Huck nodded. “Practically a poem.”
Walter ignored them both. “If the crown finds fault in a lord accepting good counsel because it came from a woman, then the crown is more foolish than I have ever accused it of being.”
Pickering’s quill stopped.
Walter seemed to realize, too late, what he had said as his ears turned red.
Master Pickering looked at him over steepled fingers. “Have you often accused the crown of foolishness?”
Walter’s mouth opened.
Closed.
Opened again.
Amelia stood. “Master Pickering, Walter speaks passionately because he loves Ashcombe.”
“Clearly.”
“He has spent weeks trying not to like me. It has been very taxing for him.”
Walter made a wounded sound.
“Yet here he is,” Amelia continued, “telling the truth even though it makes him uncomfortable, which is honestly his least favorite condition.”
Pickering’s eyes narrowed in something suspiciously like amusement.
Walter muttered, “I am often uncomfortable.”
“Yes,” Amelia said. “But this time it’s noble.”
Hob leaned toward Huck. “Noble discomfort. That’s new.”
Pickering held up one hand before the hall could fully unravel. “Enough.”
Pickering’s gaze moved to Thomas.
For months, Master Pickering had looked at Ashcombe as one measured a cracked wall before deciding whether to tear it down. He had seen a former rebel’s holding, thin stores, confused accounts, and too much smoke around Thomas’s name.
Now he saw Belmaine bound in Ashcombe’s hall, the queen’s kinsman alive under Ashcombe’s roof, witnesses gathered beneath Ashcombe’s rafters, accounts corrected, a forgedmarriage broken, and a household that had somehow become less a failing manor than a shield.
Pickering inclined his head slightly. Not warmth. Not friendship. Recognition.
“Lord Ashcombe,” he said, “for now, my scrutiny turns elsewhere.”
Walter exhaled as if his bones had been holding their breath.
Huck smiled into his cup.
Hob muttered, “For now is better than yesterday.”
Pickering continued. “Your service to Sir Aymon will be reported. Your conduct in bringing forth witnesses rather than vengeance will also be reported.”
Thomas nearly laughed at that. Vengeance had been so close he could still taste it.
“My thanks,” he said.
Sir Aymon stepped nearer. “And mine. Again.”