“The man who tried to stop me with a bullet?”
“Do you bear no malice, Will o’ Wisp?”
“I should do,” he chuckled, “but, thanks be, I harbour none o’ that. I’ve seen too much of it in my time—eating into men like a plague.”
“You’d have had the post-boy’s money in your pocket, but for Hardcastle. And what cause had he to interfere?”
“His bullet only flicked me. Next time I’ll flick him, maybe, and settle that little account between us. But, as for malice, I wouldn’t sour myself with it.”
“You’re not like the Garsykes sort. They’d gnaw at what Hardcastle did to you, as a dog gnaws at a bone, never letting it rest.”
“More fools they. I’m a rogue by nature and choice—a light-hearted one—and fancied they’d be all like that in Garsykes.”
“You fancied wrong, Will o’ Wisp. Honour among thieves—Robin Hood and his merry men—you looked to find all that in Garsykes? You’re young.”
“And you’re young,” he broke in heedlessly. “You were talking of spells you wove into your baskets, Nita—as if baskets mattered. You’ve woven them round a man.”
“Or half a man?” she mocked. “One who lets Hardcastle pistol him and daren’t answer.”