Covenant's End - Ari Marmell Page 0,50
certain I'm going to feel bound to help finish this?”
“You checked in on Robin while I was away.”
Evrard snapped off a few words he definitely didn't learn from any of his proper tutors, shattered his goblet against the stone of the fireplace, and dropped into the nearest chair in a magnificent sulk.
Shins turned away until she could bring her expression under control and she was certain she wasn't about to burst out laughing at the sudden sensation of Olgun sticking out his (metaphorical) tongue and making various rude bodily sounds with his (metaphorical) lips.
Everyone else was already gathered—and, Shins realized, had probably heard every word of her conversation with their host. Not my problem, she decided. I didn't say anything I'm ashamed of. Renard and Igraine had taken a pair of matching chairs, on either side of a tiny, circular table. She couldn't say for sure, but Shins guessed that whatever whispers were passing between them, both leaning in toward the other, had something to do with the Guild. Frankly, she wasn't sure what secrets they'd be talking about that were worth keeping at this point, but old habits—and, if they were careful, old thieves—died hard.
The remaining pair had chosen the smaller of the room's two sofas, pressed tightly together, Faustine's arm protectively around Robin's shoulder, as though daring anyone to say anything. Robin twisted and fidgeted a bit, and Shins realized her leg must be bothering her. The young thief felt a sharp pang of guilt over her friend's injury, wondered how long it might be before that stopped happening.
And wondered if she deserved for it to ever stop happening.
Maybe there's one thing I can do…. Shins watched, waiting until Faustine happened to meet her gaze, and then inclined her head toward the table with the decanter of brandy. The courier's brow wrinkled in confusion, but she whispered a word in Robin's ear and stood. Shins met her, reaching out to refill her goblet while she was at it.
“Robin told me more or less everything,” she began.
Faustine's expression didn't so much as twitch. “I know.”
“Including how she feels about me…”
Definitely a twitch, this time. “I know.”
“…and how she feels about you. She's my best friend, Faustine. My sister. I want you two to be happy. I'm won't get in your way; I'm not competing with you.”
The twitch became an avalanche, a score of different emotions, some fire and some ice, washing across the other woman's face faster than Shins could identify them. Faustine finally settled—though it appeared to take some effort—on a sad smile.
“Of course you are,” she said softly. “You always will be. It's kind of amusing that you think it's even up to you. You have no say in the matter, Widdershins. Neither do I.”
“Oh. I…oh.”
Faustine's jaw marginally unclenched, her smile appearing more natural, if only slightly. “I do appreciate the sentiment, though. Thank you for trying.”
As Shins couldn't for the life of her think of anything more to say to that, she simply watched as Faustine returned to the sofa, and her arm to Robin's shoulders. She felt strangely embarrassed, as though she'd just intruded into something in which she had no business.
“I meant for that to help,” she sighed to Olgun. The surge of understanding, of sympathy she received in return only made her feel a little better. But even a little was good.
“All right, then,” she said, abruptly pivoting to face the room at large. “We all know what sort of truly bizarre, horrible poop has happened in this city in the past.”
“‘Poop’?” Faustine and Evrard asked in unison. Shins ignored them.
“And we all know that some pretty bizarre, horrible…stuff is going on now. But does anyone know what the feathered, steaming horses is actually happening?”
Everyone glanced sidelong at everyone else, everyone shifted in his or her seat, and nobody said a thing.
“Yeah. Kind of what I thought. Time to compare heads and put our notes together, then.”
Once more, a deafening array of no responses. They all agreed in theory—she could see that much on their faces—but nobody knew precisely where to start.
Evrard cleared his throat, and Shins pretended she hadn't nearly jumped from her skin. “What? Uh, that is, yes?”
“I'm not looking to reopen old wounds,” the aristocrat said, and indeed, he sounded truly reluctant, even sympathetic. “Or new ones, I suppose. But…Widdershins, you seem to be near the center of this, if not actually at it…”
“As always,” Igraine mumbled.
“…and I'm still not entirely clear on just what happened to you.”
“You didn't see