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Jakob turned his grey eyes back to Brother Diaz, as if only now remembering he was there. “She’s dead.” And he started to limp back the way they’d come. “Dead?” whispered Brother Diaz. “As fuck.” Baptiste gave his shoulders a parting squeeze. “She’s dead as fuck.”
“Where’s the baron?” Jakob caught Baptiste by one embroidered lapel. “What about the new boy? The corpse-tickler?” She shook her head bitterly. “I should’ve quit after Barcelona.”
Jakob learned long ago that you can’t judge someone’s quality by looking. They can find grace and greatness in the strangest ways, at the strangest times.
