Grave Mercy (His Fair Assassin #1)(11)

The room is poorly lit, which suits my purposes well. Keeping close to the shadows near the wall as I have been taught, I make my way to the stairs that lead to the second floor, where rooms can be had for the night.

First door on the right, Sister Vereda said.

I am so focused on reaching the stairs and on the instructions going through my head that I do not see the big oaf who has risen from his bench until I run into him.

“Oho!” he cries as he grabs my arms to keep me from falling. “I’ve found a tasty morsel for my dinner.”

His hood is drawn close around his head, shadowing his face, and his straw hat hangs down his back, marking him as one who toils in the fields. Annoyance flickers in my chest. I have no time for delays; I am eager to try my wings. I start to tell him to get out of my way then realize that he could be part of the test the abbess has set for me. I cast my eyes downward. “Someone waits for me upstairs.”

It works too well, for I can feel his gaze on me growing warm. Interested. Instead of stepping aside, he draws closer, backing me up against the wall. My heart beats frantically at being trapped like this, but I force my mind to calm, reminding myself that he is likely just a peasant who is nothing to me. I shove against the oaf ’s chest, which is as hard as iron from days spent pushing a plow in the fields. “I will get in much trouble if I am late.” I am sure to make my voice waver slightly so he will think I am afraid.

After a long moment, he steps aside. “Hurry back down to Hervé when you are done, eh?” he whispers in my ear. His big, greedy hand slides down and slaps my rump, and test or no, it is all I can do to keep from gutting him then and there. Keeping my eyes down so he cannot see my fury, I nod, then hurry on my way as he returns to his bench.

At the top of the stairwell, a serving maid struggles with a heavy tray. By the time I reach the landing, she has paused in front of a door. First door on the right.

Jean Runnion’s door.

Use the tools and opportunities Mortain places in front of you. It is one of the first lessons we learn at the convent. “Is that for Monsieur Runnion?” I call out.

Startled, the maid turns her head. “Yes. He asked for his dinner to be served in his room.”

As well he might. He has good reason to stay hidden. Bretons have long memories where traitors are concerned, and we do not forgive easily. I hurry forward. “I will take the tray to him,” I offer. “He is in a foul mood tonight.”

The maid is suspicious and frowns at me. “How do you know this?”

I give her a cold smile. “Because his man warned me of such when he came to fetch me for the evening.”

A look of contempt appears on her face. I am torn between pride that she finds my pretense believable and annoyance that she thinks me a harlot. It is exactly as Sister Beatriz said it would be: People hear and see what they expect to hear and see. But just because we have been trained to use that to our advantage does not mean I like it.

The maid shoves the tray into my hands and I have to grab quickly to keep it from tumbling to the ground.

with one last swish of her skirts, she clatters down the stairs, leaving me alone with only a thick oaken door between me and my first assignment.

Three years of lessons crowd my head at once, bumping into each other like an unsettled flock of pigeons. I remind myself that there is nothing to fear. I mixed the poison with my own hand. It contains a slow-acting toxin, one especially chosen so that I will be far away before the traitor dies, giving me enough time to escape should something go wrong. To everyone else, it will merely appear as if he is in a deep, wine-sodden sleep.

But nothing will go wrong, I tell myself. Shifting the weight of the tray, I rap on the door. “Your dinner, monsieur.”

"Entré” comes the muffled voice.

I open the door, then juggle the tray again so I can close it firmly behind me. Runnion doesn’t even look up. He is sprawled in a chair in front of the fire, drinking from a cup of wine. A jug sits on the floor next to him. “Just put it on the table,” he instructs.

The years have not been kind to him. His face is deeply lined and his hair lank and gray. Indeed, he looks almost ill, as if his guilty conscience has eaten away at his soul.

If so, I am surely about to do him a favor. I set the tray down. "Would monsieur like me to refill his cup before I go?” I ask.

“Yes. Then leave,” he commands. His dismissive manner makes me even happier that he will not be able to order anyone else around after tonight.

As I move toward his chair, I lift a hand to the finely woven net around my hair and slip one of the pearls from it. I bend over to pick up the wine jug, pausing to look at his face. There is a great dark smudge around his lips, as if Mortain has pressed His thumb into the blackness of the man’s soul and smeared it along his mouth to say, Here, this is how he will die.

Thus reassured, I slip the pearl into the wine, swirl the jug twice, then pick up Runnion’s cup and fill it.

I hand it to him, and he takes a sip, then another. As I watch, Runnion looks up from his cup and scowls at me. "Where is the other girl?”

I have overstayed my welcome. “She was busy downstairs and asked me to come.”

even as his bleary eyes move to my traveling cloak, I begin heading toward the door. I want to be away from here before his wine-soaked mind begins to draw any conclusions.

"Wait!” he calls out, and I freeze, my heart beating wildly in my chest.