He’s sure to wake soon.” Cyrus cast a baleful gaze toward the snoring drunk sprawled across the straw pallet on the floor. “Besotted before the midday meal.” He shook his head in despair. “’Twould not be so in your father’s time.” “Almost done.” Gwendolyn dipped her quill into the inkwell and scrutinized the list in front of her. “I can change this one to a four. This three to an eight.” Tallying up the numbers in her head, she smiled. “The total’s the same. I’ve just rearranged the assets.” The man on the floor muttered in his sleep and scratched his groin. He chomped his teeth and yawned. The smell of sour wine drifted toward her. “Let us be gone from here.” Cyrus tugged at her sleeve. “’Twould not go well should the steward find us.” “He’s not found us these many years, and at the rate he drinks, ’tis not likely he ever will.” Disgust and resignation echoed in her voice. The conditions at Cravenmoor never changed, never would until she could find a way to remove her uncle as lord.
