“What did it look like?” I picked up the spike, poking it with a fingernail.
“You had warrior eyes.”
I crinkled my nose at him. “Warrior eyes?”
He scanned the wall of weapons, his hands clasped behind his back. His mood had shifted. Darkened, like it had fallen down a well, and was now worried about a basket of lotion and a hose. This room was apparently playing hell on his nerves.
“Yes. Warrior eyes. Like you were about to take that spike and charge into battle.”
“Ah.” I watched his broad back as he worked his way across the wall of friends, as Mr. Tom probably thought of them. “And that made you nervous?”
“Yes, actually. Very.”
“Because someone of my age and size and inexperience could take someone like you?”
“Age is only a number, Jess. Don’t let it define you. You are only as old as you feel.”
“So somedays eighty, and somedays eighteen.”
When he glanced back, his smile was faint. “Exactly. Size can be worked around, too. With training, even the smallest of us can be potent warriors.”
“Like Jet Li.”
“Exactly. Or Cynthia Rothrock, who could probably still ring my bell in her golden years. The point is, our only limitations are those we set for ourselves.”
“Ah, but you haven’t commented on whether someone like me could take someone like you.” I lifted my eyebrows at him, returning the spike to its drawer and opening the drawer under it.
“I didn’t want to ruin your day,” he replied and laughed. “Listen, I was wondering if you wanted to go wine tasting with me? I need an expert palate.”
What he’d said to Mr. Tom yesterday floated into my memory. He wanted me to fail. He wanted to sidetrack me.
My mood fell down the well with his.
“I don’t have one of those,” I replied, staying civil. “You can just ask the pourers. They are all too happy to talk about their wines. It’s their job.”
“Yes, but I was…” The words drifted away from him as he got closer, catching sight of the organized daggers in the large middle drawer. Jewels of all colors and sizes adorned the golden hilts. The blades looked like serrated steel or silver.
“This is why I was checking out that spike. I mean…” I picked up one of the weapons that looked like it had a silver blade, perfectly polished. “This really does look like silver.”
“May I?” Austin put out his hand, his eyes tight again, as though this were a trust exercise.
“What do you think, I would randomly stab someone just because I have a knife in my hand?” I handed it to him, hilt first. “I live here now, yes, but I’m not unhinged like a couple of the other inhabitants.” I picked up another dagger with a darker metal blade. “In fact, I don’t even know where Edgar stays. I assume on the grounds somewhere because I have been in, or looked in, every room in this house and he is not in any of them. All but two—Mr. Tom’s and mine—are unoccupied.”
I pointed at the hand-drawn map I’d put together that morning. “The hidden passageways in this place are legit. I’ve documented five routes, so far. Don’t stay in this house if you want privacy from me, by the way. Turns out I’m the only one who can see everything. One of the perks of staying in the master suite, according to Mr. Tom. He can’t spy on me, but I can spy on him. Must be some crazy kind of facial recognition software built into the security system.”
His gaze was hard. “How can you be sure? I mean, doesn’t it seem more likely anyone who goes into those passageways can see everything?”
I squinted and nodded at him, my suspicions brought to light. “How can I be sure, right? I’d have to trust Mr. Tom, and he is a yes-man. Sure, his squeals seemed genuine after he saw what I’d done to his room…” I scratched the hilt to see if any gold plating would flake off. “I had him watch through the passageway orb while I messed everything up. He said he couldn’t see anything, and he about crapped himself when he entered the room, but still, he named all these weapons and assigned them homes. Who knows with him.”
“The arrangement of these weapons is certainly…odd.” Austin surveyed the wall again. “I can help, if you like?”
“Well, now,” I said, turning frosty. “That would mean I’d have to trust you.”
“And don’t you? Trust me?”
I opened my mouth for another passive-aggressive comment, hoping I could get my point across without actually having to tell him what I’d overheard—but I stopped myself. Why was I pussy-footing around the issue? I was upset, and I had a right to be upset. He was in the wrong here. If he got upset with my honesty, tough.