Curses

by Lish McBride

  She was nowhere near halfway when someone took the seat across from her. Florencia gave her a passing glance, her eyes automatically assessing and cataloguing the woman’s worth. Her clothes were shabby, her floppy hat dipping low to obscure blond hair that was almost white and lips that made a dainty bow. An artful smudge of dirt stroked one cheekbone. This woman wanted to appear down on her luck, lowborn, and working class, but the contents didn’t match the wrapping. Her skin was porcelain pale, fingernails shaped and clean. Florencia had a hunch, but she needed a little more information, so she stuck her hand out. “Florencia,” she said, adopting a local accent she frequently heard around the docks.

  The woman took her hand, giving it an awkward shake. “Delilah.”

  Though she kept her face benignly friendly, inside, Florencia felt a flush of triumph. Delilah, which most certainly was not her name, had soft hands. No calluses meant no labor, and the awkward shake implied she wasn’t used to that greeting. Between that and her upper-crust accent, Florencia figured that Delilah was the kind of person more used to dropping a curtsey than clasping palms. No, Delilah was fairyborn playing at human.

  For a moment, she considered whether Delilah was a godling in disguise—a favorite trick for the capricious creatures, used to catch mortals up so they could bestow their magic upon them. But no, Florencia thought not. When godlings disguised themselves, they used glamour magic to blend, making themselves look human. Away went the tipped ears, the wings, the pearlescent sheen to skin that could be anything from faintly green to blue-black. There was variation on the theme, like any other creatures, depending on ancestry.

  The mistake most people made was to trust their eyes, but Florencia knew the secret. Godlings had a way about them, an air of haughty otherness that was hard to explain, but easy for her to identify. She’d made it her mission early in life to learn what she could about them and their fairyborn descendants. Not all of them had deep pockets, but there were other things they could offer, and Florencia had three gifted children to prove it.

  The fairy race didn’t produce a lot of children, and over the years, they’d intermingled with humans to the point that they were hopelessly enmeshed, producing fairyborn, like Delilah. Oh, Florencia couldn’t see any hint of her lineage—the hat covered her ears, skin could be obscured, and very few of the born had wings anymore. But Florencia had spent a lot of her life fleecing those with money or power, and the fairyborn often had both. She was willing to bet her boots that Delilah was one of them, which meant Florencia’s luck had turned.

  “Delilah, you look like a lass down on your luck,” Florencia said, a hint of sympathy honeying her guileless tone. “Care for a drink and a sympathetic ear?” Florencia didn’t wait for Delilah to respond before waving at the bar lad for a pint of ale.

  “You are too kind.” Delilah clasped her hands demurely in her lap. “Am I so transparent?”

  Florencia pulled out two more coppers to trade for the horse piss they called ale and smiled. “Only to someone who has been in the same predicament.”

  The bar lad took the coppers and handed Delilah her glass with a wink and a friendly smile before scurrying off to the next table.

  “I’m afraid I’ve hit a spot of trouble,” Delilah said, her elegant hands fluttering in the air like doves. She was a lovely creature, Florencia thought, and smart enough not to touch her ale. “And, oh, I know it’s not your problem, but I needed a friendly face.”

  Florencia buried a snort. Her face was many things, but “friendly” wasn’t on the list. She had the feeling Delilah, or someone in her employ, had witnessed Florencia’s problems at the dock. Delilah didn’t need a friendly face—she needed a desperate soul.

  “Ah, lass, your words land on sympathetic ears,” she said, patting the younger woman’s hand. “I, too, have had a spot of troubles. I came all this way, only to leave with empty pockets and an emptier cart.”

  Delilah gasped in dismay, one of those dove-like hands coming to roost on her chest. The motions were perfect, but her eyes gave her away. This was not news to Delilah.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said.

  Florencia shrugged. “The sea is a fickle mistress. She gives and takes, and we love her still, more fools we.” For a second Florencia thought she might be laying the folksy sailor routine on a little heavy, but the woman either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

  Delilah tutted, all concern, then leaned back, her face lighting up as if a sudden idea had occurred to her. Florencia wanted to applaud. Someone had given this woman a playbook, and she was following it to the letter. Now she would lean in, clasp Florencia’s hand to establish contact and trust, and then offer a proposal that would help them both.

  Delilah rested her soft hand on Florencia’s, but the eyes shadowed by her hat were intent. “You have a fast horse and know this land well?”

  “I do,” Florencia supplied. “And once I sell my cart, I’ll move faster.”

  “Oh, this is wonderful! Not your misery,” she was quick to add. “But that we may help each other.” Delilah spun a tale of a dastardly trader who took her deposit but didn’t deliver the goods. “There is a manor close to here, scarcely over the border—a few hours’ ride on a good mount and a quick hop on a train, and you’d be there by nightfall. All I would need is a cutting of a plant—a single flower.” She held her hands out as if to say, This is so simple, you should be paying me for the opportunity.

