He laughs and drags himself to his feet, fixing to collect his things. That’s when the front door downstairs opens and closes with a perceptible click. My back stiffens as two sets of feet hike toward the room and pause on the threshold’s opposite side.
The first voice quacks, “Lark!”
The second voice flows like sweet water. “Lark?”
“Please tell us you’re alone.”
“But if you’re not, it’s all right.”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Go on back downstairs. I’ll be there in a minute.”
On the outside, I’m casual. On the inside, I’m stressing about the feather this trade poacher still thinks he nabbed.
There’s a beat of silence, followed by retreating footfalls—measured footfalls.
Son of a bitch. Sometimes, I wish they didn’t know me so well. They’d caught the traction in my words, which means this is gonna get complicated unless I wheedle this poacher out of here.
“Who the hell was that?” the man asks.
“Time to get going, handsome,” I simper. “Make it snappy.”
“What? No good-bye kiss? A hostess shows her lovers courtesy, unless you haven’t been taught manners.”
Well, fine then. I grin. “My sister’s in the room pointing a bolt at you.”
Beside the attic window—where she’d crawled through after mounting the side of the cottage—a spindly, petite figure plants her foot on the iron sill, her fingers poised on a crossbow. Spruce green hair frames Juniper’s spunky face, the straight layers pinched into a low, side ponytail that falls over her shoulder. Her cotton blouse is tucked primly into a pocket skirt, the short sleeves revealing a gold leaf bracelet that winds around her arm.
“Hello, there,” Juniper says while aiming the crossbow.
“The other sister just walked in with a spear,” I finish without needing to look.
“Pleasure,” Cove greets, having doubled back and swept through the attic door.
Her watery blue hair ripples into a loose but intricately twirled bun at the nape, a few errant waves trickling from the back. A muslin dress drapes around her tall frame, the graceful neckline dipping modestly down the back to reveal a gold chain and a waterdrop pendant. She’d look the part of a dainty damsel, if it weren’t for the spear angled subtly between her fingers.
What can I say? Caution runs in the family.
My latest mistake assesses our trio. His brain must be experiencing a growth spurt, because he blinks. Thing is, my sisters and I don’t share bloodlines, but we’re the same age, and we’ve got another trait in common that strangers tend to gawk at. Our irises match the rare shades of our hair. Pale gray to the white mane flouncing from my head, crisp spruce green, and tranquil teal blue.
The colors are unusual, but stranger things do happen. Anybody who’s been living here for a week or so can vouch for that.
Both females pause, processing the scene and my guest. Papa Thorne will be home soon, and I don’t usually bring my fun home with me.
Juniper shakes her head. “I knew it.”
Cove sighs. “Lark, for Fable’s sake.”
“What do we have here?” The git looks impressed and assumes we’re entertaining him. The flirty way I’d announced their arrival had done the trick.
But because Juniper’s crummy at recognizing banter, my sister clips her pert chin toward the man’s tunic slumped on the floor, then to the man himself. “You. Get dressed.”
“If you please,” Cove amends, the words ending on a delicate lisp.
Thankfully, his immediate frown melts. “Hey now, I don’t like being told what to do,” he jokes while whipping the tunic over his head and taking our measure. “But you know, this makes sense. I heard talk in the square about you three. A strumpet, a show-off, and a spinster. That’s a trilogy I wouldn’t mind getting to know better. What’s the price for guests to slip throughthosedoors?”
And that’s where I draw the line. “Keep talking about my sisters like that, and in a second, you won’t have legs to carry you through any door.”
His eyes narrow at the warning. “Is that right?”