“Come along, Mr. Sippy,” she said, standing up. “It’s almost teatime, we must get home.”

Then, as if it were an afterthought, she handed Billy her harmonica.

“Keep it,” she said. “Keep it, to remind you of me.”

13.

“Mister Sippy?” I asked, as Cecily and I were riding back to Winds’ Hill. I didn’t wish her to think I was unaware of the little subtleties she practiced with given names.

She ignored me in her amiable, cool way.

“I did take some comfort from the fact that we were on a first-name basis, Cecily,” I said. “Why must I be called Mister Sippy again?”

“Why, I’ve a new beau now, haven’t you noticed?” she said with a smile. “You and I have to be a little more guarded in our intimacies. My new beau’s talent for killing might get out of hand if he heard us billing and cooing, don’t you suppose?”

“I have no intention of billing or cooing!” I informed her staunchly.

“Nevertheless, you shall when I require it, which will be very seldom if you keep on in that tone,” she said before cantering ahead.

I became increasingly nervous as we approached the castle. It was obvious that I was expected to be an accomplice to the murder of Mesty-Woolah. Of course, Mesty-Woolah was no angel—he had killed Joe Lovelady right before my eyes; probably there was no counting the innocents he had slaughtered at Isinglass’s behest over the years. He was a professional warrior—it seemed rather finicky of me to scruple about such a man.

On the other hand, Joe Lovelady had apparently chosen to spare him, and Joe Lovelady had as fine a moral barometer as anyone. It’s not likely he would have approved of having the man shot down while at his prayers. I didn’t approve of it either, though neither Billy nor Cecily gave that aspect of the matter the slightest thought.

And yet, I couldn’t speak to Isinglass or warn the man directly without endangering Billy—and despite his deadly ways I could not help but be fond of Billy, a boy with such lonely eyes.

I fretted all the way home, wondering what to do. As Cecily had frequently reminded me, Old Whiskey was no fool—he might ferret it out, and if there was blood spilled in the dawning it might be Billy’s blood, or mine, or even Cecily’s.

But you forget luck in such frets, I guess—and much turns on luck.

We had no sooner arrived home than it became apparent that Cecily and Billy had drawn the lucky card.

“Mr. Isinglass wished me to inform you that he has departed for the Quitaque,” Bertram declaimed in his ancient voice when we arrived for tea.

“Oh, good, how delightful, where’s the nigger, then?” Cecily asked at once.