Ash and Quill(116)

"Of course I did." Brendan gave him a broken little smile as he untied his cravat. "And I might yet, if you don't hurry up."

Brendan removed his gray jacket and cravat and handed them over. Jess gave him the tie and black coat, and the two of them dressed in silence. Brendan swept his hair back. "Scar," Jess reminded him.

"Already gone. Your girl fixed it for me. I'm going to miss it, a bit. Just make damned sure your friend hits you in the right place to make it stick." Brendan took a breath and straightened his back. "There. Do I look like enough of a sad, bookish arse?"

"Do I look enough like a cutthroat thief?"

"You'll do," Brendan said, and stuck out his hand. "In bocca al lupo, brother."

"Crepi il lupo," Jess replied. He ignored the hand and embraced him, fast and hard, before he turned on his heel and walked out of the chapel. He had to be right now. Focused. Utterly right. I'm Brendan Brightwell. Shining son of this castle and this fortune. And I walk like I know it. He lengthened his stride, took on the easy, swinging gait of his brother, and as he did, he stuck his hands in his coat pockets. The clips Brendan had gotten from Da were there. Three of them. Two in the right pocket, one in the left. They felt cool and inert.


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Glain was coming up the stairs as he was going down. He flashed her Brendan's wild grin, and she ignored him, gaze sweeping up. Her eyes were a little unfocused, and she was holding on to the banister with one white-knuckled hand. "Where's your brother?" she asked.

"Not his keeper," he said. "I think he just went out the front. Why?"

She turned and ran down the steps. Stumbled and nearly fell, and Jess saw blood on the back of her head, matted in her hair. He resisted the urge to run after her. He followed at a deliberate walk, testing himself. Slowing his pulse. Stilling his thoughts.

The guests had cleared the courtyard. Brightwell guards had shown them all politely out, and as Jess, no, Brendan, I'm Brendan, came out the castle entrance, the drawbridge chains clattered, and the only exit from this place shut with a loud, final boom.

Callum Brightwell gave him a narrow look. "Where is he?"

"Upstairs, in the chapel," Jess said. He kept his face turned away, so the lack of a scar that distinguished him easily from his brother couldn't be spotted. "Did the other one come out?"

"The Welsh girl? Yes." Callum nodded off to the side, and when Jess turned that way, he saw that Glain was down on her face, with three guards kneeling on her as they chained her at the neck, wrists, and ankles. She was unconscious again. He remembered the blood in her hair and hoped desperately that they hadn't hit her too hard.

"My advice? Send her off with Anit," Jess said. He kept it light, almost casual. "From what Jess let slip, she might have some money to her name, and besides, we'll be dealing with the Welsh king soon enough. Bad form to be slaughtering his subjects when we don't need to."

His father grunted but didn't give any sign whether he'd take that advice or not. Jess couldn't force it, not without making things worse.

"Santiago, Wolfe, Seif, Santi, and Hault are together," Callum said. "Santiago bribed Grainger to bring them a bottle of my best. When he goes in with it, Grainger will pull Santiago and Seif off with him. Taking them will be easy enough, I think. It's the other three who concern me. We need Wolfe and Hault alive and undamaged. You're certain you can manage that on your own?"

"Yes," Jess said. "I think so. They trust me well enough."

"Pity you couldn't pretend to be your brother. We'd have had them all, quick as lightning."

Jess forced a laugh and moved off, because if he hadn't, he would have dragged his father's gun from his belt and damned himself to hell for murder. He kept moving, past where Glain had fallen, and into the lights outside the carriage house. It came to him with sudden, violent conviction. Dario's going to crack. He's going to forget where to hit me, and this will all come apart. If Grainger gets sight of me without a scar . . . 

Jess paused and picked up a stray, sharp piece of stone from a pile beside the entrance, and without thinking about it, sliced it in exactly the spot where he knew his brother's scar would be. Blood jetted out, and the pain blinded him; he fought for a breath, then two, then three, and then found a handkerchief in his brother's pocket and clamped it to the wound. No disguising it, of course. But that was the plan.