The Thief King

43 | Another Life

The open pages rustled from an intrusive, cold breeze. Though it was freezing outside, the small library rarely housed two humans and a dog, and after a while Barrett's smell overwhelmed Logan enough to tempt the night with an open window.

Well equipped, Gemima sat on the sofa, a large woollen throw wrapped around her shoulders, tucked legs, and the small ledger nestled safely somewhere in the folds. Logan sat nearer the fire, a hand resting on Barrett, the other holding another ledger, thumb pressed to the inside of the spine to keep the old pages from flipping closed.

Until hearing the rustle of disturbed pages, he had completely forgotten about Gemima and the Moon Ball, and found he was quite startled to see her opposite him—a winter rose aglow from the fire. Not that he had not been aware of her at first. In fact, he had struggled to concentrate, finding his senses attuned to the sound of her pages turning and her pen scribbling, until finally, after reading the same sentence over and over again, Hobbleby sucked Logan into his account of deception and intrigue.

The seed Gemima had mentioned had indeed been delivered to Lethilian, a decent shipment that included three dozen crates, six dozen barrels, and twenty sacks of the seed—not all destined to find final mooring upon Lethilian shores. Other kingdoms had heard of the seed and requested shipment. It was too bad they never saw their shipment, for the crew arrived green and dying.

Accordng to Hobblebly, the sailors had been covered in blisters and scabs, as if their skin were eating itself away. Some men arrived blind, others plainly weak, but by week's end half the crew had died, and the rest were isolated to a single sick house. As for the seed, the King was too afraid to bring it ashore lest it infect the few crops showing signs of life that winter. The ship was ordered burned, and it did. Bright and blazing on a clear winter evening, a purple sky as a backdrop, and the icy sea as its grave.

It would have ended there had thieves not stolen a sack of seed moments before the sentence was passed. After that? Nothing. No mention of miraculous crop growth, nor symptoms of the plague by which the sailors had perished.

Gemima sighed and closed her ledger, pinching the skin between her eyes with her thumb and forefinger. "I feel as though we have reached yet another dead end."

Logan lowered his book and frowned. "I'm of a mind to agree with you, but my gut tells me something more shall happen."

"Is it your gut, or your healthy appetite for stories? If this were a novel there would certainly be a repercussion from the stolen seeds. Such a curse cannot end if a loose end is not tied."

Logan smiled. "A good author would never allow such a sin to pass unattended."

Gemima nodded, covering her face as a yawn overtook her. "I wonder if they're still dancing. It's been hours since we left."

Logan leaned back, making an agreeing sound.

"I wonder if our presence has been noted."

"That is almost a certainty. My father would have been looking forward to studying my courtship just to criticize it at a later stage."

"Quite some courtship this is," Gemima giggled. "No, don't apologize. I will walk from this room if you say anything close to 'sorry' for the remainder of the night. What I mean is you have succeeded where no other could."

Logan cleared his throat. "Do explain further."

"Well, I'm here aren't I? With no escort. No chaperone."

"I would not call that success. I'd call it impolite."

"I'd call it courage." She smiled, her eyelashes shading the sparkle in her eyes that the flames ignited. "You have broken a mould without even being aware of it. We have strayed from the path and are busy creating a newer, better one."