But when her eyes found Morrow’s again, they looked more bemused than angry.
Morrow flushed deep. “Ma’am—I’m very sorry. But I just didn’t feel I could let that go any further.”
“No,” Miz Colder agreed. She massaged her jaw a moment, grimacing, then added: “I understand, I think. Though . . . you’ll forgive me, I hope, if I don’t thank you for it.”
“Son of a bitch never told me his damn name,” Chess muttered, at the same time, half to himself. ’Cause it always had to be about him, Morrow thought, exasperated.
He glanced back Miz Colder’s way a moment later, and was shocked to see her drop a tiny little shrug, as though in sympathy: Oh God, here’s another one. But no confirmation followed, one way or the other; she simply took a further moment, avoiding his eyes while working blood lightly through the fine skin ’long her profile with two fingers, so it’d be less likely to bruise.
Before starting over, eventually: “Well, be that as it may, Messrs. ‘Chester,’ though those downstairs may not read much, I do, and daily. That’s how I ascertained what your real names might be, and how I know something you might not already’ve figured out, likewise . . . that—rumours and superstition aside—the Weed really must follow people, since it’s sprung up overnight in just about every place you two’ve been reported.”
Chess stiffened. “Not here, though,” he countered. “Think I’m right, on that account.”
“No. Not yet.”
Not much to say to that, though knowing it’d never stopped Chess anytime previous. Still, when he went to rebut, Morrow shushed him; Chess cast his eyes up, and let him.
“We’re listening,” Morrow said.
“First choice—I don’t guess you know how to send it on its way again, do you? Rumour has it you can kill Weed by spilling blood. That true?”
Chess laughed harshly. “For all the good it’ll do your pissant little town, yeah. In a manner of speaking.”
The girl’s mouth thinned, and Morrow jumped in. “It’s a pagan working, a prayer in tribute to that thing you saw: let blood in the name of the Skinless Man, and the Weed turns brown, green grass grows fresh over wherever it’s spread. But . . .” He heard his own voice crack, and forced it steady. “I’ve seen it happen. It’s . . . no natural thing. Better it never comes to that.”
Miz Colder considered, and nodded. “All right, then. Second choice—you need to get out of here, just as bad as all of us need you gone. So let’s work on that a minute.” She rose, hands clasped, and began to pace. “I’m not too like to report you to the authorities, since odds are, you’d do damage on your way out. I don’t want that. You either, probably.”
Chess snorted. “Hell, I don’t mind. Ain’t like we ain’t shot our way free before.”
“Maybe. But what you probably don’t know is there’s going to be a wedding all day tomorrow—Marshal Kloves’, town law, with all his friends come in to celebrate.”
Morrow rubbed his forehead. “Aw, God damn . . .”
“Town was nearing full already,” the girl went on, “and with Mouth-of-Praise’s flux set on top, we’re stuffed to bursting. Not to mention the Sheriff’s got constituents panicked Weed will set in any moment, so there’s patrols everywhere, eyes well-peeled for any hint of green and red, which makes trying to sneak out unnoticed probably a foredoomed endeavour.” She paused at the window, twitching the curtains close-to. “And so . . .”
Chess shrugged. “So? Your hootenanny goes off as planned or not, don’t mean a damn thing to me, little girl, or Ed, besides. Though you sure must play a mean hand of poker, given your skill at schemin’.”
Miz Colder fixed him, voice even, eyes cold. “I don’t believe you’ve cause to condescend to me, Mister Pargeter.”
Chess’s eyes narrowed, and Morrow jumped in again. “It’s, uh . . . it’s nothin’ personal, Miz Col—”
“Yancey.”
Morrow blinked. “Pardon?”
“Experiance, that’s my name. Yancey to my friends—or to those I share secrets with.” She gestured. “You were saying?”
“Yeah, Ed, what were you sayin’?” Chess turned Morrow’s way, mouth still set in that mean little knot. “’Bout to plead pardon from Miz Yancey for my manners?”
Morrow gritted his teeth. “Look, Chess here don’t deal too well with those of the fairer persuasion, in the main,” he told her. “Which might be ’cause, uh . . .”
“I know ’bout him and Reverend Rook, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“Um, well . . . good, but no. I meant ’cause his Ma was—uh—”
Here euphemism failed him, polite or otherwise.
Chess laughed outright. “Oh, don’t be shy, Ed; if this one’s smart enough not to choke on the word ‘queer,’ ‘whore’ can’t be far behind.” Abruptly, Chess was off the bed, backing Yancey up swift ’til her shoulders met the wall. “My thoughts on pussy aside, though, gal—just how you plan on workin’ this particular miracle, exactly? ’Cause I can make gold outta shit, these days, and I’m fairly stumped.”