Chapter 4: The Window

"Let go of my poker," I said.

"Gladly."

Bastian Orrelo opened his hand and the poker dropped an inch and I caught it.

He swung his other leg over the sill and stood in my bedroom in his boots and black coat, with the moon behind him.

"There was a man under your third orange tree," he said.

"I saw him," I said.

"He is in a cart now, with my two clerks and a gag. He will tell me whose steward paid him."

"Your clerks?" I asked.

"They are better with a knife than they look."

I lowered the poker.

My heart was still going hard, and I noticed that my left hand felt hot and wet.

I looked down.

Blood ran from the heel of my palm to my wrist and dripped off my knuckles onto the rug.

"I didn't do that," I said, stupidly.

"The garden latch. It has a broken edge. I felt it myself coming over the wall." He took two steps. "Give me the hand."

"It's fine."

"It is bleeding on your mother's rug."

I held it out.

He took it in both of his.

His hands were very big and very warm, and they were not steady.

I felt it before I saw it, a fine tremor in the long fingers, the first thing about him that was not controlled.

He turned my palm up to the moon and looked at the cut for a long moment.

"It is not deep," he said, and his voice was rough. "It is not deep."

"Lord Justice. Your hands are shaking," I said.

"Yes."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because I came over that wall expecting to find you dead."

He said it flatly.

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