Free Winter (The Manhattan Exiles) by Sarah Remy Page B

sighed.
    “Ritual human magic involving burnt herbs,” he explained. He thumped the back of the cupboard. “No false walls. Ash is a quarter of an inch thick. Whatever Smith kept in here necessitated a lot of smudging. The sword?”
    “ Probably wasn’t his socks,” agreed Winter. “He was afraid of it. Or he was trying to keep it safe. Juniper is for protection.”
    “ Nothing in the kitchen but leftovers and energy drinks,” Lolo reported, sticking his head into the room.
    “ There won’t be anything interesting in the other two bedrooms,” Winter predicted. “But take a peek anyway.”
    “ Why not?” Aine watched as Richard poked under Smith’s abandoned cot. “How can you be so sure?”
    “ He smudged the door frame. And the window sill. Keeping something in, keeping something out. Either way, it’s unlikely he spent much time with his roomies. But if you think I’m mistaken,” at last he looked at Aine, “I’ll leave Lolo behind with a list of questions Bran’s cops have probably already asked.”
    It was some sort of test, Aine thought. She was supposed to humor him, nod and back down. Soothe his wounded pride?
    “Aye, thank you,” she said.
    Winter turned away, impatient. “Come on, then.”
    “ Wait,” said Richard. “What’s in the bag?”
    Winter looked surprised, then seemed to remember the pouch in his hand.
    “ Oh,” he said. “These?”
    The satchel was leather, and tied with waxed string. Winter undid the knot, and turned the pouch upside down over Smith’s stained mattress.
    Red fire slithered onto the cot.
    “ Rubies,” he said. “Quite a lot of rubies.”
     
    Richard counted the rubies twice before he let Winter scoop them back into the pouch.
    “ Forty-seven,” he said, awed. “And each the size of a grape.”
    “ I’d be less impressed if they were raw,” Winter admitted. He tied a quick knot in the waxed string. “Collections of uncut gems aren’t uncommon. But these have plenty of fire. I’m betting they were turned by an expert hand.”
    “ If they belong to the pouch then they’re very old,” said Aine.
    Both boys looked at her in surprise.
    “The pouch,” she explained. She plucked the small satchel from Winter’s fingers, rolling it on her palm. “That, there, the sickle moon pressed into the leather? That’s the mark of Angus the Lost.”
    “ Angus the Lost.” Winter ran the tip of his finger over the imprint. The hard tilt of his mouth softened. His grey eyes were wide.
    “ First called Angus Soothsayer.”
    “ Your queen’s advisor.”
    “ For a time, true. But before that, he kept the Records for Gloriana’s father, and her father’s father.”
    Winter took the satchel back. His fingers brushed Aine’s own, rough and warm.
    “An historian?” asked Richard.
    “ The Court Records are more than just a history.” Winter secreted the rubies away under his leather coat. “They’re a written account of every ruling the Fay King - or Queen - makes. Gabby will want to see these.”
    “ How do you suppose Smith got them?” Richard wondered.
    Aine shook her head. Winter opened his mouth, then shut it again when Lolo popped through the door.
    “Someone’s coming.”
    “ Not Smith?” Winter’s hand slipped back under his coat.
    “ No. Two suits. They look asleep on their feet. You’ve got four minutes, tops.”
    “ Excellent. I’ve changed my mind. Richard, you’re staying. Lolo, out the window.”
    R ichard nodded. Lolo disappeared into the hall.
    Winter said, “Follow him. Out the kitchen window and down the ladder. Quick and quiet, I’m right behind you.”
    “ But -”
    “ I said quick and quiet.” He pushed her none too gently into the kitchen.
    “ Hurry,” Lolo urged. He grinned as he ducked through the kitchen window.
    “ What about Richard?”
    “ He’ll be fine. He’s got a knack. Here comes the elevator. Go!”
    Aine went. She clamored onto the kitchen’s long serving board, and wiggled through the window.