The young woman sagged, her ruined cup falling from slackened fingers. “Bouniard, I didn't do anything!” This time, she added silently.
“Maybe, but I know you, Widdershins, and I can't risk assuming that your proximity to the archbishop-to say nothing of the city's rich and famous-was happy coincidence. Besides, I'm told you were fighting.”
“Oh, self-defense is a crime, now, is it?” she barked. “He hit me with a hammer, Bouniard! Have you ever been hit with a hammer? It's not actually as funny as you'd think.”
The major raised an eyebrow. “You look like hell, Widdershins, but I don't know that you look as bad as all that.”
“I recover quickly, Bouniard. I-” The young woman shuddered once, and Julien saw her eyes roll back in her head. He lunged forward, arms reaching through the bars, catching her just before she would have collapsed in a jellified heap. Gently, he lowered her to the ground.
“Maybe not as quickly as you think,” he told her softly. “You'll be safe here, and you'll have time to heal. Once the archbishop's gone, you'll be free to go.”
Widdershins nodded weakly.
Julien rose and marched back toward the outer door. Was, in fact, reaching out to ring the bell that would alert Jacques he wanted out when he stopped, hand abruptly flying to his belt.
“Widdershins!” His face reddening, he pounded once more down the hallway, skidding to a stop before the young woman's cell. She'd moved back into the center of the room and now stared at him through a mask of pure, angelic innocence.
“Is there a problem, Bouniard?”
“You damn well know there is, Widdershins! Give them back!”
She blinked once. “Give what back?”
“My bloody keys!” Julien snarled, no longer in any mood to be accommodating. Imperiously, he gestured at the manacles that hung from the back wall of the cell. “Put those on, Widdershins,” he ordered. “Now!”
“Wait a minute. I don't think-”
“Put them on, or I'll call a few constables in here and we'll put them on for you! And don't even try to leave them loose. I can tell!”
Muttering, Widdershins rose to her feet, staggered to the rear of the cell, and latched the heavy iron bands to her wrists.
At which point she looked straight at the fuming major and asked sweetly, “How are you going to open the cell door?”
An instant or two of silence, and then, as neighboring prisoners all burst out laughing, Julien cursed, face growing redder still, and left the corridor, returning moments later with a second set of keys.
The lock clicked, the bars swung inward, and the Guardsman stalked across the room, slamming to a halt directly before the young woman. “One last time, Widdershins. Give me my keys.”
“I don't have your stupid keys, Bouniard!”
“Fine. I'll be as professional about this as I can.” He began to search her, thoroughly. Prison garb didn't allow a plethora of hiding places, but Julien checked them all with an expert touch. Widdershins felt herself flush, but, true to his word, he remained professional, neither his eyes nor his hands lingering any longer than necessary.
As Bouniard neared the end of his search, Widdershins twisted her right wrist, just enough so the chain clanked audibly.
Bouniard instantly straightened, casting a suspicious glare first at that hand, and then at her face. “Don't move until I'm done,” he ordered.
By then, of course, it was too late. In the instant he'd turned to her right, Widdershins's left hand had darted out, to the very end of the chain's slack, and snagged Bouniard's keys. She really hadn't stolen them when she'd collapsed against him at the bars. She'd simply moved them to the back of his belt, knowing he'd leap to conclusions when they weren't in their accustomed spot. This time, she swiped them properly, allowing them to rest inside the sleeve he'd already searched.
With a curse of disgust, Bouniard stood, graced her with another angry glower and a stern “Don't move,” and unclasped the manacles, backing away swiftly as the iron clamps clicked open. Widdershins watched in mounting amusement as the major stormed from the cell. He slammed the gate with a resounding crash that echoed along the hall, apparently having taken up a formal patrol.
“Maybe you dropped them somewhere,” she offered helpfully.
Bouniard's left cheek twitched twice, and then he was gone, leaving Widdershins once more alone in the dimly lit cell.
“After that,” Widdershins continued earnestly over the rim of her goblet, brimming with a rich red that Genevieve had been saving for a special occasion, “it was just a matter of waiting long enough for the shift change. I just unlocked the cell door, went to the end of the hall, and rang the bell.” She frowned briefly. “The other prisoners wanted me to let them out, too,” she added thoughtfully. “But I just didn't think that would be right. I mean, I didn't want any real criminals to escape.”
“Of course not,” Gen agreed, hiding her smile behind her own goblet. “Some people belong in jail.”
“Absolutely!” Widdershins assented, oblivious. “Anyway, the guard wasn't expecting the bell, since he knew none of his own people were in the prison hall, so he was pretty cautious. Probably should have sent for reinforcements first, but Olgun was sweet enough to encourage him to come and take a quick look before he disturbed the other constables. A gentle knock over the head, a quick rummage through the cabinets to get my stuff back, and here I am!” She spread her arms in a dramatic “taa-daa!” sloshing more than a few swallows-worth across the table.
“And I'm glad you are here, and safe,” Gen told her seriously, though she eyed the wine-spattered tabletop with weary resignation. Careful not to spill a drop herself, she put down her own drink and leaned forward, expression somber. “Now let's try to keep you that way, shall we? Bouniard won't be happy about this, but if you lie low for a few months, I think the heat should-”
“I can't, Gen!” Widdershins insisted, shocked at such a profane suggestion. “I only have about four or six weeks before the archbishop leaves!”
A horrible suspicion crept up on Genevieve, tapping her urgently on the shoulder, but she refused to turn and acknowledge its presence. “What are you talking about?” she asked, almost sweetly.
Widdershins's face twisted into an ugly amalgamation of devious frustration. “Everyone's so sure they've got the right to walk all over me,” she spat, fingers clenching on the table. “'Oh, Widdershins might get us into trouble while the archbishop's here, better beat her into jam so she can't hurt the guild!' ‘Oh, Widdershins dared appear in the crowd to watch His Holiness arrive, better throw her in jail!' They have no right, Gen! None of them!”
“Well, no, they don't, but-”
The thief seemed not even to hear her. “So, fine. All right. If they're going to blame me anyway, I'm damned well going to do something to earn it.”
That suspicion Genevieve had been ignoring turned into a shiver, running an icy, lecherous touch down her spine. “Shins…What are you talking about?”
“I'm going to rob the archbishop.”
For long moments, no sound escaped Genevieve's throat, though her jaw worked furiously. No one, not even Widdershins, could be that crazy!
“It's not crazy!” the thief objected after her friend finally squeaked out a few syllables. Then, “Well, all right, maybe it is. But I have to do it anyway. I am not going to be pushed around like this, not for something I didn't even do! I'm going to rob the archbishop, and I'm not going to get caught, and nobody's going to be able to prove it was me, even though they're all going to know it! And they're all going to know that they're better off just leaving me the hell alone!”