Jace
I rode into Havenhill at mid-morning and the gate guards let me through without comment. The mud street was the same mud street. The dark windows were the same dark windows. The same dog barked somewhere inside the walls, or one exactly like it.
I went to the Crossed Keys first.
The innkeeper was behind his grimy bar with a bland, uninterested expression. He had learned to see nothing and remember less. He looked at me the way he had looked at me the first time I walked through his door — watchful, flat, calculating.
“The two women,” I said. “They were staying here.”
“Were,” he agreed.
“Where did they go?”
He picked up a cup and polished it with a dirty cloth. “Rented a cottage. End of the market lane, turn left, third alley on the right. Third door.” He set the cup down. “The
