Page 38 of Echoes of the Raven
“Not in the mood.” He yawns.
“I need the exercise and not to mention the release of sword-to-sword combat.” I bite my tongue, fighting the urge to tell him I’m a thief.
“Wine can have the same effect.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Did you miss the part where I saidexercise?”
Getting up from his comfortable nest, he tips an imaginary glass to his lips five times in a row. “Need I say more?”
“But—”
He stops in front of me and presses a finger to my lips to silence me. “I’ve been thinking about how to get Don Justo off your back, and I think I came up with something.”
“You did?! I knew I could count on you.What should I do?”
“I can only discuss this if weexercise.” He tips an imaginary glass again.
I roll my eyes and sigh. “Fine then.”
We leave his room, take a sharp right, and head to the main cellar. There are three, one in each wing and one in the central building. We’re headed to the latter, the biggest one of them.
When we get there, Jago uses his Plumanegra key on the lock. To the right of the door, a shelf contains an array of candlesticks in brass holders. I grab one and light the candle in one of the gas lamps attached to the wall. The lamps are kept lit around the clock for this very purpose.
After pushing the door open, Jago grabs his own candlestick and lights it too, then descends the steep steps into the cellar.
“I know just the bottle I want to open,” he says.
A shiver climbs up my arms as the temperature drops. When we reach the bottom, Jago proceeds to light candles arranged on a table situated in the center of the elongated chamber.
“I’ll get the wine. You get the rest.” He walks down one of the many narrow aisles that extend into the darkness, carrying his candlestick.
I procure a corkscrew, glasses, and pristine white napkins from a well-stocked hutch, then arrange two places for us at a tall table.
“Get some cheese, why don’t you?” Jago’s voice echoes from down the aisle. All I see is his face illuminated by candlelight as he searches the shelves.
Before I fulfill this request, I retrieve a coat from a rack on the wall and slip it on. It’s slightly big, but the fur-lined collar promises the right amount of warmth. All the cellars are provisioned and maintained properly, supervised every day by one of theama de llaves—mistresses of keys—and I must say, they think of everything.
I find the customary three small wheels of cheese in the rack. I cut a few pieces of Jago’s favorite, Manchego, and my favorite, Roncal.
Jago returns with the candlestick in one hand, a wine bottle in the other, and a huge smile on his face. “1789 DV Xérès Oloroso. I’ve been working my wayback through the different vintages, and this is next. I’ve heard it’s exquisite.”
He expertly opens the bottle and pours it into the glasses. We both swirl and smell the wine, then take a small sip.
A moan sounds in the back of Jago’s throat, and he closes his eyes, savoring. He smacks his lips. “It doesn’t disappoint.”
“Agree,” I say, the taste is wonderfully nutty with lots of depth.
He pulls a stool closer to the table and sits, one leg on the stone floor and the other hooked over the footrest.
Once he appears comfortable, I get to the point. “So what’s your idea? How do we deal with Don Justo?”
“We kill him,” he announces.
I almost choke on my wine. After coughing a few times, I clear my throat. “You can’t be se—”
He laughs. “Of course, I’m not serious. The man is a dolt, but he did fight valiantly during what, from now on, shall be known as,” he holds his glass up, “The woes of the whimsical and witty Princess Valeria Plumanegra and the stolen fae amulet.”
“Don’t you think that’s a tad too long?”
