Page 6 of Paladin's Faith

Wren hooked her arm through his. “Between my skirts and your bare face, we’ll take the court by storm. You’ll see.”

Shane knew that neither he or Wren was the sort to take a court by storm—unless charging in with blades flashing counted—but thinking back to Marguerite and the lazy gleam of assurance in her eyes, he suspected that there might be one brewing nonetheless.

And I am no longer the man to hold back the storm. Possibly I never was. Perhaps I should go to Beartongue and ask her to assign someone else. Someone who is not so unreliable.

He doubted that she’d let him get out of it, but fear of failure churned in his gut. He had not yet failed the White Rat, as he had failed two gods before Him, but perhaps it was only a matter of time.

I can ask. And when she tells me no, I will respect her judgment.

It is bound to be superior to my own.

Marguerite bit her lip. She was, for the first time that day, nervous.

If the audience with Beartongue had gone badly, she would have been annoyed, frustrated, and facing a great deal of extra work. If the Bishop had been in the pay of the Red Sail, she would have been downright terrified. But neither one of those things would have hurt.

If this meeting went badly, though…

It’s been three years. And you didn’t come to her trial, even though you tried to make it right.

She’d had to leave. It wasn’t safe. The memory of what had happened to her patron had been too fresh. She’d made herself too obvious, and if she didn’t cut and run, it was only a matter of time until someone realized who she really was. At the time, she hadn’t known that the Red Sail was behind the attack on her patron, and the world had been full of faceless enemies. Then it had turned out that having a face to put on the enemy didn’t help. I had to go. There was too much danger to Grace if I stayed.

Guilt stabbed at her. She bowed her head.

This is what comes of caring too much for people who aren’t in the game. Either they become targets or you cut them off because you know what happens to targets. Her patron had taught her that lesson and its corollary: that you must care for your own operatives and use them ruthlessly nonetheless. She had broken the first rule three years ago, and it haunted her still.

The door to the room opened, and Grace stepped through, her head turned to speak to someone over her shoulder. “Fine, I’m going, but this better be important. I was in the middle of a distillation and…”

“Well,” said Marguerite, “if you’re in the middle of distillation, I can always come back later.”

Grace’s head snapped around so fast that Marguerite heard vertebrae crackle. “Marguerite?!”

Grace charged into the room. Marguerite braced herself, not sure if she’d earned a warm embrace or a punch in the jaw but willing to accept either.

Grace’s arms went around her and the knot in Marguerite’s chest loosened. She hadn’t broken things past mending. She’d left before Grace became a target, and Grace had forgiven her. She took a deep breath, smelling the scent that her perfumer friend was wearing, something tantalizingly familiar that she couldn’t quite put a name on.

“What on earth is that perfume?”

Grace’s laughing sob, or sobbing laugh—Marguerite doubted that she knew herself—broke against her shoulder. “It’s supposed to be petrichor.”

“Isn’t that a level of hell?”

“No, silly.” Grace stepped back, wiping at her eyes. “It’s the smell right before a rainstorm. You know it.”

“Oh.” Marguerite leaned in and sniffed. “That’s it. How on earth did you make a scent like that?”

Grace shook her head. “Never mind any of that. You’re here! You’re back! Are you staying? I’ve moved into the upstairs, but there’s still a bed in my old room.”

“No, no. I’m only here for a day or two. Until the Bishop has her people ready to ride.”

“Will you stay with us until then?”

Marguerite winced internally at the hope on Grace’s face. She hated to say no, but the thought of that small, narrow room, with only one door, and no way to escape if someone came through… “I’m sorry. I’d love to, but I have to be here for all the last-minute arrangements, not sending runners halfway across the city.” She grasped Grace’s hands more tightly. “But tell me everything that’s happened with you!”

“Me? I haven’t done anything special. I work, I make perfumes, some of them sell, some of them flop. I have a deal with a minstrel who attends all the fancy parties and takes orders, but he’s not half the agent you were. Tab is the same as ever. He gets into Stephen’s yarn and rolls around and makes a horrible mess, and Stephen sighs and extracts him again.”

“And are you still happy with your paladin, dear heart?”

“Yes,” said Grace. “Gloriously, foolishly happy.” She smiled down at her friend. “I go about my work and I sell perfume and everything is normal and then he turns up and I think my god, I love you so damn much. And it’s just…easy. I know that everyone says that love is hard work, but when I compare it to what life used to be like…” She shook her head.