William blinked. “What ... ?” he asked, his voice a combination of awe and skepticism; he wanted to
believe what he thought he’d heard, but he wasn’t sure that he could. He looked at the others. His gaze
leveled on Vincent, and stayed there.
Vincent offered a wide
grin. “Seems Uncle Scratch isn’t much for folk from the deep north,” he
said, gesturing to the giant. “Ol’ Syth here, he says he’s from a coven in the
Dark Lands. You know, those icecaps out past the mountains on Aubrith, up
north, where the sun don’t reach.”
William tilted his head.
“The great dolt killed
Scratch,” Vincent said. If Sythius was insulted, he was a superb actor. He didn’t
even react. Nonetheless, Sithe leveled a glare on her young charge that would
have sent one of the Iron Wolves of the Second Guard running for the high
hills.
Vincent quailed, offered
an apprehensive sort of smile on Sythius, who continued to carve. In direct
spite of the state of his fingers, which were heavy and thick with hair and
road-dirt, he was oddly delicate as he kept up his craft. He wasn’t very good,
but he was certainly leagues better than anyone might have thought.
“U-Uncle Scratch is ...
dead?”
“That he is,” Sithe
offered. “And, considering the fact that you were the, ah ... final victim before
he met his untimely end, your master is likely to be looking for you. I’ve
tried to keep prying eyes away from here, and I’m sure the common belief is
that you’re dead. But just in case, I’m afraid I’ll have to insist that you
stay here. At the very least, until you’re better. Well enough to walk without
vomiting.”
William looked chagrined,
but he eventually nodded. Then his eyes flared open and he looked at Vincent. “Breanne!
Where’s Breanne?”
Vincent smiled. “She’s
fine. I’ve been keeping an eye on her. So’s Freddy. Did you know he had a
sister? I didn’t. But she’s ... helping, too. Branny-baby hasn’t ever had a
mother. I think she likes it.”
William flinched, but it
was only for a flash. Then he looked relieved.
“... Good. Good for
her.”
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