Between Ink and Shadows (Between Ink and Shadows, #1)

by Melissa Wright

Margery snatched the napkin from Nim’s hand and clasped her fingers as their gazes locked. “Are you in over your head?” “Yes. But there’s no need to drag yourself down with me—” “Hush,” Margery snapped. “I’ll give you everything I know. More, if you need it. That’s my promise.” Nim squeezed her fingers tighter. “I don’t deserve you.” “No one does, love. It’s why I’m alone at five and twenty.”

Nim pressed her eyes closed for a horrible moment. “Of course I don’t choose the king’s punishment.” “There is no third choice. It is the king or it is the bargain.” Her anger flared. “Do you always speak with such condescension?” “Yes. How else is one to know of my superiority?”

She gaped at him, aware she’d been vacillating between a sagging jaw and clenched teeth for however long she’d been trapped in his acquaintance. Warrick apparently seemed to think she was a bit witless, as he repeated the terms of their agreement. “You have one month to return the watch. When that happens, they will assign you a new task. In the meantime, you’ll only be stealing for me. Any keys you need will be provided.” “I—” She pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose. “I think it best that I go now.” Before she said something she might regret. Before one of them had enough of the other.

Nim was in the drawing room when the first letter came. She’d been elbow deep in notes and distracted by a book she’d accidentally come across that listed the penalties for treason and the ways in which especially creative and unpleasant punishments had been carried out by Stewart’s forebears. It did not feel like a particularly productive distraction, but she was quite unable to stop herself.

Nim pressed her lips together and adamantly refused to let her gaze slip toward Allister, who watched from near the doorway. She cleared her throat. “My, that is quite a station for one so young. Tell me, does the seneschal employ many personal messengers?” The boy’s brows drew together. “He said you’d try to wiggle information out of me.” “Wiggle?” “Aye,” the boy said. “‘A woman like her will be wilier than you give her credit for.’”

“Have Allister pack up some cakes for you, hmm?” A sheepish grin changed the boy’s face. “I’m very loyal to Lord Warrick, and he does treat me quite well…” Nim smiled. “But he doesn’t give you cakes.” At the boy’s nod, Nim looked to Allister. “Alice-sized rations for this one, my good man.”

“My lady,” Allister said in a tone that suggested it was not the first time, “you have an urgent message.” Nim grumbled and pushed to sitting, the light between the curtains indicating it was the small hours before dawn. “All things sacred. What sort of pompous clod—” She narrowed her eyes. Allister narrowed his own right back. “Is Wesley in the room with us?” Nim whispered. “Absolutely not,” Allister assured her. “Propriety would never allow such a slight.” There was a long silence before Nim said, “He’s just outside, isn’t he?” “Attached to the door, it would seem.” Nim groaned and fell back onto the bed.

Wesley was regaling Allister with tales of his employer. Nim set the candle by the door and leaned forward to listen through the thick slab of wood. “…never seen him so ruffled. Thought he might call on her myself, I did. Don’t think I’ll leave here without a well-warranted response this time. No, sir.”

Wesley straightened when Nim opened the door. Wearing a solemn expression, he made a grand bow. “A message for her ladyship, by order of the venerable seneschal of Inara, Lord Warrick Spenser, faithful to his duty, honorable beyond question, and… not terrible to look at.” Allister’s face remained impossibly serene. Nim pressed her lips together. “Does he make you say all of that to all of his intended recipients?” “Oh no, my lady. I’m only to sound official. I get to make the last bit up at will.” He pulled a face. “It’s a mite tricky past the first parts.” Nim grinned. “I would imagine, though I’m certain he would be mightily impressed by the job you’ve done.”

Warrick stood, folding the paper as he crossed to Wesley, not bothering with wax. Wesley gave his employer a swift nod followed by a more polite one aimed at Nim. “Please tell Allister the answer is seven and ten.” “Certainly,” Nim said. There was a flash of candlelight as Wesley exited through the sitting room, and when the door closed behind him, Warrick crossed his arms. “What?” she said. “I have no idea what is seven and ten. The two leave me entirely out of the conversation most times.” “You’ve known the boy for two days. Am I to believe your entire household has taken him to their bosom already?”

