False Covenant

This was, without doubt, a man of means-and given how careless he was about advertising those means, he was either an idiot or unshakably confident in his ability to defend himself.

In that same corner of her mind, Robin casually noted that most girls her age would probably find the fellow irresistible.

“…help you,” she finished lamely, about eight or nine hours later.

The stranger smiled, a gleaming white expression that might or might not have been genuine; Robin, for all her experience reading people, couldn't begin to tell. “And a fine afternoon to you, mademoiselle. I'd very much like to speak to the owner, if I might.”

Robin felt the hairs stand up on the back of her neck. Sure, the request could be legitimate-but given Widdershins's past, and the sorts of people she dealt with, the odds were stacked against it.

“I'm afraid the owner's not in just now,” she said carefully. “If you wanted to leave me a message, I'd be happy to pass it along.”

“Hmm. I'm not sure that would do at all, honestly. Any idea where I might find her? Or when she might be back?”

“I…don't think it's my place to share someone else's schedule, I'm afraid. You understand.” She glanced around, and was gratified to see that Gerard had sidled over toward the bar-and the heavy cudgel they kept back there for emergencies. “I'm one of the managers here; are you sure there's nothing I can help you with?”

The man's grin slipped, just a hair. “No, you can't. I know the young woman who goes by the name ‘Widdershins’ owns this place; I've seen the prior owner's will, down at the Hall of Judgment. My business is with her, and no one else.”

“I'm sure,” Robin said, struggling to keep her voice steady, “that she'll be sorry she missed you.”

Just that quickly, the nobleman's smile was back in place. “I'm certain she will. Ah, well. Tell her Evrard stopped by, would you? And that I'll call on her again later?”

“Evrard?” The name didn't mean anything to Robin. “And have you a family name?”

“I do,” he said simply. And then he doffed his hat, offered a quick and courtly bow, and turned on his heel with military precision.

Robin watched the door that drifted shut behind him, and then slowly glanced toward Gerard. He could only shrug.

“Do you mind watching the place for a while?” Robin asked him.

The server cast an exaggerated look across the entirety of the common room. “I think I can probably handle the vast hordes for an hour or two, yes.”

Robin was out the door before she even finished nodding her acknowledgment. Widdershins needed to know about Evrard; something about the man really worried Robin, and she could only hope Shins would have some idea of who he was. Thankfully, even if nothing else was going right that day, she had a pretty good idea of where to find the itinerant thief-turned-tavern-owner.

And she also had to admit, though she hated to do so, that Gerard had a point. Much as she loved Widdershins, they simply hadn't had these sorts of problems-or not often, anyway-when Genevieve was alive.

“Hello, Genevieve.”

Widdershins slowly lowered herself to sit cross-legged beside the ornate gravestone. Graven angels lined the marble monument, hunched as though supporting both the name inscribed across its surface and the cross of Banin that adorned its top.

Technically, Genevieve Marguilles had deserved a full-fledged mausoleum, with four walls, an ornate sarcophagus, and room inside for mourners. But the young woman had been estranged-very publicly-from Gurrerre Marguilles, her aristocratic father, and so the demands of propriety (and expense) for her final resting place were somewhat lighter than they otherwise might have been.

Widdershins, for her part, was just as happy this way. Here, she could sit close beside her best friend-and Genevieve herself, Shins liked to think, would have preferred it.

Now, at the tail end of spring, the grasses throughout the entire cemetery were healthy and thick, the trees draped in emerald, the many flowers bright and pungent. But around Genevieve's grave, those grasses were particularly lush. Roses, irises, and poppies intertwined around each other, forming a garland about the headstone and, in a few instances, creeping up the sides of the marble in intricate patterns. The aromas of those flowers, carried by a gentle breeze centered on this spot alone, somehow mixed into a perfect blend that reminded Widdershins overpoweringly of Genevieve herself.

She said nothing for a long moment, only offered a grateful, heartfelt smile through her falling tears. And Olgun, who knew the smile and the thanks were for him, and for the work he had done here, offered in return a single waft of comfort and support before withdrawing into the deepest corners of Widdershins's mind, so that she might be alone with her friend, and her thoughts.

Slowly, Widdershins removed a bottle of cheap wine from the sack she carried at her side. The sound of the popping cork was close enough to a pistol shot that, even though she herself had pulled it from the neck of the bottle, Widdershins couldn't help but jump. She poured a few mouthfuls into the soil beside the headstone, then took several deep gulps herself.

“It's not the best vintage,” she apologized, “but I didn't think you'd approve of us sharing the good stuff without some reason to celebrate. And, well, I can't pretend that my being here is a special occasion, can I? You're probably sick to d-ah, sick of hearing from me by now. How many times have I been here in the last…?” Widdershins ticked off days on her fingertips, and then, with a shrug, gave up on the whole notion and took another swig from the bottle. “I just wish I'd bothered to visit you as often when you were still…” Again she trailed off, this time with a moist sniff.

“Gen, I'm sorry!” The stone, the flowers, the entire cemetery were beginning to blur. “I'm trying to take care of your place, your people, I'm really trying! But I don't know what I'm doing; I don't know how to keep it going. You'd know; you'd know just how to deal with everything that's going on in this stupid city, but me? I was never any good at anything except…well, you know. I don't-I don't think you'd approve of me funding the Flippant Witch that way, and I've tried not to, but…”

Widdershins lay one palm flat against the marble, dropped her head, and sobbed as quietly as she could manage.

She ignored the distant sounds of footsteps on the cemetery's winding earthen paths. Mourners were constantly coming to visit this loved one or that, and here, if nowhere else in Davillon, everyone was respectful enough to leave everyone else alone. Already she'd noted, and dismissed, several strange faces-a few haughty and irritated, but some genuinely sympathetic-glanced her way during her crying jag.

This time, however, the steps didn't gradually pass beyond hearing. Instead, they grew nearer, ever nearer, and then…

“Shins?” The voice was soft, scarcely more than a breath.

Widdershins bolted upright, wiping her tears with the back of a hand as she came up on one knee and spun halfway around. “I-what? Robin?!”

“Shins, are you all right?” the younger girl asked.

“I–I'm fine.”

Apparently, whatever she saw on Widdershins's face or heard in her voice pretty well put the lie to that. With a soft cry of her own, Robin darted forward and wrapped her friend in a frighteningly intense hug. (One might have called it a “bear hug,” except that Robin could not possibly, in any stretch of metaphor, ever be compared to something that large. A “rabbit hug,” maybe.)

For a second, perhaps two, Widdershins stiffened, as though she'd pull away-and then she collapsed, burying her face in the shorter girl's collar. “Robin, I miss her!”

“Shh…I know, Shins.” They stood for long moments, Widdershins practically shaking in Robin's arms, Robin gently stroking her friend's hair. “I know…”

Finally, Widdershins straightened up once more and gently pulled away. Robin, after a moment's apparent hesitation, let her arms fall to her sides.

“But…” Shins said, blinking her now red-rimmed eyes. “Robin, what are you doing here?”