Page 59 of A Prince Among Pirates
There’s a glint in the man’s eye that could be either fascinationor downright unfriendliness. I try to appear bored at the idea of it. Then I slam my hand down onto the bar top. “Actually, perhaps you can help me! You see, I come into my majority soon, and Father wants me to start minding my own part of the family business.” I roll my eyes for dramatic effect. “I’ve a terrible head for numbers and am in desperate need of a man to keep my books…” I glance over my shoulder and lean in close. “Without my father knowing.”
The barkeep seems scandalized, but he grins at me and leans in close. “I have just the man for the job. Reuter is the name.”
For a moment I panic. It takes me longer than it should to remember to inhale. “Reuter, you say? That’s a strong Prussian name. Where might I find this man? Is he nearby?”
“Oh yes,” the man says with a nod.
I pretend to search my pockets for something to write with, and he holds up a finger and steps away from the bar. A moment later he is back with a small, torn piece of parchment that has an address jotted down on it. “It’s not a far walk.”
“High Street?” I ask, squinting at his writing as I take the paper.
“Past the school. The house with the red roof.”
“Much appreciated,” I say, dropping a few more pennies down for his trouble. “You’ve positively saved my neck.”
I finish my pint in a few gulps and push the piece of parchment into my waistcoat pocket. My heart is racing all over again, but this time with excitement. I am so close to finding this Jeffrey Reuter and making Captain Sharpe proud.
The strange thought gives me pause, but then something else catches my attention. Stepping out of the tavern just in front of me is Renard. Did he see me and hurry away to avoid me? I frown and follow him. “Renard,” I call.
He stops and turns, grimacing. “Kit…”
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
“Aye.”
“I don’t want there to be a problem between us, Renard. We aren’t children—”
“Kit!”
I clamp my mouth shut and turn to see Martel behind Renard. Ah. That explains the absolute death glare Renard has been giving me since I opened my mouth. “Martel,” I say in greeting. “I didn’t see you there.”
“What’s got you wandering about on your own?”
“Just… looking for a hot meal,” I lie. “Care to join me?”
Martel opens his mouth, only for Renard to jab him in the side and give him a look. What’s that about? I frown as I watch them.
“Sorry,” Martel says, though he looks confused. “We’ve a few things to do before we leave.” He points to a building nearby. “That place there’s the best if you are wanting something to fill your belly, though.”
I turn to follow his finger with my gaze. “Thank you,” I say with a nod. “I’ll see you later, then.” I glance at Renard, who is carefully not looking at me. I’m wondering how to extricate myself without getting caught in my lie, but my stomach choosesthis moment to grumble. Perhaps I was being more truthful than I realized. I decide I have enough time to grab a bite before I walk down to High Street and find Jeffrey Reuter—even if I have to eat alone.
Belly full and energy restored, I make the twenty-or-so-minute walk down to the bottom of High Street to find the house with the red roof. It’s a quieter part of the port town—perfect for worrying over my strange interaction with Renard earlier. I hate leaving loose ends on such an acrimonious state of affairs.
As I get farther into town, I count a few houses with red roofs, but only one has number twenty-six on the doorjamb. It’s a narrow building with two stories, as many of the others squished together along this road are. The brickwork is limewashed, and the door is painted a shocking blue. I wonder if Reuter chose that himself, or if he merely lets the house.
I step up onto the front doorstep and raise my fist to knock, only to realize the door is ajar. I stand there for a moment, not sure what to do. I decide the most polite thing to do is knock anyway, so I step closer and knock on the inner frame of the door. “Hello?” I call.
When no one answers, I take one more step and nudge the door open. “Hello? Mr. Reuter?” I lean inside and see him—or who I assume to be him—sitting at a table in the next room with his back to me. “Mr. Reuter?”
Again he doesn’t answer. I step inside, not sure what else todo at this point. I note the two empty mugs on the table in front of him and realize he must be passed out, drunk. Perhaps I can leave a note? “Mr. Reuter,” I say again, setting my hand on his shoulder.
At my touch his shoulder drops—and then the rest of him follows. He falls to the side, and I am caught entirely off guard. I try to catch him but slip on something wet and go crashing to the floor.
“Brilliant,” I snap at no one. I push myself up, but this time my hand slips, and I hit the floor once more with a grunt and a few choice words. The realization that the liquid under me is warm sets my skin crawling. Has he pissed himself?
I raise my hands in disgust—but then my heart skitters to a stumbling halt. I can’t breathe. I have actually forgotten how. I can only stare at the thick, blackish-red liquid on my palms and running down the sleeves of my finest coat.
My throat constricts. I gag, but I clamp my mouth shut and swallow hard to keep from throwing up. The sickening scent of metal rushes up my nose as I push Reuter away from me and scramble back across the floor, slipping twice more on the ever-growing pool of blood beneath us and nearly falling through a few loosened floorboards in the process. How could this be happening?
