Continued from §.06.
Luned Fey leaned back in the old wicker chair she’d stolen four weeks ago, lowering the paper to behold a lithe, pale man, garbed in a corvine coat, who sat across the charred table. He settled down into the chair and poured some of the coffee Fey had freshly brewed looking impossibly pleased with himself and wholly oblivious to her increasingly dour expression.
“I see ya’ve finally returned with ya ridiculous spoils.”
“Ridiculous? Aesthetically refining, I should say.”
“Ya look like a giant bird.”
“Thouart my size, would that make of thee a giant shrew?”
“Its not funny, Dren. Ya’wert reckless.”
“My last name is only invoked when thourt in some wise vexed.”
“Vexed? Vexed! Have ya read the Evening Standard?”
“Ya made the front page.”
“No, no, no,” the man, sipped his coffee and wagged a finger before the woman, smiled and pushed up the brim of the azure-plumed hat to reveal gold-green eyes that glittered through the gloam, “Oeric Adair did.”
“The dockman saw thee. He’s been jawing to the press.”
Drake removed his hat, ruffled his matted, obsidian hair, listlessly waving his hand, as if brushing away a slothful fly.
“Let him jaw. Does it mention Emory’s condition?”
“The dock worker that took a dagger to the thigh.”
“No. Only mentions he were injured in the attempt on ya life. Drake, are ya even listening?”
Drake Dren tapped his chin, beetle-black brows furrowing momentarily.
“Hm, I shall just have to go and see for myself then…”
Luned folded the paper and tossed it upon the battered table, scowling.
“My dear woman, thourt either miming a prune or signalling thy disapproval.”
“Ave ya gone daft? Ya already saved the man’s life – theys naught left ta do in returning but show thy tail to the mousetrap.”
The man paused and dramatically scanned his backside as Luned rolled her eyes and shook her head.
“Its serious, damn ye. Yawert nearly kilt!”
He smiled slightly and leaned theatrically towards her, voice low and smooth and coaxing.
“Thou wert worried about me, wernt thee?”
“I wert worried about having my tenement overrun with accipiters! Which now, thanks ta thee, will be trawling the area for information, once it comes out that the man what dodged the cutthroat wasn’t Adair!”
“Ah, that is where thourt mistaken. To understand, thou must, of Adair, grow thy knowing. The ministry will hound after the assassin, but they shant come looking for me.”
“Why on earth not?”
“Because, my dear Luned, Adair won’t want them to.”
Continued in §.08.
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