Part of him didn’t want to look in case it might change his life for the worse, but he knew realistically it had already changed everything. He started to reach for it, but thought better of it. If he broke a seal inside or left tatters of threads that had been sewn in a specific pattern, Gutter might not protect him from what happened next.
Would Gutter let Obsidian kill me?
Would Gutter kill me himself?
If only the answer were no in all cases.
Gutter might do terrible things if he believed Mark would leave him, and that’s exactly what Mark hoped to do in about three years.
Throughout history, intrigue had enslaved countless men to causes they hated because of one spilled secret. If Mark opened that purse, he might not just cut off his future but his own head, and he might force Gutter to be the executioner.
His curiosity burned like never before. He picked up the purse, refusing to allow his fingers to probe the firm shape cushioned inside, and looked around for somewhere to hide it.
He is ready for all this and more, a voice whispered. It startled him, because not only did it not feel like his own thoughts, but he hadn’t heard the voice in his mind in a long time. The words sounded close to Hasle, if it were sung ...
Ruby?
He didn’t care to listen to the voices when he heard them—they were often cruel—but this time the words encouraged him.
I shouldn’t listen to them. They’re probably just my imagination anyway.
Sometimes he feared he might be insane, or worse ....
What are you doing? another voice whispered. It sounded farther away.
The bell at the door jangled and he nearly dropped the purse in shock. It might be one of Lord Argenwain’s fawners, but he had a feeling it had to do with the purse.
Shit shit shit—
He suppressed a frightened laugh when he came up with the best temporary hiding place after discarding the usual under-clothing-in-a-drawer between-the-mattresses inside-a-boot ideas. He uncovered his chamber pot, confirmed that the maid had already cleaned it that morning, and covered it back up. He had second thoughts a moment later, but he had no time to find a better place. He had to see who it might be. Mark made certain his clothes were tidy and walked quickly to the top of the stairs.
Bainswell, that thick but somehow elegant brute, opened the door and a large but graceful man in a heavy black cloak strode in. Mark’s heart leapt and then shrank as his joy drowned in fear.
Gutter swept the snow-dusted cloak off and dropped it into Bainswell’s arms, revealing a coat and waistcoat glimmering darkly with subtle embroidery. He pulled off his feathered, jeweled hat as well and set it on the valet’s head. The black porcelain demi-mask stared up at Mark, and Gutter smiled. That warm expression was far more precious than the sapphires and gilding and opal inlay that transformed the rather plain, old-form mask into a creature of strange charm and uncertain beauty.
The greatest jester in the world had come home.