the smuggler’s bible

Lark

Malkin insists that they tie her to a chair. They find a knife in her pocket and another strapped to the inside of her wrist. No identification, of course. Even so, she’s Lark.

“Did you know?”

“Not until I got down here and opened the letters.”

“And then?”

“Do you want me to say I cried and sweated all night wrestling with my conscience? I saw it was you and figured I ought to bring two guns.” She cranes her neck to peer at the holes in the wall. “But after all,” Lark says, “maybe three would have been better.”