Allister didn’t ask what she meant. He never did. She wasn’t certain whether he thought she was just being dramatic or if he suspected the truth and wanted no part of it. It didn’t matter. A valet’s honor relied on holding his patron’s secrets, and though Allister might occasionally pass on a neighbor’s particulars, he would never speak of one from his own house. And he never commented on her speaking to him as if she were the man of that house. He was a valet, after all.
Nim pursed her lips. “I have been given a task far beyond my means, and there is no hope for working it out.”
He drew a long-suffering breath. “Shall I proceed to get you drunk, my lady?”
Nim snorted and fell back onto the settee. “Oh, that it would be enough.” Tossing a hand over her eyes, she thought possibly she was being dramatic, but she was more than a little doomed. Nothing had gone as planned. She was in worse shape than when she’d resolved to break free of her contract. She knew she would be lucky to make it out of the task alive. In four weeks, she had to steal a small drum watch from the seneschal’s desk drawer, which was no doubt locked or hidden behind a secret panel in some ridiculous manner, or risk being thrown in a dark cell in the depths of the undercity like her father. Or worse, she might have the price of the task taken from her flesh at the hands of Calum Lucus.
A chill ran over her, and she dropped her arm from her face. “No. Drinking won’t fix this. I’m loath to say it, but I must at least make a go of it. Something to avoid the regret of not trying as I waste away in the depths of despair.” She was destined to lose what paltry freedom she had left with Calum’s task—she would either be hanged or miss her tithe and break the terms of their agreement. There was little risk in grasping at straws. Maybe she would end up in the dungeons of King Stewart’s castle instead, which was a far improved prospect, should she manage to stay imprisoned instead of being burned or hanged for the crime. She wondered if it was treason to steal from a king’s man. A glance at Allister, and she decided it best not to ask. “Please send a note to Margery that I should like to meet her tomorrow afternoon.”
He inclined his head. “Of course, my lady. At once.”
Nim picked up a biscuit and slathered it with preserves. “I’ll miss you, my friend,” she whispered to the food as she shoved it into her mouth.
Allister cleared his throat, and Nim glanced up, her words thick around a mouthful of bread. “I thought you left.”
His lips tightened in the effort not to laugh at her, but he managed to restrain himself. One of his dark brows lifted, and his gaze fell to the rumpled wardrobe on the floor.
“Right,” she said, swallowing roughly as she brushed her palms over her skirt. “Hide the evidence. Good man.”
Allister inclined his head, and she was fairly certain he did smile then, but he was gone in a moment, so she bent to pick up her nighttime illicit-venturing clothes. She shook them out, hating the realization that she would be wearing them again in a matter of days—as a thief inside the king’s castle. “Cursed Calum,” she muttered then glanced over her shoulder as if the name might inadvertently call him.
Satisfied it had not, she stashed her wardrobe away then crossed to the desk. She usually wrote in the sitting room, where the light was better, but Nim had to face getting her affairs in order and had no interest in penning the instructions where the head of the household might happen upon her. She could trust Allister, and only Allister, with her instructions. She prayed that by some twist of fate, he would not need them, but the truth hammered against her in waves of dread and hopelessness. The chance of her succeeding was little to none. There was no way to escape. Should she attempt to flee the kingdom before the contract was resolved, the magic would find her. Worse, breaking the terms would put her in Trust hands that much faster.
The day had started what was likely Nim’s last month with any taste of freedom. In a matter of time, she would be hanged or found forfeit in her contract and at the mercy of Calum’s monstrous whims.
* * *
By the next afternoon, her outlook had not improved, but she at least made a plan. The list of tasks to order her affairs had been safely hidden where Allister would find them, should she be caught, and she had made the walk to the massive manor that was Margery’s family home. Margery’s father had long since gone, and her brother was off to fight in the king’s army, so Margery and a distant cousin haunted the halls of the manor as if it was their own.
As Nim approached the main entrance, she glanced across the courtyard, a habit she supposed seemed casual curiosity to anyone who did not live in fear of the Trust. She had gotten used to seeing nothing, though, so when a cloaked figure shifted in the shadows of a column, a chill ran over Nim’s spine. Her palm found the handle of her dagger beneath her cloak, and she made the decision to turn away from the house. She should never have come to Margery. It was too big a risk.
The door behind Nim opened, and someone snagged her by the cloak. “Nimona.”
Margery jerked Nim through the massive oaken doorway. The woman had opened the door herself despite having a half dozen in-house staff, and she immediately clasped their fingers together to drag Nim toward the sitting room. “I haven’t seen you in weeks. You’re a poor companion, Miss Weston.”
Nim managed a smile. She could not warn Margery. There was no speaking of the Trust without putting her friend in even more danger than she’d already caused. She could only hope the figure she’d seen outside was meant as a threat toward Nim. She squeezed Margery’s hand. “I’ll remind you that the last time I was here, I was chided for trespassing on your time when you had lawyering to do.”
Margery sniffed. “I doubt that. ‘Trespassing’ doesn’t sound like a word I would throw around casually.” She gave Nim a laughing glance, as they both knew “lawyering” was the word she’d not thrown around. Nim felt a sharp stab of guilt that she might have brought the Trust’s attention to her, but Margery was the only one she could come to and the only one who might have the information she needed, even if Margery’s work mostly dealt in the crafting of marriage contracts and property transfers.
The women passed into the sitting room, its chaotic arrangement bright with the sunlight coming through a row of windows on the far wall. Margery called for tea and asked, “For the love of all things sacred, could guests finally be served some decent cake?” as she led Nim to a set of chairs near the far corner.
“Have you been painting?” Nim asked.
Margery rolled her eyes at the stack of splattered canvases. “Beasley. He’s got it in his head he’s going to paint for the king someday, the floppy-headed slack.”
“That’s treason.” Nim’s whisper was scandalized, though it was clear Margery had been speaking of her cousin, he of the waffling ambition, and not the king.
Margery’s brow lifted in challenge, as if she had somehow anticipated treason would be the subject of the day’s meeting. She didn’t know the half of it. Her braided hair was tied into a loose bunch, the dark brown tinted with dye that warmed to red in the afternoon sun. Most women of society avoided any sort of artificial beauty, given that being accused of buying it through magical favors meant being burned or hanged. But Margery seemed to dare them to make such an accusation, and Nim loved her all the more for it. Her friend had rich brown eyes, a smattering of freckles, full lips, and was tall and strong but oddly terrible at running.