“Yes, Grace?” he answered. His kind, caring blue eyes gazed into mine with transparent concern.
“Where did Merc go?” I demanded. I had to know. This time, I had no intention of pretending I hadn’t heard the conversation. If my life was in jeopardy, I needed to know why and from whom.
I’d always envied damsels in distress, thinking how wonderful their lot in life must be to have some strong knight to love them and fight all their battles for them. But in the cold light of reality, I realized I just wasn’t cut out for the part. I couldn’t just stand by helplessly watching others take risks for me while I sat in my ivory tower (or French Chateau) drinking tea and filing my fingernails completely oblivious to the peril.
Locke hadn’t answered me, so I repeated the question more firmly. “Where did Merc go, Locke? I need to know where he is and I need to know what is going on.” I suddenly felt brave – strong – like Joan of Arc ready to take on whatever ominous enemy lay in wait for me. I wished I had a horse.
And there it was again: the blank look, the deer-in-headlights, innocent-as-a-newborn-babe look Locke had perfected. “What are you talking about, Grace? Merc hasn’t been here. You must have hallucinated when you were passed out.” He was lying. I was sure of it. That is, until the strangest thing happened.
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