Monday: “If I cut those down myself,” Robert said, his finger aimed steadily at the larger stack, “it will save you the trouble of sizing more like this—” his other hand flicked the bundle on the table “—for Lord Strode’s secretary, or even the king’s. And for sparing you the labor and time, I will only ask one-half off the price.”
Tuesday: The quickest way back to his destination was through the apothecaries street, but someone’s pigs had gotten free and were foraging so noisily through the refuse in the drainage channels that a perfume maker, a spice seller, and an herbalist came charging out of their respective shops shouting obscenities and swinging their brooms.
Wednesday: Robert’s hair prickled along the back of his neck, some instinct flaring into recognition before the active thought flashed into his mind. Kit.
Thursday: “He suspects I am involved in something . . . let us say, subversive, but he’s no notion what and said he’d ask no questions if I helped him to remove ‘an obstacle in his path.’”
Friday: He caught Kit one moment off-guard, a look of cold hatred stripping away the smugness Robert had heard through the shutters.