The old woman stopped coughing long enough to wheeze out a phlegmy reply. “We have an agreement with the Order; they take precedence.”
The young woman pressed her folded hands to her small breasts and inclined her head toward the hunched one behind the desk. “But I must get back to my father in Ulrich—he is lost without me.”
The older woman, however, had already spotted the two Deacons through her watering eyes and dismissed any further complaints. “Honored guests!” She rang a battered bell until three young men, presumably her grandsons, appeared. Before either Deacon could protest at this preferential treatment, their baggage was taken from them and they were ushered to the desk.
“You are blessed lucky,” the old woman croaked. “The tide is near to turning and my son will have to sail with it.”
Sorcha allowed herself to be guided toward the rear door but Merrick paused and glanced back. The young woman was standing stock-still, arms folded tight around her.
He swung about to face the proprietress. “Surely there is room on the ship for this lady?”
Merrick caught sight of Sorcha’s amused expression and raised eyebrow.
The old woman grimaced. “The Abbey specifies that we only carry their people, and they pay very well for the privilege.”
His mouth ran away with him before his brain quite caught up. “She is part of our party.”
When the old woman glanced at Sorcha, she only shrugged her compliance, but could not quite seem to keep the smirk off her face.
“Makes no difference to me.” The crone coughed, and spat into the corner. “If you say she is part of your group, then she is your problem, not mine.”
While Sorcha started out of the building and toward the gangway, Merrick turned back to the younger woman. “Please forgive my presumption, but I hope you don’t mind being an honorary Deacon if it means getting home?”
“I’m very thankful.” From some women it might have sounded common, but she said it so quietly and with such honesty in those brown eyes, he didn’t take it at anything but face value.
He held out his hand. “Deacon Merrick Chambers.”
“Nynnia Macthcoll.” She stared at his offered hand for a minute, before putting her own much smaller one in it with a rather uncertain shake.
Only then did Merrick realize he’d done something very foolish. Dealing with Deacons for years, he’d forgotten that most well-brought-up ladies of any standing found a handshake rather offensive. Quickly he jerked his hand back, though holding hers had been a more-than-pleasant experience.
“Shall we go?” He remembered enough to let her out of the door before him. The scent when she passed was like apples and sweet spring grass; Sensitive observation was certainly a rod to bear at times like this.
Outside a brisk wind had picked up, the slate gray ocean heaving against a stony beach. A set of dark wharves thrust out into the harbor, and their small ship was the only one tied up there.
As Merrick and his new acquaintance walked up the pier toward the ship, he took note of her clothes, trying to judge what they could tell him about her. The sky blue dress she wore was covered with a dark gray cloak, and both seemed somewhat richer than a farmer’s daughter might have worn. The hem of the dress, however, was roughened and rubbed, indicating excessive wear. He began to surmise that its owner had fallen on hard times. He imagined this might be her only remaining dress out of a once-larger wardrobe. The small bag that she would not relinquish to him also had the look of being well traveled but seemed rather light for a long sojourn. Her long dark hair was carefully groomed and modestly plaited at the crown with five jet pins holding it in place, which, if she was traveling, showed a dedication to proper appearance.
Merrick ran his hand through his own curly hair, suddenly aware how uncombed it was. “Are you traveling to meet family in Ulrich, Miss Macthcoll?” he asked. The pier was slick with salt spray, and he offered her his arm as she struggled against the wind to follow the striding Sorcha.
“Yes,” she replied, leaning her slight weight against the crook of his arm, and hitching up her skirt to edge past a stack of barrels. “My father is a physician and works for the Deacons as a lay healer. I was raised in Ulrich, and now I live there assisting him.”
“Then I was not really lying.” He chuckled. “You are almost part of the Order.”
Merrick felt her stiffen a little against his side. This close, that sweet scent was very distracting, but he still caught a glance she shot him; it was frightened, or possibly angry. Either he wasn’t very good at this chitchat or something else was bothering her. Even after years of study, he couldn’t be that clumsy.
Clearing his throat, he stumbled on. “Did you come from the south?”
She nodded, pulling her dress slightly up at the hem. “Yes, from Vermillion. I was visiting a sick relative there. We lived in the city when I was a child, before—” She paused. “Before my father lost his position there.” He didn’t need to be a Sensitive to know that was a subject she was entirely unhappy with, but it explained the worn appearance of a once-beautiful dress.
Yet her revelation had finally given him something to say. “It was lucky you were ahead of us. My partner and I were attacked on the road. A rather nasty geist.”
The look she gave him made him realize the error of it immediately. “You . . . you were attacked?”
“Yes, most likely an ambush.” He tried to swallow his words but they kept tumbling out.
Her eyes dipped away from him. “It was indeed lucky that I was ahead of you, not behind. Anything could have happened.”
Merrick felt his face heating up. “Then we would not have been able to assist you with passage. Fate is sometimes kind.”
They reached the ship and paused. The Breed horses and Horace the pack mule were being led up the rear gangway and into the hold. Well accustomed to travel, they were providing no problems, and the crew loading them appeared to know what they were doing.
“The Abbey only has two ships stationed at Vermillion”—Merrick decided to try another subject with the silent woman—“and both are to the south with the Imperial Navy. No one thought that they would be needed at this time of year.”
She turned and faced him, looking directly up at him, a slight smile curving her bow-shaped lips. “And why exactly is it that you are going to Ulrich this late in the season, Reverend Deacon?”
Merrick was caught by surprise. Most people would not question the movements of any from the Order, but it was perhaps an understandable query considering that they had nearly caused her to be stuck in the South. Still, he couldn’t just divulge what he’d read in the report. “The Deacons there are in need of assistance before winter sets in.” He hoped she would assume it was a leaky roof, or maybe illness.
“The outpost is small.” Nynnia lifted the edge of her skirt and walked up the gangplank unassisted. “I hope you will not be disappointed by what you find there.”
Up on deck, his partner was watching the stowing of the mounts with an eagle eye, but she did look up in Merrick’s direction when they approached. Luckily, the smirk had gone. “So, who is our newest recruit, Deacon?”
“Miss Nynnia Macthcoll, may I present my partner, Deacon Sorcha Faris.” He waited for the fireworks to begin.
“Deacon Faris.” The younger woman inclined her head. “You would be the Deacon who expelled the ghast from Baron Leit last summer.”
Sorcha’s eyebrows shot up, but the corners of her mouth twitched. While the Order did not like its members to be prideful, Merrick could understand a little of the feeling he was sensing across the Bond. Seldom was the work of the Deacons actually discussed in polite society. “My husband and I were involved with that case. I didn’t realize that word of it had got out.”
“Miss Macthcoll is the daughter of the physician stationed at the outpost in Ulrich.”
Across the Bond he felt Sorcha’s interest wane.
Without so much as a farewell, she turned and went below, no doubt to see if their accommodation was as
