Roland's study, probably the first place she would look, was empty. Nothing in it had moved since the last time they had been there, the day before. She would find him in his room, instead, hunkered in front of the hearth with Jacquard's gun in his hands, staring moodily into the fresh-laid fire.
He had been ready for Farson's men. He didn't think he was fooling himself in that. If Henry had been working for Farson, he would have shot him dead in an instant. If he had made that challenge out of hatred, the same. But Roland had seen that look before, and knew it had been in his own eyes all too often. There had been a desperation in the man's face, and a grief that spoke of something he had believed unavoidable.
And that was the last thing Gilead needed. With doubt besetting everything the Affiliation had once held, to have those seeds of mistrust sown in their own ranks... gunslingers turning to Farson was one thing, but this...
"I should just have shot him," he muttered, under his breath. "Stopped him spreading his poison."
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He had been ready for Farson's men. He didn't think he was fooling himself in that. If Henry had been working for Farson, he would have shot him dead in an instant. If he had made that challenge out of hatred, the same. But Roland had seen that look before, and knew it had been in his own eyes all too often. There had been a desperation in the man's face, and a grief that spoke of something he had believed unavoidable.
And that was the last thing Gilead needed. With doubt besetting everything the Affiliation had once held, to have those seeds of mistrust sown in their own ranks... gunslingers turning to Farson was one thing, but this...
"I should just have shot him," he muttered, under his breath. "Stopped him spreading his poison."