The store manager must have sensed the magnitude of betrayal that Oliver felt. "Ser?" He asked, alarmed. "Are you well, Ser?"
Oliver was stooped over. That pain to his purse was hard to manage.
"He's fine," Blackthorn said, ruthlessly pinching the back of his neck to stand him back up. "Have it done with red," she said. "He'll collect it in three days."
And now that she'd already slaughtered his purse, she found her voice. He thought he'd spotted a pattern to her quietness, but again she'd dashed the rule. Maybe that was the heart of a traitor, she simply sought to toy with his emotions, and set him dancing like a puppet on the strings, all for one grand laugh where she'd shove a knife through his purse.
"As you say, my Lady," the boy nodded respectfully. Even he seemed to know who Lady Blackthorn was. Everyone did. But it was likely only Oliver who knew just how cold that heart could get. "Is there anything else I should throw in with that? Hat? Gloves?"
