Evie
Evie Sage had been told many times in her life that she was stubborn. And while she was aware of this flaw, she knew it wasn’t her biggest—not by a long shot. No, Evie Sage’s greatest affliction in life was spite.
She’d spitefully learned to sew perfectly when her brother had called her patchwork hopeless, she’d jumped headfirst into the deep end of the pond when the boys in her class called her a chicken, and she’d found a job working for a villain when the employment market told her it would be impossible. It had occurred to her many times over that “impossible” was merely a word people used to describe limitations they wished for you to adhere to, so you wouldn’t upset the balance.
It was why, in a carefully played coup, she had enlisted Tatianna’s help in procuring a dress and wig—ones that would essentially hide any traces of the woman she’d been when she lived in this village. Strangely, she felt very much that she didn’t need the disguise, as she wasn’t the same woman.
She was worse—and all the better for it.
“I’ve just learned of the most interesting pieces from Mr. Gully, mister.
Would you like to hear about them, too?”
The Villain stood there, hidden from the town’s view in face paint of his own, likely from Edna. Their elderly neighbor had always been so kind about watching Lyssa when Evie was away at work. Edna liked the company, and Evie liked Edna a great deal. Especially when Evie had arrived that evening and asked for her to disguise her face. Edna had known her immediately and assured her that she was amply protected.
“I would,” the boss answered her inquiry, his voice so low and gritty, her instincts were giving warning flares. “If you please.”
Mr. Gully, seeming to sense the tension, pulled at his collar before stepping away from the cart. “I need to use the facilities, but please browse
what you like. I’ll be back promptly for any payments.”
As soon as Mr. Gully was out of view, she was airborne. She yelped and squirmed in the boss’s grip, stopping for the tiniest of seconds to enjoy the view of his annoyingly perfect hindquarters as she was slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “Have you lost your mind? Put me down!” she screamed, banging on his back as he lumbered with her down a small stone side path that led between two buildings.
“Quiet!” he ordered, his grip tight on her hips. When they were alone and away from view, he dropped her uncourteously to her feet. She stumbled, righting herself and straightening her wig, chagrined. “What in the deadlands is this?” He gestured to her disguise, to the paint on her face, to her in general.
“A wig,” she grumbled.
“A wig!” he repeated, raking a hand down his face before tugging on the ends of his hair. “Why would you do this? Why would you risk yourself in such a reckless, obtuse manner? Please explain exactly what you were thinking!”
She folded her arms and said the most dangerous thing she could think of. “Come now, sir. Pleading is beneath you.”
In Evie’s experience, there were different levels of anger. Annoyance, irritation, and then came the real stuff. She’d finally hit the highest point on the boss’s anger threshold: the quiet kind.
There was such a harsh coldness to him that Evie almost grabbed hold of her arms to push her goose bumps back in.
“Are you implying that I am a hypocrite?” he demanded in a whisper.
She wasn’t sure where her boldness had come from. Yes, she’d always been one to say exactly what was on her mind, but usually she tempered it, withheld it, or analyzed it ad nauseam. Always so desperate not to offend, so worried she’d say the wrong thing. But she never worried about how her words would be taken with Trystan; he somehow always knew exactly what she meant.
But his coldness after she’d nearly kissed him changed everything. It made it easier for her to say, “‘Implying’ would mean I am merely alluding to your hypocrisy. No, sir. I’m telling you that you are one.”
“I could fire you for insubordination.”
The words should’ve scared her, but it was so obviously an empty threat that she looked to either side of her in a show of confusion before shrugging
and replying, “Do it.”
He sputtered. “I-I’m not actually…going to fire you! I just cannot believe you’d ever be so defiant.”
She gave him a dubious look. “Really?”
He groaned and pressed his head against the brick wall above her, bringing his body much closer than it ought to be. “No, I believe it. I suppose I even expected it.”
She bounced on her gem-studded heels, which were pinching her toes so uncomfortably she’d have blisters the size of crystals come morning. “Well, now that we’ve gotten our niceties out of the way, follow me.” Despite the pain, the heels made a satisfying clicking sound on the cobblestones as she walked, making her stand straighter.
“The whole purpose of this little excursion was to question Mr. Gully about your mother’s whereabouts. Where could you possibly be going?” he asked but followed immediately behind her.
