latter.
“Atrophy,” he said after a moment. “Such an impres sive word for a mercenary.”
She paused. “It means fl accid.”
And, oh, look at that: she could arch a single brow, too.
The door jiggled a bit then, and they both gave a start.
Grateful for the excuse to look away from Colin Eversea, grateful for the opportunity to herd her wits back into formation, Madeleine strode over and slid the broom out of its hooks. The door creaked open a few inches and a large hairy hand clutching a tin poked in and waved about. Madeleine plucked the tin out of the hand, the fingers waggled an acknowledgment and van ished again through the crack, and she closed the door and slid the broom back into place.
Someone whose handwriting had never evolved care less or defining characteristics, someone who seldom had cause to write, in other words, had labeled the tin: saint-john’s-wort. Croker’s wife, most likely. They were a nefarious pair, and might very well be serving meat pies made out of cats (that rumor never would die), yet there was something comfortingly homely about the tin of Saint-John’s-wort salve. Madeleine imagined there was one in nearly every building in England, from Whitehall to Newgate.
She turned around to face Colin, who was watching her.
“We need to see to your ankles, Mr. Eversea. Be cause I won’t have your gait slowing us down.”
Colin Eversea’s eyes went wide; his body went utterly still. And at first it was gratifying to startle him, to throw him off balance the way he’d thrown her off balance, to make a point: I’m observant, too, Mr. Eversea. And then some emotion twitched across his face—shock? shame?—before he went carefully expressionless.
He stood for a moment like that, very still, his eyes looking inward. And then without saying a word, he sat down hard on the chair and abruptly began working off one long boot.
Futilely, as it turned out. Nearly a minute went by, but the boot and man remained inseparable. Colin Ever-sea cast one enigmatic glance up at Madeleine then, and continued to tug.
Which is when some reflex born of impatience and old memories made Madeleine drop to her knees, put her hands on either side of his boot and give a tug.
Whereupon they both froze for a moment.
And then Madeleine slowly tipped her head back and met a pair of glinting green eyes with a challengingly raised brow, but she said nothing.
And then slowly, slowly, Colin Eversea straight ened his leg for her. Madeleine almost smiled then; he called to mind nothing so much as someone extending a hand for a suspicious, irritable dog to sniff. She tugged hard—she knew the fit of Hobby boots and how to get one off—and it soon came away into her hands. She set it aside. Colin presented the other boot by extending his other long leg. In silence, they repeated the process, Madeleine expertly tugging until the boot released its hold.
And once the boots were off, she lined them up to admire a mission accomplished: two boots side by side, erect and elegant as a pair of footmen.
Madeleine did glance up at Colin Eversea then. His eyes were fixed on a great black pot hanging on the wall across from him; his jaw was set, and a surprising faint fl ush sat high on his cheekbones. She didn’t think exertion had caused it. Was it shame that he should need assistance, or that she should recognize, witness, his vulnerability? He was doubtless a proud man. Perhaps he was struggling with the reminder that he’d actually been shackled.
Colin Eversea’s insouciance in prison had been leg endary; if one believed the broadsheets, he fl ung bon mots the way a benevolent king flung coins to peasants. And the English did love a criminal with panache.
For the first time, Madeleine began to wonder what the panache had cost him.
I know it’s not a lark , he’d said.
She waited, not wanting to prompt him. Colin in haled, then sighed out a breath and swiftly, the motion almost defiant, rolled his trouser legs
“Atrophy,” he said after a moment. “Such an impres sive word for a mercenary.”
She paused. “It means fl accid.”
And, oh, look at that: she could arch a single brow, too.
The door jiggled a bit then, and they both gave a start.
Grateful for the excuse to look away from Colin Eversea, grateful for the opportunity to herd her wits back into formation, Madeleine strode over and slid the broom out of its hooks. The door creaked open a few inches and a large hairy hand clutching a tin poked in and waved about. Madeleine plucked the tin out of the hand, the fingers waggled an acknowledgment and van ished again through the crack, and she closed the door and slid the broom back into place.
Someone whose handwriting had never evolved care less or defining characteristics, someone who seldom had cause to write, in other words, had labeled the tin: saint-john’s-wort. Croker’s wife, most likely. They were a nefarious pair, and might very well be serving meat pies made out of cats (that rumor never would die), yet there was something comfortingly homely about the tin of Saint-John’s-wort salve. Madeleine imagined there was one in nearly every building in England, from Whitehall to Newgate.
She turned around to face Colin, who was watching her.
“We need to see to your ankles, Mr. Eversea. Be cause I won’t have your gait slowing us down.”
Colin Eversea’s eyes went wide; his body went utterly still. And at first it was gratifying to startle him, to throw him off balance the way he’d thrown her off balance, to make a point: I’m observant, too, Mr. Eversea. And then some emotion twitched across his face—shock? shame?—before he went carefully expressionless.
He stood for a moment like that, very still, his eyes looking inward. And then without saying a word, he sat down hard on the chair and abruptly began working off one long boot.
Futilely, as it turned out. Nearly a minute went by, but the boot and man remained inseparable. Colin Ever-sea cast one enigmatic glance up at Madeleine then, and continued to tug.
Which is when some reflex born of impatience and old memories made Madeleine drop to her knees, put her hands on either side of his boot and give a tug.
Whereupon they both froze for a moment.
And then Madeleine slowly tipped her head back and met a pair of glinting green eyes with a challengingly raised brow, but she said nothing.
And then slowly, slowly, Colin Eversea straight ened his leg for her. Madeleine almost smiled then; he called to mind nothing so much as someone extending a hand for a suspicious, irritable dog to sniff. She tugged hard—she knew the fit of Hobby boots and how to get one off—and it soon came away into her hands. She set it aside. Colin presented the other boot by extending his other long leg. In silence, they repeated the process, Madeleine expertly tugging until the boot released its hold.
And once the boots were off, she lined them up to admire a mission accomplished: two boots side by side, erect and elegant as a pair of footmen.
Madeleine did glance up at Colin Eversea then. His eyes were fixed on a great black pot hanging on the wall across from him; his jaw was set, and a surprising faint fl ush sat high on his cheekbones. She didn’t think exertion had caused it. Was it shame that he should need assistance, or that she should recognize, witness, his vulnerability? He was doubtless a proud man. Perhaps he was struggling with the reminder that he’d actually been shackled.
Colin Eversea’s insouciance in prison had been leg endary; if one believed the broadsheets, he fl ung bon mots the way a benevolent king flung coins to peasants. And the English did love a criminal with panache.
For the first time, Madeleine began to wonder what the panache had cost him.
I know it’s not a lark , he’d said.
She waited, not wanting to prompt him. Colin in haled, then sighed out a breath and swiftly, the motion almost defiant, rolled his trouser legs
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