“That doesn’t seem like her.”
Micah shrugged. “Does it matter? I have your pieces.”
“All accounted for?”
“Counted them myself.” He dug in the inside pocket of his jacket to pull out the dingy bag Clara had given him. It jingled as he put it into Booker’s outstretched hand.
Booker nodded. “She have any minced words for me?”
“She wants you to keep your Silt out of the Yellow District.”
Booker threw his head back in a chortle of whooped laughter. “Some things never change. Those moldy bastards beg me for it. Not like I’m sneaking around trying to pawn it off on them.” He pocketed the bag of coin before allowing his eyes to settle back on his little brother, casting him a knowing look. “How’s your head?”
Micah forced a neutral expression. “It’s fine.”
“No.” Micah’s voice was cold. Silt was the last thing he needed.
“Gonna explain to me why you were late coming home?”
“I took the long way. Needed to clear my head. Anna’s was…exceptionally expressive tonight.”
“I don’t need to tell you that the men noticed your absence.” An edge settled in Booker’s tone, a warning wrapped in the placating nonchalance.
“It won’t happen again,” Micah said.
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