CH152 · Rewrite
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Chapter 152: Negotiations (Part 2)

The rain had stopped while he was upstairs. Through the window of the guest room Roland could see the clouds breaking apart, the sky behind them flushed red with a dying sun. The light came in sideways and turned the dust motes above the fireplace into something almost golden.

Margaret was pacing.

She stopped when he entered — three quick steps to stillness, and her face cycled through something he almost wasn’t fast enough to catch before she arranged it into composed attention.

Sean bowed from his post by the wall. Roland waved him out.

“How is Lightning?” Margaret asked.

He had been ready for anger. For cold politeness, or the careful performance of calm that merchants deployed like a weapon. Not this — not that as her first question.

“Tired,” he said. “Otherwise fine.”

Her shoulders dropped half an inch. “Good. That’s good.”

“You’re worried about her.”

“She looks exactly like her father.” Something softened in Margaret’s expression — old recognition, older than the afternoon. “The narrow eyes, the pointed nose. I knew her the moment I saw her.”

Then she reached up and unclasped the necklace she wore. It came free in her hand: a gold chain with a hexahedral pendant, the stone at its center a clear pale blue. She held it out to him.

“If what you meant earlier — that you have someone who can judge honesty — was the ability of a witch, then I would like to ask her to be present.” A beat. “I don’t enjoy being observed without consent.”

A God’s Stone of Retaliation. High-quality, by the cut of the stone — its suppression field would run to roughly a meter. She’s been wearing this the entire time. Which meant Nightingale had been invisible to her not because of the fog but because Margaret had, without knowing it, kept her at bay.

Roland took the stone and hung it from the hook beside the fireplace, well outside arm’s reach.

She’s trying to control the negotiation even now, he thought, and felt something that was close to genuine respect. Locked in a strange room, caught watching something she was not meant to see, and still reaching for the terms of the conversation she wanted.

“Reception room,” he offered.


Nightingale was already on the couch when they entered, which Roland was certain she had only just materialized into — she had adopted the elaborate posture of someone who had been waiting a long time and found it tedious.

“This is Nightingale,” he said. “She determines whether what you say is true.”

“Hello, Miss Nightingale.” Margaret nodded. Received a nod in return.

“You said you have no ill will toward witches.” Roland moved directly to it. “Why? The Fjords fall under Church influence.”

“Weakly.” Margaret settled into her chair with the ease of someone who had learned to be comfortable in difficult rooms. “We have the Three Gods — sky, sea, earth. The Church’s reach doesn’t go as deep there as it does here.” She paused, smoothing her skirt, then let her hands rest. “I had a friend. A very important one. We went fishing together once — a storm caught us, the boat broke apart. We were drowning.” She looked at the fire rather than at Roland. “She became a witch in the water. Her ability was breathing like a fish. She found me unconscious, floating, and pulled me to shore.”

“What became of her?” Nightingale asked. Her voice had acquired that particular quality it got when something genuinely interested her.

“She left, when I woke. The sea wanted her more than I did, I think.” Something fond and unguarded crossed Margaret’s face and then was gone. “People say she still appears on foggy mornings, rising from the water near the rocks, singing to guide the fishing boats past. I can believe it.” A slight tilt of her head. “Whatever she is, she is not the Devil’s minion. That, I know.”

Roland had been watching Nightingale at the edge of his vision throughout. Nothing in her expression suggested a lie.

“You said you guessed I had more than one witch — with only one sentence,” he said. “You have some familiarity with what witches can and cannot do.”

“Because of my friend, I took an interest. I even considered — for a time — hosting witches myself.” A wry edge entered her voice. “But King’s City is not Border Town. The risk was too large in the end, and I gave up the idea.” She met his eyes directly. “When I saw Lightning fly into your arms, I thought: here is someone like me, who doesn’t fear them. A lord at the edge of the kingdom has room to keep a few women safe. But you should still be careful, Your Highness. If the Church finds out, it will be difficult even for you.”

Nightingale had not signaled anything throughout. The entire account had been true.

“It seems I was too cautious.” Roland let his voice carry a note of apology. “I hope you’ll forgive the inconvenience.”

“Au contraire.” Margaret waved a hand. “If you hadn’t acted carefully, you’d be irresponsible.” The trace of a smile. “Lightning’s safety matters.”

He had one more thing he wanted to understand. “You know Thunder well. Better than a business acquaintance would.”

For a moment she was still — deciding, he could see it — and then she chose to answer.

“After I left the fishing village, I joined one of his expeditions. We were at sea for a long time. He and his wife took me under their care when I was young and new.” She turned her cup slowly in her hands. “Lightning was born during a storm, at sea, in a cabin with thunder shaking the hull. Her mother died within the week. Sepsis.” A pause. “I stayed in the cabin for months, chewing wheat porridge and mixing it with fish eggs and flour and feeding it to her a little at a time. That was how I learned to know her.” Her voice had gone quiet, not with grief exactly but with a specific and careful kind of remembering. “When Sir Thunder found the Shadow Islands, we returned to Crescent Moon Bay and the expedition ended. Not long after, I left the Fjords and came to Graycastle.”

Roland said nothing for a moment. The fire popped.

So that was it. He could fill in the rest himself well enough: Thunder would go back to sea, and some things end before they properly begin. What reached the shores of history was that Thunder found the Shadow Islands. What didn’t was what was left behind in the bay.

He cleared his throat. “Since we’re something like acquaintances, Ms. Margaret — about the terms of the agreement—”

“Your Highness.” Her smile was genuine this time, and a little merciless. “A deal is a deal. That is the businessman’s eternal principle.”

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