The candlelight had burned down to almost nothing.
What little flame remained threw long, trembling shadows across the walls of the flower shop — across the hanging dried bouquets, the empty clay pots stacked in the corner, the pale petals scattered across the floor like confetti left over from a celebration no one remembered.
Rowan stood very still.
The flintlock was aimed at the centre of his forehead.
Joel's hand didn't shake.
That was the first thing Rowan noticed — and it frightened him more than the gun itself. A nervous man with a weapon could be reasoned with. A steady one had already made his decision.
Rowan exhaled slowly through his nose.
"I knew it! You did all of this, didn't you? You cut your own hand," he said.
It wasn't a question.
Joel tilted his head, the way a person does when something mildly interesting crosses their path.
"I did," he said.
"With what?" Rowan asked. "The cutlery knife was blunt. I felt the weight of it when I moved it off the table."
