hadrian said, bending down and reaching out.