Lottie could not sleep. Her mind ran like a rat in a trap, scampering from thoughts of Ethan locked in his airless little room under the eaves at The Bear Hotel to his son, alone and friendless, being hunted through the length of the kingdom. She rolled over, thumped the pillow, then threw herself down again with a sigh. It was too hot to sleep anyway but her thoughts gave her no rest. Ethan’s powerful frustration had communicated itself to her along with a desperate desire to do something, anything, to help. She had spent the afternoon in the markets and shops, drifting from one place to another, listening to gossip, trying to pick up the slightest hint that anyone knew of the whereabouts of Arland Ryder. She had sent Margery out to make discreet enquiries amongst the servants and mill workers, dropping the delicate hint of a reward for information. She had heard nothing. Most of the gossip had been about her; everyone, it seemed, had heard of her jaunt to London and now the on dit was that she had shot her former husband with an antique pistol before riding off bareback on one of Ethan’s carriage horses.
