The cracked timber sheared downward, jagged cedar plunging toward Mercer's brow. But he didn’t flinch. Instead, with a harsh rasp from his throat, he lunged upward. His forearms met the falling trunk, canvas sleeve stitching popping along the seam. He shoved both palms straight into the jagged trunk. Bone smacked cured pine with a wet thud, arresting the fall three inches over his wet hair. His elbows locked, sinew banding hard across his forearms. A ragged breath ground through his teeth. He pinned the ceiling upright with raw leverage, shielding the settee from dropping lath and plaster. Damp soot ran down the bridge of his nose. His pupils stayed locked on Leta, rigid and unblinking. His knuckles, previously white, now gleamed red where the rough wood had scraped them.
Leta gagged, choking on a high screech. Her red-rimmed pupils shifted between the braced beam and Ovidia reclining upon the cushions. The snub-nosed barrel wavered, gray powder smoke curling off the cylinder. She backed into the corner, heel catching the edge of a braided rug. The poisoned macaroon had taken its toll, and her legs threatened to give out beneath her.
Ovidia blew a stray lock of hair off her forehead and let out a weary sigh. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Leta. Must you make such a mess?” She rolled her weight off the down pillows, smoothing the folds of her nightgown. Her nightgown, ruffled but still pristine, swayed around her ankles. She simply walked over to the small, intricately carved side table Mercer had recently placed beside the couch, her bare feet padding softly on the woven rug. From a small, ornate porcelain jar, she plucked a tiny, corked vial filled with a shimmering, amber liquid.
“Mercer’s been brewing a lot of this lately,” she said, her voice a calm, almost bored murmur. She gave the vial a casual toss. It spun through the air, a glint of glass, before landing with surprising accuracy in Leta’s lap. Leta stared at the cork, slack-jawed, then up at Ovidia. “Truffle extract. He says it’s good for, well, *everything*. Even poison, apparently. Though I’m sure you wouldn’t know anything about that.” Ovidia’s tone was utterly devoid of malice, merely stating a fact, as if discussing the weather. She was completely unfazed by the betrayal, by the gun, by the near-collapse of the cabin. Her only concern seemed to be the disruption to her afternoon.
Leta’s mouth opened and closed, no sound emerging. She clutched the vial, her trembling hands barely able to hold it. She had played Ovidia for a fool, and Ovidia had merely indulged her.
The entryway banged open, rattling on its cracked hinges. Enid Sterling stepped across the threshold, damp bangs plastered to her forehead, clamping a mold-spotted ledger under one elbow. Behind her, two burly men in local constable uniforms, Sheriff Bramwell and Deputy Finch, entered cautiously, their hands resting on their holstered sidearms.
“Leta Croft!” Enid’s voice rang out, sharp and accusatory. “We have your ledger. Years of carefully documented extortion, fraud, and attempted murder. The evidence is overwhelming.” She thrust the book forward, its pages filled with neat, damning script. Sheriff Bramwell unclipped a ring of brass keys from his belt.
Leta's gaze flicked from the ledger to Mercer, who stood motionless beneath the groaning beam. Her chin trembled as she glanced toward the shuttered window. She dropped to her knees, the vial of antidote slipping from her grasp to roll harmlessly across the warped wood floor. A choked sob escaped her lips, quickly followed by another.
Sheriff Bramwell stepped past the broken lath. “Leta Croft, you are under arrest for conspiracy, arson, and multiple counts of attempted murder.” He rattled off the statutory caution in a dry drone while she retched into her sleeve. Deputy Finch ratcheted steel cuffs around her wrists, wrenching her arms behind her back. They hauled her upright, her wet boots dragging over the floorboards as she glared at Ovidia. The police led her out, the door frame groaning in protest as they passed through.
Mercer watched them go, his gaze following Leta until she disappeared into the thick mist outside. The growl in his chest subsided, replaced by the ragged sound of his own breathing. He slowly, deliberately, released the immense weight he had been holding. The support beam settled back into its precarious position with a final, groaning sigh of stressed wood, dust motes dancing in the dim light. He dropped his arms, his powerful shoulders slumping, and finally, looked at Ovidia. His shoulders stiffened, watchful eyes searching her face for any flinch. He waited for her to recoil, to step away.
Instead, Ovidia took a slow, deliberate step towards him. Then another. She reached up, her soft hand brushing his cheek, gently wiping away a streak of grime and wood dust that clung to his skin.