Rook(40)

But René had only smiled, not choosing to divulge that “remove to an undisclosed part of the Commonwealth” meant a mile trek down the A5 in the dead of night, taking the turn onto Graysin Lane, and stepping through the door of Spear Hammond’s farmhouse.

Light blossomed from the lamp in Spear’s hand, showing a strong, plain sitting space, low-ceilinged and timbered, an Ancient piece of steel girder forming the fire lintel. A fishing rod hung across the chimney, hawk feathers gathering dust in a vase in the window. Very much a man’s room. Spear stood with the lamp in one hand and now a candle in the other, shifting his feet while the sound of Cartier riding a horse with padded hoofs thudded softly away down the lane. Orla had insisted that Sophia should not walk. She was probably right.

“Wait here, Sophie, and I’ll go light the bedrooms,” Spear said finally, leaving the candle and taking the lamp.

Orla and Benoit followed, arms laden with bags, St. Just’s claws skittering after them up the stairs. Sophia sat straight-backed on the overstuffed couch, making a study of her hands while René dropped into a cushioned chair beside the hearth. He had his hair tied back, unpowdered, and she wondered vaguely where the plain black jacket and tall boots he was wearing could have been hidden when she searched his room. Was this version of René the real one, she mused, or just another persona he took on and off with the season? It was still safer not to look at him.

“So, Mademoiselle,” he said into the quiet. “You have made your grand escape. Now tell me what you are thinking. How long will we need to prepare before we sail to the city?”

“I need the numbers of the prison holes. Two days, maybe three, and we should know where they are.” The normal waiting period for execution was fourteen days, to extend the period of misery and suffering, Sophia supposed. She wanted her brother out in five. The thought of Tom in a prison hole was unbearable.

“You have ways to get this information, I assume.”

“Of course. The message went on the dusk boat.”

René had his brows drawn down. “You will need more time than that to heal, Mademoiselle.”

She lifted a hand to the bandage under her shirt, just above the waistline of her breeches. She was sore, scabbed, and a little swollen, though not in terrible pain, not as long as she was tightly bound. And the knot on her skull was shrinking. But it was true that as the Rook, she would be limited. She went back to studying her hands. The things she’d seen in the Tombs were true, too, and she’d not forgotten Jennifer’s arms. Time for her to heal might not be a luxury that either Tom or Jennifer, or perhaps even Madame Hasard, could afford.

René leaned forward in his chair, elbows on knees. “Allemande is a man of … let me think of the words … a man of standards. He cares for the look of things. Murder is all well, as long as it has the appearance of the law, yes? And the execution of the Red Rook, that will be an event for everyone’s eyes.”

Sophia looked up. René was telling her that no matter what happened, LeBlanc would have to ensure that Tom looked well enough for a public scaffold.

“Have you ever been inside the Tombs?” she asked. He shook his head, and Sophia kept her silence. There were many, many things that did not show. It was good of him, she supposed, to try to reassure her. She would be smarter to discern his motive, not trust in his goodness.

René’s fingers tapped restlessly on the chair. They could hear Spear moving about upstairs, and Orla and Benoit. “How long has he lived here?” René asked. He meant Spear.

“Since birth, I think.” Spear’s father had put back money for his son very early. Between the two of them, Spear had saved enough to prove his fitness for inheritance on the day he turned eighteen. “But he’s spent most of his time at our house since his father died. Father practically raised him.” At least as much as Bellamy had raised anyone.

“Ah,” René replied.

Sophia felt the little line forming between her brows. “ ‘Ah,’ what?”

“Raised like your family, but not your family. That would explain it.”

“Explain what?”

“Why he thinks that you belong to him, Mademoiselle.”

That made her lift her gaze. “He does not think that.”

“I only talk of what I see.”

Sophia opened her mouth to protest further, but then heavy steps came down the small staircase. Spear and his lantern were back. He was huge in this room, Sophia realized. He had to stoop strategically to avoid the ceiling beams. Spear set the lantern on the mantel and came to the couch with her shawl in his hand, the same one he’d fetched during the disastrous dinner with LeBlanc.

“Orla said to bring you this until we’ve got the fires going.” He laid the shawl on her shoulders, his hand lingering, brushing across her bare neck before he moved away.

Sophia shivered, though not with cold. She watched as Spear moved about the room, a small smile on his statuesque face, setting this and that to rights, putting an extra cushion on the couch. For her. Sliding a bowl of shelled nuts a little closer on the table. For her. Now moving down the passage and into the kitchen to boil water for willow bark tea. For her. Just as he’d always done.

Her eyes went to René, who was uncharacteristically still in his chair, the deep blue of his eyes watching her think. Sophia stood suddenly, letting the shawl cascade over the cushions.