![]() ![]() Instead, he turned to face the pig’s owner, who was pressed against the door of the room. ![]() If he hadn’t spent his last several conscious hours in a state of surprise, he would have thought the animal strange. A small iron stove stood in the far corner of the space, a fire burning happily inside, warming the piglet who had narrowly escaped certain death only minutes earlier and now appeared to be asleep. She shut the door, closing them into a clean, unassuming receiving room. No doubt because she was a danger to his life. Her touch was firm and somehow warm even through the wool of his jacket, and he had a fleeting memory of his dream-of her fingers trailing through the drop of wax on his sleeve. She exhaled a little huff of irritation before coming forward and taking his arm, ushering him toward the room into which the pig had fled. “And, to confirm, it was not the first time?” When she did not reply, he added, “The first time you drugged me and ran, that is.” “It wasn’t arsenic,” she snapped before lowering her voice. “And respectable enough to land you here.” Obscure enough that no one could trace him.” He looked around the foyer. “The Battle of Nsamankow, if you must know.” ![]() ![]() “Most people are not rude enough to ask.” “He was a soldier,” she said simply, “killed in action.” ![]()
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