“It won’t take long.” Blayney swung open the door, then glanced back at the wagon and squinted against the afternoon sun. “More pelts?”
“Fox and beaver, mostly. One otter.” Simon set Mercy to her feet. “John, start unloading them. Mercy, run along and help him.”
“Papa, me come with you?” She latched on to his leg, as if she imagined losing sight of him would end in another mound beneath the oak tree. Her eyes were red, evidence of the nights she’d cried herself to sleep. How long had it been? A week? Two?
He patted her back, swallowing the knot fisting up his throat. “Go on.”
Lips quivering, she lowered her head and ran back for the wagon.
Simon followed Blayney inside, the overwhelming odor of tanned leather, apple cider, and musty furs increasing his nausea. He found a seat on a wooden barrel next to the counter, while Blayney moved behind the bar and retrieved his strongbox.
“How many are there?”
“Eleven.”
“Huh.” Blayney dropped coins from a leather bag, then scooted them across the counter. “This oughta be enough.”
“You haven’t seen them yet.”
“Don’t need to.”
“You might one day regret such trustful dealings.”
“Not with you.” Blayney grinned, thumped Simon on the shoulder—but just as quickly, the lines around his eyes deepened with gravity. “I found out what you wanted.”
Simon’s pulse thickened. “And?”
“First one was Friedrich Neale, like you had it. Second one Reginald Brownlow.”
“They came on the ship.”
“Three weeks ago today.” Blayney snapped his strongbox shut. “Nineteen of them.”
“Who are they?”
“The devil’s children, seems.”
Simon flattened both hands on the counter, heat searing the back of his neck. “Neale killed before. He told me.”
Blayney grabbed a rag, swished it over already-spotless tankards.
“He spoke of prison.”
Swish.
“And payment.”
Swish.
“Blayney, you hear me?”
“I heard you.”
“Then say something.”
“Can’t say anything that’ll bring her back.”
Simon stood from the barrel, clenching his fists as a wave of sickness roiled his stomach. “You know something.”
