Her jaw tensed, Anji opened the door and sat on one of two thin mattresses piled high with down comforters on either side of a compact bedroom. Kit made a hitching sound in her throat as the man nestled her onto the opposite bed, but her eyes stayed closed. He slipped Kit’s swords and knives out of their sheaths, the bow wavering, though still pointed at Anji. He opened a closet beside Kit’s bed, then placed the swords, knives, and blue bag inside before locking the door with an iron key. Then he pointed toward the hallway.

Anji waited in the hall as he closed the door silently at his back, unsure of what to say.

“Sorry about that,” he said, lowering the crossbow. He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Precautions, you know.”

“I get it all the time,” said Anji.

“You’re wounded,” he said, nodding to Anji’s wrist.

“A bit,” she said, her brain swimming.

He only let a steady breath through his nose, then without a word strode past and motioned for Anji to follow.

She was still in the hall as he descended the steps, wondering what the hell she was supposed to do now. The man—Kit’s friend, allegedly—had just robbed and disarmed the Hawk and locked her things in a closet. Anji found she respected his cheek, even putting aside her confusion.

“She’ll be fine,” the man said from the stairwell, noting her hesitation. “I’m Jared, by the way. Let’s get you something to eat.”

Chapter 26

26

“Berip,” said Jared, ushering Anji through the kitchen door, “we have company.”

The black-haired boy who’d appeared behind the bar earlier was now perched on a tall stool in front of an ancient-looking stove. A copper pot the size of his torso belched steam as he stirred with two hands, his face fixed in a concentrated frown. He cast a furtive glance at Anji, his eyes wide, then set back to work without a word as she stepped further into the narrow space.

Shelves ran the length of the walls, packed with glass jars containing various spices and ingredients, some Anji had seen and others she couldn’t have guessed at. Cast-iron pans and dented tin pots hung from a rack bolted to the wooden ceiling over an island littered with cutting boards and wood-handled knives. In the room’s corner sat a round brick oven, a hazy orange glow pulsing from within. Every inch of counter space was taken up by crates, racks of utensils, or dishes.

Jared clapped his hands together. “As you can see, we don’t keep very organized.”

“You don’t,” said Berip from his stool. He pointed at Jared, green eyes now fixed on Anji. “He’s messy—leaves his stuff all over the place. And his feet stink.”