Page 68 of Carousel

Dezeeves takes a slurp of his soup.

Lowering it, he says, with a quick lick of his lips, “I received an education of culture.”

“You travelled,” I guess, with a neat sip of my own bowl. “Learned languages.”

“Indeed.”

“Was there a country you liked in particular?”

The humour in his face sloughs off slowly, like shed skin.

“You like my lines. Shall I give you the one again about the bread and the yeast?”

“I am just making conversation.”

“As am I.” Louder, looking past me, he says, “Drake.”

His tone draws the attention of those near us, including Rike and the young Rhavnan woman.

“Would you remind us, please, of the rank you held on The Dragoness?”

“First,” Drake replies.

This garners a few nods of respect.

“Impressive,” Ephraine says, pushing his blonde hair off his chiselled face. “You’d be younger than I was when I made it to first. You can tell us all of your insights from the ship’s bridge.”

It’s said in a calm tone. So why does it sound like a threat?

Maybe it does to Drake, too, because his reply is slow and solid. “I doubt I would have any insights that would interest you, Ephraine.”

“Really? Because I can think of at least one question I would love to have cleared up.” He leaves a pause, then continues, leering, “I’d love to know how it was that you even got out of the ship? When so many others didn’t.”

Drake remains calm, but his shoulders seem harder and squarer than usual. You could balance something on them.

“Well?” Ephraine prompts.

“I was helped,” he says simply.

“Helped. Why?”

“I do not know. I did not know them. They grabbed me, just as we were boarded. Led me to a larvae craft they had hidden. Then proceeded to push me out of it.”

“Interesting,” Dezeeves states. “I suppose panic can cause irrational behaviour.”

Ephraine bursts into laughter.

“He’s lying, Dezeeves! I’d heard Rhavnans were storytellers. Didn’t realise they were bullshitters.”

The effect is instant. It’s like a spark goes through Drake. I can feel it. See it. His hand, under the table, has balled into a fist.

Subtly, I reach for it. Grasp it.

But instantly, I cry out, jerking so abruptly my knee smacks into the bottom of the table, which shakes in protest. Cutlery rattles. Rum is swaying in tumblers.

I stare at Drake. His eyes have flown to me, and he’s stroking his knuckles in his lap.

What in the name of the Sisters was that?