“I didn’t know about the cup.”

“Your dear friend the berserker didn’t tell you?”

“He said ‘just a sip.’ He didn’t say why. He knows I don’t like mead, I thought he meant it tasted bad.”

“And you didn’t enjoy yourself?”

“No more than you did.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“So.”

“I can get away afterwards. If I do it.” If this is Dorothy’s dream — but Anatole he’s pretty sure he can take in a fair fight, and Z in an unfair one. 

“—no, I’m not done yet. Why her? Just because she’s God’s most special little soldier?”

Yes. “She runs the place. Take her out, half the others die fighting about who takes over. Besides — I don’t want her coming after me. Plus, you hate her guts.”

“You’re very committed to your chastity—”

Cooperating. It’s cooperating time now.

“What do you need from me?”

“I mean. I’m not … super confident … in my ability to actually do it. Even if I try to sneak up on her at night or something.”

“She does sleep. Although she seems to be out at all hours recently.”

“Yeah but tell me that if I tiptoe up to her bed at night she won’t do a backflip upright and pin me to the wall with her little finger.”

“I wouldn’t bet money on it.”

He toys with the knife in his hand.

“Your friend’s help would make this much easier, but I’m not sure you could get it.”

“He’d help me with a lot of things but murdering people in their sleep is not his speed.”

Also his heart rebels at getting Z involved in murder. 

Footfalls signal someone approaching down the path.

Anatole stands and dresses, without ever turning his back.

“We should have this discussion somewhere slightly less exposed.”

He’s not staring. He’s not staring. 

“Got any ideas?”

“Plenty. And you gave us an excellent excuse to be walking off into the hills.”

“I suppose I did.”

Do not ask him if he wants to solidify their alibi. Don’t do it. Nope. 

He sheathes his knife and tucks it away, then ducks out through the new hole in his dwelling, expecting Camillo to follow.

Good god that’s hot. 

Camillo traipses on after. 

They spend a fair few minutes walking away from the village and then picking through the woods. 

Eventually, they reach the base of a rocky outcropping with a few large logs scattered around a rock-lined pit of ashes.

“You can hear people coming from a mile away, here.”

He takes a seat.

So what do you normally use this spot for? Camillo doesn’t ask. 

Perching on a log, he asks instead: “Got any brilliant ideas?”

“Would she trust you with her food?”

“She’d trust me within six feet of her food. I feel like if I tried to bake her cookies she’d get suspicious.”