Chapter 7: The Second Warehouse

The hall broke into applause.

Somebody banged a tankard on the table.

Blanche's fingers dug into my knee so hard I'd find bruises in the morning.

At the high table, Bertrand took out his silver watch, looked at it, and put it away.

Three places down from me, Alistair set his fork on his plate without a sound.

He didn't clap.

Father sat down glowing and lifted his glass to me across the candles.

I lifted mine back.

It was the only way I could think of to tell him I'd heard.

Bertrand had given me until midsummer.

Father had just cut it to ten days.

The tea boy brought me a folded scrap after midnight.

Kitchen yard. Seven. Wear something ugly.

I wore my oldest brown wool, a shawl over my hair and the boots I blend in.

Alistair was leaning on the kitchen yard wall in a coachman's coat with a hole in one elbow.

He had a cap pulled down over his eyes and two days of beard.

"Where did you get that coat?"

"The coachman. I gave him mine." He looked me up and down. "You look like you're about to sell me a herring."

"You look like you'd buy one."

He offered me his arm.

I didn't take it, and we went out the carters' gate side by side into the city.

I'd spent the night thinking about the 2 chalked on that chest.

There was one man in Pellow and Sons who'd tell me the truth if I asked him straight.

The shop on Quay Lane was just opening.

The old porter was sweeping the step, like he had every morning since before I was born.

He saw me and his whole face lit up.

"Miss Elinor. They said you were up at the palace being a princess."

"Not yet," I said. "Is there a second Pellow warehouse?"

The broom stopped.

He looked at Alistair, then at the street, then at me.

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