Ryn tilted her head, studying Ward. “Sarah hasn’t been by to sweep.”
Ward’s smirk disappeared entirely. The mention of the girl—and, by extension, Martha’s execution—cut through the haze of smoke and firelight at the Broken Needle.
“Since when do you care about missing street rats?”
Ward sat at his usual spot near the hearth, the fire casting long shadows across his lean, tired frame. He watched Ryn work as his fingers traced lazy patterns on the rim of his empty mug. The firelight caught the curve of her hip as she moved between tables, her skirt swaying with each deliberate step. Everything about Ryn seemed calculated, from the loose curl of her dark hair to the way she kept a teasing distance.
“Since when do you pretend not to?” she said.
“Not pretending anything.” Ward stretched his legs toward the fire, his boots scraping against the stone hearth. “World’s cruel. Always has been. Best to look after your own skin. Besides,” he said, taking a drink, “don’t think she’ll be around much anymore to bother you.”
Ryn studied him, her dark eyes unreadable in the dim light. For a moment, a gentler look crossed her face, a glimpse of the woman she might have been in a kinder world.
“And why’s that?” she asked.
“Well,” Ward leaned back, swirling the dregs of his drink, “that old woman she was always with has been put to the stake… by Elena. Keeping up with the old man’s purge. I guess. Named a Candlemaker.”
Ryn went rigid in a shift so subtle most wouldn’t have even noticed. But Ward did.
She turned away too quickly, before Ward could get a look at her. She headed toward the storeroom with a stiffness in her step that hadn’t been there before. She yanked the door open and entered without another word.
Ward frowned as he let the moment sink in. He took a slow drink and then set the mug down deliberately, before standing up and following her.
After a long pause, he knocked.
“Ryn?”
No answer. His hand hovered over the latch, thinking about walking right in. But before he could, he heard the deep sigh, the kind someone takes when forcing control over themselves.
Then, through the door, without opening it, came her voice: “Just running low on liquor.”
Ward raised a brow. “What? You worried people might start sobering up?”
The pause was longer than it should have been. “I’m worried people might start rioting,” she said finally. “Liquor’s the only thing holding this place together.”
Ward leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “And here I thought you just enjoyed watching grown men cry into their drinks.”
The latch clicked. The door opened. And Ryn strode through, rolling her shoulders, with her face carefully neutral, except for the teasing curl at the edge of her lips. The light behind her framed her silhouette; her blouse was a little looser at the collar now.
She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossing just enough to accentuate the cut of her figure. Her weight shifted onto one hip, in a deliberate performance.
Ward arched a brow, catching her drift. He knew better than to ask.
“That bad, huh?” he said instead. Her smile was maybe a little too slow, enough to make him wonder.
“You going to help me with the liquor,” she murmured, “or are you just here to watch?”
Ward’s grin stalled halfway. One instinct told him to step back. Another urged him forward. He wasn’t sure which one he hated more.
The moment was broken by the second creak of the tavern door.
The first one hadn’t registered. But louder and more deliberate now, it shattered whatever fragile thing had settled between them. The uneven shuffle of boots reached their ears, followed by the familiar grating squeal of Riven’s cart wheels.
Ward stiffened. That snake.
Ryn adjusted the laces of her blouse, her fingers trembling. She spoke calmly, however.
“We’re closed.”
Riven’s voice slid through the room. “Even for a man with medicine?” His gaze landed on her.
Ward moved to block Riven’s path. “Talk fast, Peddler.”
Riven raised his hands in mock surrender. “Just trying to save lives,” he said, patting his cart. “Fever’s spreading faster than the rumors. Thought you’d want to help.”
Ward caught the hesitation in Ryn.
“What kind of medicine?” she asked, her tone colder than Ward expected.
Ward grabbed her arm. “It’s a trap, Ryn,” he said, “Don’t bite.”
She shrugged free. “Everything’s a trap.”
Riven chuckled, tapping the side of his nose like he was in the know. “Lord Edric’s private stock,” he said, amused. “Liquor to keep the fear at bay, medicine to keep people breathing. Enough to last through the winter. All yours—at a price.”
Ryn crossed her arms. “And what favor do you need?”
Riven smiled; the games had started. “Sarah.”
The name landed heavier than the storm outside. Ryn froze. Her gaze snapped to Ward before returning to Riven, her lips pressed into a line.
“What’s Sarah got to do with you?”
“Nothing,” Riven said quickly. “Nothing at all. Only a scholar’s curiosity.” He waved a hand, dismissively. “The Crown pays handsomely for Candlemaker relics. And for information. I’m just a simple merchant, looking for… stories.”
Ward stiffened, his hand tightening on his sword. “You don’t need to go near her.”
Riven’s smug grin faltered for the briefest moment. Then returned.
“Oh,” Riven said, his tone silk-soft, directed more toward Ryn than Ward. “Martha had that same defiance. Such a shame about her unfortunate end. One might even call it tragic—except that it was the girl Sarah who turned her in, or so I’ve heard.”
Ryn didn’t move. But Ward saw it, like she was resisting the urge to draw a blade.
When she did speak, there was a dangerous edge in her tone. “You seem to know a lot about things that aren’t your business.”
Riven shrugged. “I’ve a right to make a living, like anyone else. Anything I can trade is fair game, artifacts, information…” He adjusted his coat, half-grinning. “And secrets? They pay even better.”
Ward lunged forward and growled, “You’ve said enough.”
Riven raised up his hands, chuckling. “Of course, of course. I wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome.”
But as he turned, he drew a map from his pocket. He unfolded slowly, focusing his gaze on Ryn. “But before I go… if you were curious, this will show you where to find Edric’s reserve. No use to him where he is now…”
Ryn hesitated. Her fingers stayed at her side as Ward watched her. The slight shake of his head was enough to tell her: don’t do it.
And for a second, it seemed like she might walk away.
But then, Ryn surged ahead. The moment she snatched the map from Riven’s outstretched hand, the space between her and Ward ripped.
Riven’s grin widened: satisfied. Ward snorted. He wasn’t surprised, just disappointed.
And, as Riven turned to leave, he paused in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder.
“Oh, and Ward? If you forget about the other half of our deal…” He let the words linger in the air, their implication keeping them afloat. “Well, let’s just say Lady Elena loves a good confession. I know she enjoyed Sarah’s.”
The door swung shut behind him, his cart wheels squealing against the frozen street. Ward turned to Ryn. “We don’t have to do this,” he said deliberately.
Ryn folded the map neatly, tucking it into her coat. When she spoke, it was firm. “Yes, we do.”
She met Ward’s gaze, speaking softly but directly, losing volume but not strength. “You do.”
Ward didn’t answer. Instead, he looked at her for what felt like the last time. Slowly, he started toward the door.
“Sorry, Ryn,” he said quietly. “I can’t.”
Ryn turned her head, resisting an impulse to call after him, and Ward left.