A fair breeze came softly across the breakwaters and up the grassy slope to the walls of Castle Dulgath. Christopher Fawkes stood on the cliffs above the sea and took a deep breath. He was wearing his best doublet, which was to say his only doublet. It was missing a button and had a small bloodstain on the cuff.
Sherwood Stow’s blood.
He stood only a few feet from where Sherwood was killed—or at least where he had been hit by the quarrel. Christopher didn’t know if the artist had died there, as his body fell, or whether he’d survived both the blow and the drop to drown in the sea. He didn’t much care. Luckily, Christopher didn’t believe in the vengeance of ghosts. If he did, returning to the scene of his—or mostly Knox’s—crime might have been worrisome. Standing on a high bluff overlooking a crashing sea could provide a perfect opportunity for an angry spirit