“What?” Marian’s steps faltered, her heart quickening. “Do you know why?”
Her father’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t take his eyes from the plank slung over two barrels, where the game’s operator was moving the thimbles back and forth. “Why? Marian, you know why. He’s hoping for your promise before we go home.”
A little flicker of embarrassment tickled at Marian’s throat. “Oh.”
The thimbles whirled in rings and figure eights, and Marian had been too scattered by her father’s words to catch the moment when the man behind the makeshift table palmed the pea. Though there were certainly some among the more credulous in the crowd who didn’t know, Marian felt sure almost all the watchers knew the game was no game at all, but a deliberate trick—and yet all eyes were riveted. They knew it was a lie, but there wasn’t one among them who didn’t think they could spot the pea.
When the thimbles stopped, a middle-aged man wearing a red beard and a well-made and much-mended tunic stepped up. Her father’s lips twitched, and he murmured for Marian’s ears, “The pea’s in the busker’s right sleeve.”
When Red-Beard jabbed a thick forefinger toward the middle thimble, the game’s operator lifted it with a flourish to reveal the empty wood beneath and took Red-Beard’s penny in one movement. He did not lift the other thimbles, gathering them up before anyone could ask where the pea really was, and Marian heard a tinny little rattle as he set the game back up for another round: the sound of the pea falling back into place.
Marian was not immune to the thrill of excitement that rumbled through the watchers, and she fell into step alongside her father again with reluctance. “How did you know?” she asked, happy to dwell on the subject of the thimblerig huckster rather than Gisborne’s request.
Her father tucked her arm through his, settling his hand over hers. “If you watch his face, and not his hands, his intentions are far easier to read. He’s not bad, but he still glances up before he makes the change, checking to see if someone’s watching.”
Marian laughed and hugged her father’s arm close. The air was colder than it had been the day before, and when she tried the apple again, it had cooled enough for her to take a bite of the soft, sweet fruit.
“Would you like to stay?”
Marian swallowed the bite of apple and looked askance at her father. He looked much as he always had, lines of humor around his eyes and mouth, a bit more gray at his temples and shot through the rest of the chestnut hair that had once so perfectly matched Marian’s own. There was no doubt, had there ever been any question, that she was his daughter—they had the same nose and brow, and the square jaw that had served Marian so well in her disguise as Robin gave her father a distinguished look of strength and determination.
“I don’t know,” Marian murmured, gaze falling again. There were more opportunities for her to feed information to her men if she remained at Nottingham Castle, more chances at continued victories against the Sheriff. But with most of the visiting nobles departing, the castle’s population would be plummeting, and there’d be fewer potential targets for Gisborne’s suspicion to fall upon.
“We can decide as we go.” Her father patted her hand with a smile. “It is not weakness, Marian, to change one’s mind.”
Marian halted so abruptly that their linked arms pulled her father halfway round to face her. “Change my—about Gisborne?”
Her father’s look was mild. “About anything. About Sir Guy. About Robin Hood. About your own Robin. About yourself.”
Marian hid her uneasiness by taking another bite of her apple. She could not afford to change her mind about anything, but particularly not Gisborne. He was a cruel toady of the Sheriff’s, and a torturer, and so stiff and awkward that she could not stand an hour in his company, much less the prospect of a lifetime.
He was and always would be the enemy of Robin Hood.
“Father,” Marian said after swallowing, “did anything come of this trip?” She did not bother to hide the change of subject. Her father never expected subtlety from her. “You and the other lords—were you able to convince the Sheriff that to raise taxes still further would be folly?”
“I don’t think we achieved much,” her father replied quietly. The lines of laughter set in a look of grim concern. “Taxes