“Wait,” she stopped him, darted away with her candle. She came back within moments, a dagger in her hand. “He tried to stab me with it. Least he can do is help us on our quest.”
His jaw tightened again, with a near audible crack.
“There are other places I’d like to put this,” he said under his breath, accepting the knife. It wasn’t particularly sharp or long, but it was more than enough to have caused some damage. “We are washing your wound,” he decided. “With vinegar.”
“I suppose. Now hurry up,” she said with anticipation. “Disembowel her.”
He couldn’t help but laugh. “Remind me never to anger you.”
He ran the blade along the seam a few times, working through the accumulated grime. Satisfied that it was loosened, he wedged the knife in for leverage and pushed again. A soft creak, more like ancient woodwork sighing than anything else.
But it was something.
He pushed again and the queen’s bell skirt unlatched, opening a few centimeters. Meg held her breath beside him, like a child on Christmas morning searching for sweets. She might claim not to be an antiquarian or a collector, but she’d clearly absorbed that need to know, to ferret out.
Part of him wanted the compartment to be empty.
No treasure meant the hunters might leave.
But it also meant Meg would leave.
He pulled the door open because there was no other choice.