”Reload this,” Malcolm said brusquely, thrusting his pistol and the tin from his pocket into her hands. He crept out of the graveyard and eased his way to the edge of the Churchyard, peering back the way they’d come.
Margo stared stupidly at the gun. The tin was heavy. It rattled She had no idea how to reload this revolver. It wasn’t anything like the revolvers Ann Mulhaney had taught her to shoot. She was still staring idiotically at it when Malcolm returned.
He took the pistol-then swore in language she hadn’t known he could use. “You didn’t reload!”
Tears prickled behind her eyes. “I—”
”First you pull a stupid stunt like fighting that street tough–”
”But he was robbing us!”
Malcolm’s pallor turned to marble coldness. “I was going to give him the goddamned money! My God, it’s just a few pence! You nearly got us both killed–and I had to risk shooting that lout—”
”You didn’t even shoot to kill!”
If she’d used that tone with her father, he’d have blacked half her face. Malcolm didn’t hit her. Instead, his voice went as icy as the filthy stone against which she huddled.
”We are not at liberty to shoot whomever we please. Getting out of a fatal jam without killing anyone is a time scout’s job. If the Britannia Gate opened up right now and Kit stepped through, I’d tell him to send you packing back to whatever miserable little town you came from. Give me the goddamned bullets:”
She handed over the tin. Her hand shook. Malcolm jerked the cord loose, opened the sliding lid, and dumped three rounds into her hand.