His left hand was empty. The sword was gone.
She didn’t ask if he had won. She could tell in the set of his shoulders, the fire still alight in his eyes.
Arabella stayed on the floor, knees up to her chest and her arms tight around them, as Trey approached. He stopped and dangled a small grey bag in front of her, stitched with leaf-green embroidery.
Arabella sat up straight, eyes widening.
Trey squatted, one knee on the floor. They were almost face to face. In his other hand, he held up a wooden counter. The number 13 was scored into it.
A jolt of recognition went through Arabella. “Harry,” she whispered.
“Indeed. The boy got scared when he realized where you had been and what you had done. Do you remember?”
Memories rose up like a tide: Harry’s haggard face, her own anxious sympathy, the sudden blazing idea, the grim determination that followed. The itch of coarse wool against her skin, the heaviness of the cloak on her shoulders. Creeping down the stairs, careful to skip the step that creaked. Easing the back door behind her, easing into the twilight. “Yes!”
“Do you remember the pawnbroker’s name or direction?” Trey queried. “Can you take me?” His posture was taut, poised for action.
Arabella eyed him, wondering if that inner fire was as consuming, as scorching, as it looked from the outside. “Of course, but…”
“But?” His brows drew together.
“Trey, it’s still the middle of the night.”
“So it is!” His brow cleared, but his tone was surprised. And then he gave a cracking yawn, only mostly hidden behind a polite hand.
He badly needed his rest. Arabella felt strangely protective of his wellbeing, laughable since he’d just shown he could handle himself quite fine.
“Come.” She rose to her feet. “The pawnshop will still be there in the morning. Let’s go home.”
He copied her movement, murmuring, “Let’s go home? Not thinking of moving in, are you?”
The solicitous feeling vanished entirely. “As if I have any desire to spend more time than necessary in your cellar.”
“Oh, but it’s such a nice cellar.”
There could be no other reply to his inappropriate levity but dignified silence. Arabella made hers as haughty as she could.
Trey leaned away from her in exaggerated astonishment. “Brr,” he said cheerfully. “It’s gotten chilly in here.”
Jesting in church? He was really, thought Arabella, shaking her head, quite hopeless.
Chapter Five
Trey took a gulp of scalding black coffee, and gave the overcast sky a baleful look. His eyelids felt heavy and gritty.
Morning had come too early again.
It was a good thing he planned to intimidate, because no one would believe that he was anything other than a rogue. He had woken up to Arabella’s inexpertly suppressed impatience filling his entire house. He hadn’t even given himself time to shave, merely thrown on clothes from the disreputable side of his wardrobe. His hair was untidy, his chin stubbled, and no one would mistake the coarse jacket and trousers for anything belonging to a gentleman.
And now he stood under an awning in an undesirable part of town, bitter coffee his only fortification against the biting wind that was winter’s last assault on Lumen. The place behind him styled itself as a bakery, but Trey had eschewed the stale buns and hard cakes he suspected were days old.
“I trust you slept well?” inquired Arabella, all solicitude.
Trey made a noncommittal noise. It was too early for conversation. Not even the shock of cold water on his face during his hurried dressing had cleared his fogged brain.
The ghost at his side, of course, suffered from no such discomforts. She wore a sunny yellow dress this morning, the same color as her front door. A chip hat with blue flowers and yellow ribbons perched on her head. She beamed out at a world that could not see her to appreciate it. The chilly gusts which knifed into him disturbed neither the folds of her skirt nor her happy mood.
“I see that you are one of those people who are always cross before breakfast,” said Arabella kindly. “I won’t bother you until you’ve sorted yourself out.”
She was, Trey suspected, one of those bothersome people who rose with the sun, a smile on their faces, ready to sing with the birds. Saints, he was glad he would never have to live with one.
Once he got Arabella’s spirit out of his house, that was.
He grudgingly admitted that she looked better this morning, glowing a healthy color. Her mangled arm from last night was back to normal. If she looked the slightest bit more faded than yesterday morning, it was no cause for alarm just yet. She’d only been out of her body for less than two days.
It occurred to him that this was the first time he’d ever concerned himself so much with a spirit’s wellbeing. More and more he was finding himself in Hilda’s role.
It didn’t suit him at all. They needed to find another spirit seer to plug the holes the Great Incursion had left in the Phantasm Bureau.
In secret official reports, it was only referred to as an incursion. Such a small, innocuous, and understated word for what could have so easily been a catastrophe for more than just the survivors of the Phantasm Bureau.
He took another swig of coffee. Arabella’s nose wrinkled.
“Don’t like coffee?” Trey inquired, eyebrows raised.
“It smells heavenly, but it tastes so horrid.”
After today, he wouldn’t ever again have to share living quarters with someone who didn’t appreciate coffee. The thought cheered him up somewhat. As the fog inside his head cleared, Trey acknowledged that it was, perhaps, time to go on with the day.
He drained the last drops and caught the eye of a serving boy lurking inside the food shop. The child scurried out, took the mug, and hopped right back in, out of the cold. No doubt he thought the customer had a screw loose, standing out in the wind, talking to himself.
Trey
