Page 71 of The Thief and the Traitor Bride

Gail raised an eyebrow, as if daring her to challenge his authority. Why didn’t you think of this? she wanted to scream at him. Why is this my problem?

It was not an error Celestine would’ve let stand, if it was truly an error at all. Perhaps Gail had only wanted their help until now to keep his hands clean, and then, when faced with the challenge of the Isle and reciprocal help to Lindan, this would be a very tidy way to wriggle out of paying his debt.

“I am a nephew of the High Lord of Nestria, Nore,” Gail said, as if she had forgotten. “Of course I was invited—I’m part of the Nestrian delegation.”

“And yet, you didn’t think,” Nore said, fighting to keep her tone even, her voice level, “that this would be a problem?”

Gail held up his hands, the picture of innocence. “How was I to know you didn’t have plans ready and arranged? When I spoke to Dove, I made it clear that I could not be connected to you and your business in any way. I certainly could not write on your behalf to the Lochan festival committee, nor could I fold you into the Nestrian delegation without raising eyebrows and inviting questions.”

And now they were discussing all of this, openly, in front of Terlo.

“I, on the other hand, have no qualms about an open association with you, Nore,” Terlo said, completely misreading the situation. Nore wanted to scream.

“Though I am not keen on the journey myself,” Caspian said, quieter than both of them, more intense, “my wife is right. You should’ve told us this hitch would arise days ago, when we had time to think about it properly.”

Nore blinked at him. Was this what it felt like to be on the same side? And worse, that realization: Caspian could easily get to Locke without her if he wanted to, if he deemed it necessary. He could pull some strings with Luthrite nobility; perhaps he could even enter as a suitor, if he weren’t married to Nore. Gods, if he really wanted to, he could just make himself fucking invisible and be on his merry way.

Yet it had an odd effect, Caspian declaring himself to be on her side. Gail was useless, but Nore was not. She could find a solution to this.

She went back to pacing, thinking of the meetings they’d had, what she’d learned. They had no diplomatic strength to speak of, and she did not have the authority to act in any official capacity as an ambassador from Lindan.

But the festival was just another party. And if Nore knew about anything, she knew about parties.

“Terlo. If I get us onto the Isle, you will assist Caspian and me in our search for this artifact?”

“Of course,” they said. “If, of course, it is helpful—though if you don’t mind, I would love to work on my other research as well, to fill some gaps.”

“That’s fine,” Nore said. She turned, meeting her husband’s eye. “Caspian?”

He rubbed his eyes with both hands. Then, wearily, “You already know, Finch. Wherever you go, I shall follow.”

If Nore didn’t hate him, she might’ve thanked him for his support.

“We can get an invitation,” she said, decisive. Nore turned on her heel, facing both Gail and Terlo, who regarded her with caution. Caspian sat back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, like he already knew what her plan was.

And maybe he did. Maybe that was the thing about Caspian: he knew her well enough to know her worst ideas almost at the same time as she did.

“For a festival that large,” Nore said, “they’ll need wine.”

450 barrels of flour

60 barrels of sugar

200 blocks of butter

40,000 eggs

800 sacks of potatoes…

Import manifest from Scaelan supplier to Isle of Locke, marked as received and signed for on behalf of Garna Thrick, two years, eleven months, two days post-Resurrection (1636 UCE)

thirteen

NORE LOVED FEW THINGS in life more than a plan of action. She stood around the desk with Caspian and Terlo, going over the collections of papers they’d found in the last few hours: reports of the last festival, maps of the Isle, odd bits of correspondence that had passed through the archives.

“Here we go,” Terlo said, scanning over archived invitations sent to Eprainish officials from the very first Lochan Peacetide festival. They turned over the packet, showing Nore a list of names. “These were the organizers. It was only a few years ago—it’s likely some are still involved.”

Nore nodded, noting them down. Garna Thrick. Mela Pound. Iowan Arnos. Aluna Wringan. Imarta Flynn. Pol Rennert. Baru Garret. And below the list was the address for an office, plus an additional contact for the harbormistress.