Tombstone reached for a small buffet cabinet in the corner of the room. Opening a tiny door that Gwynnie hadn’t noticed at first in the cabinet, he pulled out a box, the wood carved with a pattern of Tudor roses and heavy vine leaves. Placing the box down on the desk, he opened it and took out pads of linen and bound cotton. Gwynnie stared as he walked around the desk and knelt before her, reaching toward her so fast with the bound cotton that she lurched back and nearly fell off the chair.
“You have one injury already today. Do you want another from falling off that chair?”
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” He tried to reach for her again.
“Hmm, I wonder why I asked the question? Perhaps because I do not know.” Her sarcasm was so thick that she could have sworn the corner of Tombstone’s lips turned up beneath the coppery moustache.
“You’re bleeding down your gown. Halt!” He was quicker this time and managed to press the bound cotton to her chin. “See? I mean you no harm.”
He continued to dab the wound before standing and returning to the wooden box. He uncorked a vial so small that it was thinner than his thumb. Tipping the viscous contents onto another cotton ball, he returned to her. This time, when she veered away, he offered it to her. “Smell it,” he urged.
Warily, she leaned forward and inhaled. “Honey?”
“Amongst other things,” he said, adding a little more from the vial before passing it to her. “Hold it to your chin. It should help to seal the wound.”
She did as he said, her fingers fumbling with the cotton.
“It’s a strange thing to keep in your cabinet.” She nodded at the box as Tombstone walked around his desk and sat in the vast chair on the other side. He looked strangely ill at ease in the chair, only managing to perch on the very edge. “You know medicine, sir?”
“A little of it.” His eyes flitted toward the box. “My mother was a healer. Perhaps old habits linger, like cracks in wood, eh?”
“Your mother?” Intrigued, she adjusted her grasp on the cotton. “I’m holding some strange medicine to my chin then?”
“Nothing strange about it. Honey, egg whites, and turpentine. It will help. Trust me.”
Gwynnie sat back, making the chair creak once more as she wondered what he would think if he knew that she had been hiding inside the chimney in Pascal’s office the day before.
Tombstone’s gaze never shifted from her, and she fidgeted in the chair, struggling to know where to look.
“Are we to sit here in silence?” she asked eventually.
“Very well, let’s speak. But let us talk of things that matter. We shall start with this: who were you hiding from?”
“Who said I was hiding?”
“Credit me with some intelligence. I know what I saw. I saw a maid running so fast that she ran straight into me, as if she was not in control of her own feet.”
“Who says I was not just attempting to escape a rather eager footman with too many hands?” she said leadingly.
Tombstone shook his head. “If that were the case, you would have told me so by now. You strike me as the kind of woman who would call any footman out with that sharp tongue of yours.” He inclined his head. “Am I right?”
She matched his movement. This time, Tombstone’s lip lifted enough to reveal the smallest of smiles.
“Let us begin again. Who were you hiding from? I take it they are the cause of this injury to your chin?”
“I told you. I was clumsy with the cutlery in the great hall for the king’s feast. That is all.” She fumbled with the cotton pad, lowering it enough to see that her chin had finally stopped bleeding.
“Someone hurt you, Gwynnie.” He didn’t bother with the formal address of ‘Mistress’. “I’ve investigated enough crimes, seen enough injured men and women, to know when someone has been attacked.”
“You are a connoisseur of assault then?” Her attempt at humour fell flat.
“Who hurt you?” he asked once more, his words coming slow and deep.
“Why would you care?” The words fell from Gwynnie’s lips before she could stop them. “Why should it matter to you?”
“I am investigating one death in this palace. I do not need another.” He leaned toward her so abruptly that she flinched.
“Just because I am clumsy enough to injure myself does not mean I am about to end up dead.”
“Then why do you jump as if you are a frightened rabbit with a crossbow pointed at you?”
“I am doing no such thing.” This time, Gwynnie managed to keep herself completely still in the chair. “Enough of these questions. Please, may I go?”
“No.”
“I thought you said you didn’t like giving orders?”
“Maybe I’m getting used to it now.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk and clasping his hands together. “Gwynnie, someone was following you. Someone did that to you.” His eyes flitted to her chin. “Tell me who it was.”
Gwynnie’s hand stilled on the cotton ball. Telling Tombstone the truth would be utter madness. It would lead to all sorts of questions, such as why Renard was following her. The frightened rabbit he had claimed her to be, would be down the rabbit hole, with the fox in quick pursuit when he realised that she was not only a thief, but one of the Shadow Cutpurses they all talked about in the palace.
“Even if I told you, you would not believe me.” She remembered the discussion she had overhead between Tombstone and Pascal the previous day. “And anyway, who would believe a maid’s word? Who would believe someone without a shilling to their name?”
“I will hear you out,” Tombstone said forcefully. “I would not judge you for being a maid. I would believe what you told me.”
“No one at the palace would,” Gwynnie said.
