a grubby half-shilling, covered in lint and biscuit crumbs. “That do you?” I asked, wiping it off and handing it over. “It will,” he said, and held out something toward me. My hand closed automatically over what turned out to be the handle of a knife, and I nearly dropped it in surprise. “Ye must always give money for a new blade,” he explained, half smiling. “So it kens ye for its owner, and willna turn on ye.” “Its owner?”
