Free Elevation of the Marked (The Marked Series Book 2) by March McCarron Page B

sentiment, that the things we have are only valuable for their weight in raw materials?”
    They were both of them breathing heavily, face to face. Not even the sound of the door opening, the entrance of a tall man silhouetted by gray storm clouds, could sever the electric charge that had sprung up between them.
    So, when a deep, male voice broke the silence, Arlow nearly jumped out of his skin.  
    “Mae,” the man said laughingly. “What have you done to your hair, girl?”
    Mae turned to her brother, the anger draining from her face. “Linton!” She raced to the door and hugged him, despite the rain on his overcoat. He set her back on her feet and removed his hat, then ran his hand through his sister’s short tresses, tousling. “Is it the new fashion?”
    She snorted. “Not likely. I sold it. Poppy Seed needed a shoe.”  
    The Pauper’s King surveyed Arlow, who found himself more star-struck than he had ever been before, even more so than when he had met the actual king. The man before him was far more impressive—tall and lean, with broad shoulders. He appeared to be in his late thirties, with hair somewhere between red and brown and eyes of a downright unsettling shade of blue. The way he spoke and carried himself spoke of good breeding, in sharp contrast to his sister.
    He bowed. “Linton Bearnall.”
    “Arlow Bowlerham.”  
    Mae grinned at her brother with obvious affection. “I made you dinner.”
    Arlow coughed back a laugh and she glared at him.
    Linton took a seat at the table. “What an unexpected pleasure. Thank you. It smells delicious.”  
    Arlow realized belatedly that he was still wearing the absurd pink apron and pulled it from his waist, flushing, and sat.
    Linton Bearnall scanned Arlow’s face with intelligent eyes. “So, you are Quade’s man.”
    “I am my own man.”
    The Pauper’s King smiled and, like his sister, his grin exposed every tooth in his head. On his older, gaunter face, the expression had a distinct skeletal quality. “A good answer.”
    Mae set a plate before her brother.  
    “None for our new friend, I think,” he said.
    Arlow’s brows drew down. To be denied a meal changed the entire nature of this meeting—and stung, as he’d cooked the blighted thing himself.  
    Mae paused, darting a hesitant look at Arlow. “Linton…”
    He extended his hands. “Let me explain my meaning further before any offense is taken. You see, Mr. Bowlerham, I find myself in a perplexing situation. The king is dead; an event I would not have brought about myself, but which I cannot say I lament. The Chisanta, and in particular this Mr. Asher, have asserted themselves as heads of state.” Linton sipped his wine. “Most would, perhaps, not find this a strange turn of events, but I, being rather well connected, have enough information to be troubled. I happen to know that Quade Asher has been operating independently for many years. What’s more, I have crossed paths with the man—though he is unaware of the fact—and I found him… peculiar .”
    The word was packed with meaning, and Arlow’s estimation of the man rose. If he was discerning enough to notice Quade’s effect and be wary, he was more perceptive than most.  
    “Quade was rather insistent on meeting me himself, but I refused. I am not a man to be easily taken in. However, I am open to a certain level of cooperation, should I find his motives and goals align with my own. And so, I have agreed to keep a representative of Quade’s with me.” He inclined his head. “You.”
    Mae sat at the table with her own plate of food, but was too busy looking from Arlow to Linton to eat. “You don’t mean to invite this richie to headquarters?”
    Linton smiled. “Well, you see Mr. Bowlerham, that is the crux of the issue. I have agreed to take you on, but the Pauper’s Men have a certain…code. No man who is not one of us may travel in our company or be privy to our whereabouts.” He laced his fingers together.