Chapter Ten
The inn was so small that it didn’t have a private parlor, but it had a coffee room with a low, beamed ceiling and a sturdy trestle table and a scattering of stools and chairs. It appeared that the locals preferred ale to coffee; Georgie had the room to herself. She paced, trying not to wring her hands, while outside the sky darkened.
When her father entered the room, she practically pounced on him. “How’s Vic?”
“He’s . . .” Her father hesitated.
“What?” she said, alarmed. “He’s not hurt, is he?”
Her father laughed and pulled her into a quick hug. “Relax, love. He’s not hurt. He’s just . . . unhappy. Confused.”
“Confused? About what?”
Her father hesitated again, and then said, “He has some decisions to make.”
The door opened. A serving maid entered and set to work layin
