The third installment of my winning entry for The Sandy writing contest. Find part 2 here.
As Iris approached the mahogany desk in the Captain’s quarters, Rachel placed the ring and confiscated dagger on its surface. At the sight of the ring, Iris clasped her hands tightly behind her back in an effort to restrain her excited grasp.
Danton strode in with his usual swagger, hands deep in the pockets of his brown, pinstriped trousers, tweed jacket swaying loosely about his waist. At ten paces from her desk, the Master-At-Arms came to a dead stop, his eyes fixed on the hilt of the knife she had taken from the fight.
“Danton?” Rachel said, but he seemed not to hear her. “Monsieur DuSalle?”
Iris laid a hand on his arm and his entire body recoiled. A trained killer’s reflex tightened his face and shoulders, but only briefly. He had not lost himself in thought so much as to lash out at a friend, but the Frenchman’s knuckles were white in his clenched fists.