The heavy numbness of his hand dragged him out of sleep. Although Connor was on the second storey of the coaching house, far from the rain-laden ground, the Spirit Mother could still warn him of danger. Bleary-eyed, Connor lifted his eyelids and noticed the door had been left ajar.
Grunting softly, stiff from his awkward sleeping position on the chesterfield, he sat up. He was uncomfortable wearing his new silk shirt and fitted trousers, but Riona had been right: he couldn’t remain in his soggy clothes. She had even shoved into one of the new frocks during a moment of lucidity and had dove back into the depths of unconsciousness. Ollivan had obsessed over his new purchases before settling into the chair, which he’d moved closer to the door…
…but now, he was nowhere to be seen.
Downstairs, Connor noted the soft rumblings of late guests and the sound of dice rolling across wooden tables, though the din had died considerably since he’d fallen asleep. He didn’t hear Ollivan. Perhaps he had gone outside to the privy.
Rubbing his arm, the numbness abated as he crept to the door and peered into the hallway. Two flickering candle-lit wall lanterns lined this section of the corridor. Outside, through the window on the balcony door—the void blackness of the night. It had to be at least midnight, if not later.
Just as he was about to retire once more to the chesterfield, the door to the Islander gentleman’s room creaked open, and someone who was not the Islander emerged. The shadow’s gaze lingered over his shoulder, as if afraid to leave something valuable behind.
For a long moment, Connor considered returning to his makeshift sleeping spot in peace. After all, it wasn’t his business who the Islander was entertaining in the middle of the night. Drawing attention to himself was the last thing they needed. Attracting negative attention from the Islander would be doubly unpleasant. Connor dreaded hearing his father’s familiar lilting accent through a stranger in the night.
To know what happens next, give the episode a listen!