The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)(27)
“But why would anyone—I mean, how could anyone even know what we’re doing here? Or do you think they treat all visitors this way. Hey, welcome to town. Here, have a scalding-hot mouthful of lamb, some incredibly weak beer, and don’t forget your free runaway cart!”
“We asked about the duchess.”
“We asked about . . . wait . . . are you serious? This is because of that?”
Royce nodded. He looked up at the damp, dripping walls of the sewer. “This city reminds me a lot of Ratibor—a lot more crowded, far more embellished, and no brothels, but it harbors the same mentality. Bald dockworker and company didn’t run away from us, they ran to someone, maybe several someones.”
“But why did those someones try to kill us? All we did was—”
“I’m guessing they don’t want people inquiring about the duchess.”
“Because she’s dead?” Hadrian asked. “Or because she’s alive?”
Royce pondered this and realized he didn’t have the slightest clue. After nearly an entire night in the city, he had more questions than when he’d arrived.
Chapter Seven
Breakfast
Royce and Hadrian were on time for breakfast.
Evelyn Hemsworth presided at a table covered in three cloths—blue upon yellow, with pristine white on top—and on this lay a vast collection of tableware. Porcelain creamers, cups, plates, and spice towers had been placed with such precision that Hadrian wondered if the woman had used plumb lines and T-squares. Crystal glasses lorded over the silver forks and knives, which guarded napkin-covered plates. Great silver serving trays with ornate lids were set with equal precision in a circle around a two-foot silver sculpture of a palm tree, at the base of which three men in turbans and Calian garb stood holding candelabras. While no food was visible, the entire house smelled of fresh pastries and sizzling bacon.
At the head of the table, Evelyn sat. She looked exactly as she had the night before: hair in a bun, formal dress, high tight collar that made Hadrian swallow in sympathy. She stared at the two of them with large piercing eyes and judgmental brows, her lips drawn up like a tight purse.
Royce looked at Hadrian, who stared back, both unsure what to do next: sit, offer a morning greeting, or ask permission to join her?
“Good morning,” Hadrian ventured as lightheartedly as he could.
“You’re late,” she said.
Hadrian glanced at the window. The morning sun had only just pierced the glass, replacing the illumination of the diminishing fire and making the crystal stemware sparkle in rainbow hues. “You said dawn.”
“I did. Dawn was eight minutes ago.”
“But the sun—”
“The sun doesn’t reach this house until eight minutes after dawn because Lardner’s Cabinet and Wardrobe Shop, on the hill at the intersection of Cross and Howell, is a full four stories tall and traps my home in shadow.”
Hadrian opened his mouth to speak, but he had nothing to say.
“Sit,” she ordered.
They both complied. Hadrian sat in the middle. Royce took the seat farthest away.
“It smells wonderful,” Hadrian said, reaching out to peek under the silver lid directly before him.
“Tut, tut!” Evelyn said, and clapped her hands sharply, stopping him. “What’s wrong with you people?” She glared accusingly.
Once more Hadrian glanced at Royce, mystified. The truth was he could answer that question a dozen different ways.
“Have you no sense of propriety? No piety?”
Hadrian still hadn’t a clue what she was getting at, and apparently it showed. She frowned his way.
“We need to give thanks to Our Lord, Novron, for this meal.”
“Oh,” Hadrian replied.
“Oh?” Evelyn intensified the disappointment in her eyes. “What sort of comment is that?”
Fearful of another verbal blunder, Hadrian shrugged.
“Now he’s acting like a monkey,” she said to Royce, as if he would understand and agree. Royce sat rigidly, staring back. Hadrian imagined he was entertaining himself ticking through all the ways he planned to kill her, mentally trying each out.
Evelyn turned to Hadrian, waiting. A long minute passed, and her brows rose with the passage of time. “Well?”
“Well what?” Hadrian asked.
Evelyn looked dumbfounded. “Are you telling me that you . . . am I correct in my assumption that you’ve never offered thanks to Novron for your good fortune? How is that possible? Were the two of you hatched in a cave somewhere such that you don’t understand the basic concepts of civilization and devotion to our god?”
Hadrian looked to Royce for help, and he wasn’t surprised to see his partner lifting his hood.
“We do not wear hoods at the table.” Evelyn’s words were so firm that the declaration came out as an indisputable fact.
Royce froze like a raccoon caught in a trash bin.
“Honestly, the two of you . . . it’s like living with animals.”
“I’m sorry,” Hadrian said. “We’re not from around here.”
“Obviously. The two of you live in a forest, most likely in some worm-filled burrow.”
“If it’ll get us closer to eating, we’re all for whatever thanks giving you have planned. Right?” Hadrian looked at Royce, who remained stationary with his hood partway up, watching Evelyn with a menacing fixation.