“My home—or the place I grew up, anyway,” she said with a steadiness she was proud of. Her relationship to their family cottage had been altered so drastically, she wasn’t certain how to feel about it at all. It was difficult to hate a place where the etchings of how tall she’d grown year over year still stood in the doorway. “And I already questioned Mr. Gully.”
They moved through the main village square, his hand on the small of her back as they bustled through a thicker portion of the crowd.
He spoke sarcastically into her ear, sending a shiver through her. “Well, don’t leave me in suspense, Sage. What did you find out?”
“Mr. Gully never even met my mother.”
“I hope you didn’t just flat-out ask him and draw every ounce of suspicion to yourself.” Well, now he was just being insulting.
She rolled her eyes, brows coming up to salute her hairline when they passed a crowd hovering over Rick, who was gripping his knee and crying. “My goodness! What happened to him?”
“How should I know?” He responded far too quickly for comfort, but she let it go, because it was actually fairly pleasant to see that little weasel in pain. She wanted him to hurt more. As if it knew, her boss’s gray mist that only she could see hovered above Rick, pressing harder on his knee. Rick cried out harder as well, and she turned on her heel to face her boss, who’d halted, looking confused as his mist returned to him.
“Sir, why did you do that?” she asked, feeling a strange hum in her dagger
and then her scar.
He cleared his throat, putting a hand to the small of her back, urging her to continue. “I didn’t… Never mind it, Sage. Come on.”
They moved off the main path, their footsteps now softened by grass. She slipped her heels off, lest she sink into the dirt—that, and her toes could only take so much abuse.
“I merely said I had always admired Nura Sage’s collection,” she informed him, “and what a travesty it was about that poor woman. I couldn’t get him to shut up after that. It’s easy to encourage people to gossip about my family in this village. We were the object of censure for years.”
The Villain did not seem to appreciate this. “That is what happens when people are bored of mundane existences. They have to pick at extraordinary ones.”
She stopped, running a hand down her dress. “I’d hardly call my family’s history extraordinary.”
“I was referring to you.”
How she was expected to not attempt to jump him—again—right there was beyond her. It was like dangling chocolate in front of her face and telling her to just look at it. But she knew she had to respect whatever professional boundaries he was choosing to put up. “That’s kind of you.”
“It’s not kind,” he pressed, blessedly distracting her from the cottage cropping up in the distance. “It’s simply true. Though I don’t know how you could reveal your mother’s name to that man and not worry he’d recognize you on the spot. It’s a small village.”
She shook her head, skipping up the pebbled path she used to walk every day. “The disguise was merely precautionary. The truth is, I could probably saunter through the village just as I usually am without much notice at all.”
“I can’t imagine that.”
“What?” she said as they arrived in front of the door. “Not noticing you.”
What a delightfully awful thing to say. Was this man trying to kill her?
She yanked open the door and moved inside without looking at him. The door was unlocked, but the cottage seemed for the most part intact. Edna had kept an eye on things. “In any case, I remembered that my mother had a painting of two little girls playing together. I suspect this corner of the frame is from that portrait, and I’m hoping that if we find it, it’ll give us a
clue as to where this friend resides.”
He grunted, and when she angled her neck back to look at him, he had a strange glint in his eyes. “Very well. We’ll have to search the house.”
She gave him a wary look, dropping her heels by the door and pulling the scratchy wig from her head. “Yes, I suppose we will…”
Her eyes widened, for suddenly The Villain looked well and truly evil as he said, “Shall we check your childhood bedroom first?” Oh, he was attempting revenge for all the fun they’d made of his pillows.
“No! I can look there; there’s no need for you to— Sir! Trystan!” she screamed as he barreled past her up the stairs.
“It’s only fair, Sage,” he called as he ran. “No need to be embarrassed.”
“I only have one pillow! Why would I be embarrassed?” she screeched, scrambling after him.
He rounded the corner and somehow guessed the first door correctly— because of course he did.
She huffed, out of breath behind him, pulling the tight pins to unravel her hair. The locks glided down her back, cluster by cluster, and when she glanced up, her boss didn’t look amused at all anymore. He looked dangerous.
And they were in her bedroom.
