“He was with me. We heard about a man in town who claimed to have information on the outlaws, but he was only selling lies. We made an example of him.”

She never looked at Gilbert, even after the captain thanked and dismissed them. Whatever she meant by it, it was for her own sake. Gilbert’s interest in owing her anything was nonexistent. Favors and thank-yous are only a polite version of slavery.

THE REST OF THE day slid by in an unmemorable blur, soft and smooth like river water over rocks. By nightfall he could have forgotten about the body by the river. If he closed his eyes, who was to say that the body would even be there anymore? A thing thought, a thing said, and a thing done could go the other way—a thing unsaid, a thing forgotten, a thing that never was. All that remained was that damned pebble, that thing he could not name.

He ignored it, it was past, and Gilbert needed to tend to the now. Which led him to invite Jacelyn to take a walk with him late that night. It was unlikely she would describe it as an invitation, being woken with a knife at her lips and all, but those were the silly sort of differences that weren’t worth grieving over, were they?

The deepest wine cellar had but one way in or out, which was a long journey for any noise to get back to the world. Gilbert had already left himself a candle burning on the table.

You watched me today, don’t pretend that you didn’t.

It was cold down here and Jacelyn’s hot breath came out in thick fat clouds. Gilbert breathed his own air down through his nose, and drew close to the flame. He placed the tip of his knife one finger above the candle’s pulse, slowly twisting its point to heat it evenly.

It doesn’t matter to me one way or the other whether you ever walk out of this wine cellar. There honestly isn’t a single part of me that gives the first shit about your life. I’d wager you feel differently. So you have from now until my blade is hot to make me trust you.

It was disappointing, wasn’t it, that she didn’t even look at the knife. She didn’t gulp or gasp or pucker like a person ought to.

“You’re going to kill me?” She smirked halfway into a laugh. “Look at me. I’ve been half dead my whole life. That’s not killing, that’s mopping up.” Gilbert tested the tip of his knife against the tabletop and watched the burn it made, wondering how to deal with her unexpected apathy. “So you kill transients by the river. You think that’s the worst secret I’ve kept?”