Chapter 11: Every Creditor

The iron box would not open.

Hadrian tried his knife, then the butt of a pistol, then a rock from the orchard wall.

"It needs a smith," he said at last, and tucked it under his arm.

"Tonight," I said.

"Tonight we have a dinner."

My father had written me three notes that morning, each more frantic than the last.

Four moneylenders were coming to the Hallowell house for supper.

They held notes on the Marquess's name, and the notes were due on Midsummer.

Rumor said the Prince was finished with the Hallowells, and the lenders had grown nervous.

"They'll take the house, Rosie," my father had written.

"They say the Prince has told them it is safe."

At seven o'clock I stood at the head of the dining table in my green dress.

My father sat on my left, and Betsy hovered behind my chair.

The four lenders sat down the sides, fat and polite, each with a leather case.

Behind them, in the corners of the room, I saw other faces.

Three of the Prince's friends, young lords in blue silk, had come to watch.

They wore the pleasant, hungry look of men who expect to buy a good house cheap.

"Lady Rosamund," said the eldest lender.

"We are sorry for the occasion."

"There's no need," I said.

"Please tell me what you're owed."

He named a figure, and the others added theirs.

It came to thirty-one thousand crowns.

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