Ada felt something inside her twitch, startled, like a bird that had forgotten it could still move.
Silas blinked, his drunk grin faltering. “Which one?” he demanded, and tried to laugh it off. “You want the pretty one? The youngest?”
Jonah’s gaze did not move.
“I want the fat one.”
The street went silent.
Not even the wind seemed to breathe for a moment.
Ada’s heart slammed against her ribs so hard it hurt. She heard a few men suck in their breath, heard a single sharp laugh that died halfway through because nobody could decide whether it was funny.
Her father’s grip loosened, then tightened again, as if he wasn’t sure whether Jonah’s choice was a blessing or an insult.
“You… you serious?” Silas asked, and his voice was suddenly wary. “Crowe, you got a cabin but you ain’t got—”
Jonah reached into his coat and pulled out a leather pouch. It looked heavy. He tossed it once, caught it, then threw it at Silas’s chest.
