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EPILOGUE

ROBIN

One year later

The Sheriff of Nottingham was arguing with a chicken.

I stood in the kitchen doorway with a cup of tea, enjoying the spectacle far more than I probably should have. There were few things in this world as entertaining as watching Guy Bisbane discover that his authority meant absolutely nothing to a stubborn hen.

Her name was Margaret.

Tuck had named her after a woman he'd known in Southwell. He refused to elaborate, which made me suspect there was a story worth hearing.

Margaret had four perfectly good nesting boxes in the coop. Unfortunately, she'd decided that the laundry basket on our back steps was a much better place to lay her eggs.

This morning, she'd settled herself among the freshly washed linen just as Guy was preparing to leave for Nottingham.

"Margaret," he said sternly. "Move."

She pecked his boot.

I took a sip of tea.

"Perhaps you should arrest her."

Guy glanced over his shoulder.

"Don't tempt me."

He turned back toward Margaret, who appeared entirely unimpressed by the man standing over her.

"I commanded four hundred soldiers on the northern border," he informed her. "I've dealt with traitors, murderers, and corrupt noblemen."

Margaret tucked her head beneath one wing.

"And yet," I said.

Guy sighed.

"And yet."

He bent down, carefully scooped her from the basket, and carried her toward the coop.

Margaret protested the entire way.

I laughed so hard I nearly spilled my tea.

When Guy returned, there was a feather stuck to his sleeve.

He stopped in front of me.

"Not one word."

"I haven't said anything."

"You're smiling."

"Am I?"