I must have gone mad. Or been corrupted, horribly corrupted, all my values—not to mention simple common sense—driven right out of my head. Which was probably why I’d gone mad.
I was doing a good deed.
It was still fairly early in the evening when I rode Tipple into Slowbend. The sun was low enough to reflect in the diamond panes of the west-facing windows, casting fragments of sunlight over the cobbles, and sometimes, curse it, into my eyes.
I’d spent most of the several months after I’d left Michael in Tallowsport trying to find a scam that tempted me...and failing. Curse him.