Page 40 of Gilded Locks

Grace didn’t know how he knew about her dagger, but she didn’t have time to berate herself. She released the hilt.

The mayor was swallowed up in the crowd, too short to be seen by most.

“Get me a box!” The command echoed in the silent night as Sheriff Clairmont glared at the people nearest him until finally, someone scurried away and returned with the demanded item.

Mayor Nautin’s head popped up above the crowd. He’d climbed up on the box. “Farmers. I am so glad to be here at your… celebration. As I’ve journeyed through the town, I’ve noticed that we can expect quite a wonderful harvest this year.”

A few people started to mutter quietly but swallowed their words when neighbors jabbed them in the side.

“It is quite lucky that your crops are doing well. As you must have noticed, our newest residents have joined the harvest celebration this year. Next year, their crop will be planted and the Leroux farm will once again be in use. Lord Leroux has also graciously offered to tend one of the abandoned farms as well.

“The added crops will be a boon to our city. Any income to our people is income to our town, and we all benefit.”

Grace only just managed not to snort at that sentiment.

“However,” the mayor continued, “examination of the two farms has suggested there is a great deal of work needed to get the land ready to support crops again. As mayor, I feel a personal responsibility to help with this. But in evaluating the town’searnings, it has become clear that there is simply not enough in our stores.”

Was it possible for silence to turn sickly? Grace wouldn’t have thought so, but standing there amidst people who were barely surviving, Grace felt an air of illness fall over the people.

Personally, she felt an intense hatred blazing inside her. She knew what was coming.

“And so, I have come to the”—he paused to emphasize—“painfuldecision that I must increase taxes.”

A few cries of distress slipped out.

“Please. Do not fear. Few of you will give a coin more. I have been convinced by our esteemed sheriff that I’ve been overlooking the extra benefit the soirées provide to the gentry farmers. So, only those who are able to attend the soirées will see the increase in taxes.”

Deep dread washed over Grace. Only farmers who attend the soirées. Only her family—and now the Lerouxs. It wasn’t a blade to the throat, but it was a direct attack. The mayor had declared war against the Robbinses. He wanted them out.

What he didn’t realize was that he would sink the entire town along with them.

“Are you serious?”

The words sliced through the silence, and all eyes shifted in the direction they’d come from.

Grace couldn’t see the speaker, but she knew who it was. She’d just heard that voice moments ago.

Why was Willa Leroux talking to the mayor like that?

“I beg your pardon?”

“You don’t deserve pardon for such ridiculousness. I want a better explanation. I had assumed when you offered to help us prepare the farmland that you intended to use the funds for this month’s tax party.”

Whispers started, most of them predictions of consequences for the young woman.

Though she wouldn’t have thought it possible mere minutes ago, Grace, too, felt worry building for Willa. And a heavy dose of jealousy. How many times had Grace wanted to call out Mayor Nautin so directly?

“Well?” Willa grew impatient with the mayor’s flabbergasted silence.

“Young lady, you are clearly unfamiliar with what it takes to manage a city and its funds.”

“Perhaps, but I’m beginning to think that being familiar hasn’t done much to help you.”

“How dare you…” The mayor was getting flustered and red, the creamy moonlight illuminating the deep beet color on his forehead, cheeks and neck and reflecting off his golden neck cloth. “Clairmont! Take the girl to the town hall. I think we need to have a private conversation about what amounts to treason in this town.”

Sheriff Clairmont took a step forward and reached out toward Willa.

An arrow flew above the heads of the onlookers, so close to the mayor standing on the box that several blond strands of hair whipped in the wake of the projectile. It thunked against the oak wall of the storage barn and fell to the ground rather than embedding into the wood.

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