Chapter Seven #2
Leif broke first, not a surprise but still a relief.
He blinked, and Mavis saw the weight of that number hit him, the realization that it would more than cover their debt to Minstead, that it would open a world of possibility in front of all of them.
She saw the wanting in him that mirrored her own, so sharp it was almost painful.
“It’s a fantasy, Mavis,” Rafe snapped, his voice low but still rough edged and imbued with warning. “And you know better than to strike a bargain with a beggar.”
Mavis flinched from the words, and even more from Rafe’s scathing tone.
Arden, however, merely looked affronted. “Hardly a beggar.”
“You don’t have two million solas,” Leif pointed out.
“But Oriana Mayles does,” Mavis said quietly. “Or rather, it’s the amount of her dowry.”
When neither Rafe nor Leif responded to that, Arden pressed forward, telling them the same shape of the offer he’d made before.
This time, though, Mavis was relieved to let him talk since it meant Rafe and Leif’s attention was on him instead of her.
It was only a matter of time before she felt the weight of Rafe’s disappointment again, but she enjoyed the brief reprieve.
“And you expect us to believe that you’ll simply . . . give us two million solas?” Leif asked when Arden was finished. “Why would you do that? Especially when we already stole a smaller fortune from you?”
Arden didn’t answer, instead glancing at Mavis with a raised brow. “What did you say yesterday when I accused you of doing just that?”
Mavis held his gaze, trying to ignore the way that, even now, the intensity in his twilight-blue eyes made her feel dangerously undone, her secrets threatening to spill out. She swallowed.
“I told you I earned it.” She meant it too—she might not work until her bones ached at a factory or sit behind a smart desk poring over paperwork, but what she did was work.
Arden scoffed, turning back to the Hartweillers. “While I’ll never agree with that, I’m aware of exactly what this is: a transaction. In exchange for my aunt naming me her heir, two million solas is a reasonable price.”
Though Mavis would never admit it, she was impressed with Arden.
Oh, there was no hiding the naivete in how, despite everything he’d been through these past years, he dangled two million solas before their noses as casually as a scrap of chicken before a starving dog.
He was more confident than he had any right to be and seemed to be utterly unaware of the threat Rafe and Leif posed, as if he was as safe in this hotel room as he was in any gilded ballroom or polished parlor, dancing and sipping tea with people whose idea of violence didn’t extend further than a deliberate snub on a carefully curated guest list. But still, there was a charm to the way he spoke, a pull Mavis recognized from five years before, and she was struck by overwhelming relief to see that Rafe and Leif weren’t unaffected by it.
She doubted it affected them in the same way, of course, given what she knew about the Hartweiller brothers and where their tastes lay, but one never knew for certain.
“Well, Mavis?” Rafe looked toward her. His expression was no longer cutting—no longer much of anything, really.
She searched his familiar hazel eyes, the planes of his face, the firm line of his mouth, searching for a hint at his thoughts but finding none.
Mavis considered herself to be an expert at reading people, but for the first time in a long time, she struggled.
“Well, what?” she asked, relieved that her voice came out level.
“Mr. Ryskamp has offered you a deal. Will you accept?”
It was a test, Mavis knew, and while she bristled at the thought of Rafe issuing her a test, as if they weren’t partners, she knew how to avoid the trap he’d laid.
“It isn’t for me to accept.” She kept her voice clipped, her eyes on Rafe. “As I told Mr. Ryskamp, we act together, and I assumed you and Leif would be opposed to it. He simply wished to hear it from you firsthand.”
Rafe didn’t answer, his gaze on her so intent she thought he might see straight through to her inner thoughts.
Out of the corner of her eye, Mavis saw Arden’s shoulders slump, and even without looking at him directly, she had no trouble at all reading every emotion that flickered over his face: defeat, hopelessness, resignation.
Emotions Mavis was all too familiar with.
Ones that would plague her for the rest of her days as she toiled away to line Minstead’s pockets without ever living for herself.
Mavis might have passed Rafe’s test, but she’d failed her own.
“Well, Mr. Ryskamp—” Rafe began, but before he could get any further, Mavis interrupted.
“But.” The single word drew the attention of all three men back to her. “If it were up to me, I’d agree.”
“Oh?” Rafe blinked.
“Without thinking twice.” She paused. “Well, I might think twice, given the circumstances, but not much beyond that. It’s two million solas, Rafe.”
Rafe scoffed. “Two million solas of make-believe money is worth less than the lint in my pockets.”
“It isn’t make-believe—” Arden started, but Rafe cut him off with a glare.
“Until the money is in your possession, Mr. Ryskamp, it absolutely is make believe and as worthless as any promise you might make along with it.”
It was a fair point, but not one Mavis was willing to concede. Not yet. “If we took the job, it wouldn’t be a difficult one for me to manage. There would be no extra expenses, no more time. It would be the easiest money we’ve ever made.”