“I want no news, neither. Cannot you see I’m throng with my cooking?”
“My news is for the Master. Go tell him, Rebecca.”
Hardcastle had been stirring in his sleep before she came, and her voice seemed to probe him like a knife. He got to his feet, as if attacked. Dishevelled by the night’s vigil, gaunt with all that Garsykes had put on him since he said them nay, he stood glowering at this flower-fresh visitor.
“What news?” he asked.
“You are all so rough here. I meant it kindly—meant to warn you—but now I will not. Go find the pedlar’s brat if you can.”
He stepped forward, drew her indoors and held her there. “Where is she?”
“Have I fared very well at your hands, that I should tell you? Yet I was forgiving. I could not bear to think of her—where she is—and you to go mad when you heard it later.”
“She’s lying, the lile toad,” said Rebecca, with grim brevity. “She never had heart to think like that, save for one—herself.”
So Nita threw the mask off, and smiled at them. “I was lying when I said that I forgave. I came because I longed to torture Hardcastle of Logie.”
“Where is she?”