She gave her hands a task, opening a missive that was surely meant for her to read once she was gone. It was short, like an order Calum might have given her, and before she even read it, she muttered, “I see the pleasantries have gone.” “And you were so good at them,” Warrick murmured.

“Miss Weston.” The words were at once chiding and, Nim sensed, a bit staggered. Had Nim been holding the candle, she might have very well burned down his room, but she only fumbled with soft linen she had no right to hold. She spun to face him. “I need my key.” The response came out before she’d had a moment to think. She was still shaken, angry, and feeling quite trapped. She was not repentant for being found in his personal… everything, but when she took him in, she was suddenly as awkward in his presence as she’d ever been.

Warrick did not ask what had happened to her. A snap of magic knocked out the flame of her candle before he moved. When he reached for her, she was too stunned to back away, and she let him take her elbow to lead her out of his bedchamber. In the study, he placed her in front of a plush chair, glared her down to sitting, and removed his robe to lay it across her lap. The soft material smelled of him, that warm, woody scent, and still held the heat of his body. Nim had not realized she was shivering with cold. Warrick crossed his arms and stared down at her, devastating in his uniform. She pressed her lips together and swallowed hard. It wasn’t as if she’d set out to be so entirely indecorous. She’d only… well, she’d had no other choice. “Calum,” she told him. Her voice was raw and unsteady, her body trembling beneath the drape of Warrick’s robe. His gaze softened, and Warrick uncrossed his arms as he crouched before her. “I need my key,” she said. “It’s the only”—a tremor racked her, breaking her declaration of its power—“way to keep him out.”

Warrick leaned forward, dropping his knee as he pressed his palm to the floor between himself and the chair. A strange warmth rose through Nim, the dampness in her hem chased from the material as the sensation raced over her flesh in something that was far different from the magic of the Trust. It was less slithering, less smothering, and more like a welcome hearth or the sun on her skin. Like the way his hands had felt against the bare skin of her ankles. She jerked back to alertness, realizing at once that she’d relaxed into the chair and closed her eyes as she settled into the magic’s warmth—Warrick’s warmth. “Don’t do that,” she said. “Don’t sneak up on me with—just… don’t.” His expression did not change, but Nim felt her own shift. After all, she had just offered the man her bare wrist with the suggestion that he take her blood. She had pleaded with him to use magic on her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just… I don’t like it. I don’t like being caught unaware.”

“But you know someone on the inside.” “If you had any idea...” He released a long breath. “Don’t attempt to discover my secrets, my lady. It will only bring you regret.” “Nim.” His gaze shot back to hers. Oh, for all things sacred. Margery was right. Nim was going to collect him like a pet.

Warrick’s mouth opened is if to answer, but he shut it again for a moment as he looked at her. Her mood was swinging like a pendulum, she supposed, but she couldn’t quite help it. The evening had been a series of shocks.

Nim didn’t think Wesley would give her the details she needed, but his attempt at reply was cut short as Alice shot through the doorway in her haste to serve what she might not have been entirely convinced was a king’s man. The girl was not very trusting overall, and Nim found it quite charming.

Nim fell back on the chaise, emotions drawn and quartered, dragged in separate directions through filth and mud so that she did not know how to reach for one or another to pull herself back together.

Warrick had known all of it. Everything. Right from the start. “Why didn’t you just kill me?” she said. “Why not turn me over to the king?” I’m not a murderer, he seemed to want to say, but Warrick had promised her that he wouldn’t lie. Even if the king demanded the laws, they were carried out under Warrick’s hand. Every person who had been hanged for association with the Trust, with those who held magic, had been hanged by Warrick’s command. And all the while, he had held magic too. He’s one of us, Calum had said. Warrick moved closer, and Nim realized with horror that she’d started to cry. It was mortifying, and she couldn’t seem to stop. Suddenly, she was in his arms. All things sacred, the seneschal of Inara was consoling her. Hugging her. It was a nightmare come to life. The fates were the worst, and she’d half a mind to tell them so, right there in Warrick’s private study.