  “Why can’t you get the cutting yourself?” Florencia asked.

  Delilah looked forlornly into her ale. “There was a mix-up with my travel papers. So tedious, but one can’t cross the border out of Huldre without them. I’d wait for new papers, but time is a factor, you understand. It seemed better to hire a trader to act as a go-between.” She leaned closer, her eyes shifting to the crowd around them. “To be honest, there’s some bad blood between the sellers and myself, too. It’s all so silly, really.”

  Silly, but necessary. The kingdom of Huldre may have been as small as some of the baronies under Queen Lucia’s thumb, but it was still its own sovereign nation. Slipping across the border between Huldre and Pieridae would be complicated without the right papers.

  Delilah pulled a small pouch from under the table. She placed a single golden coin on the scarred table, wing side up. “For the train fare. I can give you five more up front. The other half on delivery.”

  Florencia picked up the coin. She counted the spots on the wings and the ridged lines. Pretending to consider the deal, Florencia turned the coin in her hand. Her fingers traced the grooved ridges along the thin side of the coin before examining the other side, which held the queen’s crown. Forgery was a deadly game, but some people still played. The coin caught the light, a flash of gold. This monarch, at least, was real. Ten of them wouldn’t replace what she’d lost today, but it would be a good start. It also tipped Delilah’s hand. Five monarchs was more than most people saw in a month. Ten? Ten was mighty desperate.

  “That’s a lot of money,” Florencia said, pretending reluctance. “Is the job dangerous?”

  Delilah’s hands fluttered again, graceful but with a hint of impatience. “No, it’s only that the plant is rare, and I’m in a hurry. I’m already behind schedule as it is.”

  Florencia didn’t ask if the job was illegal. It most certainly was, and though she was curious as to what tales Delilah would spin, the day was wearing on. Time to pluck this errant dove. “Eight now, seven on delivery.”

  “Six and six,” Delilah countered.

  “We could spend all day arguing down to the copper,” Florencia said, placing the monarch on the table. “Or we can cut to the chase and end on seven and seven.”

  “Deal,” Delilah said, though she wasn’t happy about it.

  Florencia eased back in her chair, a smile on her face. “Well, then, I think our stars align themselves nicely, don’t you?”

  * * *
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  Florencia sold her cart, fattening her purse further. She would need the speed more than the cart. She packed her meager supplies into her saddlebags before swinging smoothly onto her horse and heading inland to catch the train. She’d memorized Delilah’s instructions, burning the paper they’d been written down on.

  She forked over a half crown for her train ticket to Veritess, grumbling over the extra buckeye she had to add to cover her horse’s travel in the livestock car. The line to get on board was slow since everyone had to show not only their tickets but their papers. Florencia’s happened to be fake, but her youngest son had made them, so she knew they’d pass scrutiny. His forgeries were impeccable.

  On her way off the train, she picked a man’s pocket merely to make herself feel better and to make up for the money spent on tickets. She’d long ago graduated past such things, but liked to keep in practice. Her horse was galloping away down the muddy streets before the man even noticed his money was gone.

  Night descended, clouds gathered, and a cold, cutting rain fell, turning the road into ruin. Though the woods might offer cover, a hard winter and a cool spring made for desperate wolves and other things. Worse things. She powered through toward the manor. If she could sneak in during the cover of nightfall, all the better.

  Florencia thought she was dreaming when she spotted the golden magework bird roosting on the manor gates. When the bird’s beak opened and the crisp voice of one of the staff issued out, offering a warm meal and a dry bed, she knew she’d found the right place. The magework was delicate and so exquisitely done that it looked real. Not a lot of people would be able to afford such a creation, but the kind of person who would have a flower worth fourteen gold pieces would. Through the bird the staff offered hospitality without having to slog down to the gates in the rain. Florencia had expected the offer. It wouldn’t do to turn down a stranger—a weary traveler might be a godling in disguise.

  Florencia was fed, bathed, and tucked into opulent guest quarters in a sprawling mansion set far back from the road. She met no one but the staff, who were faultless in their duties. After she was cared for, Florencia considered sneaking out to look for the flower, but decided to wait until morning. The evening was miserable, the manor lands appeared quite vast, and it would do her no good to get lost in the rain.

  In the morning she found her trousers, shirt, and other clothing clean and pressed, smelling faintly of oranges. She put them on, feeling light with possibility, and if a few small, priceless objects found their way into her pockets, who was there to see? No one. The staff had left her to her business after breakfast. Once her horse was saddled, a groom gave directions back to the main road coupled with a warning to stick to the path. She tipped her hat at him, amused by the blush that pinked his ears.

  Florencia kept her eyes to the sides of the path as she rode. Delilah had never given her the plant’s name, but had described it in detail, so Florencia dawdled, stopping frequently on any pretext to take a moment to search the side of the path. As her horse clopped along, they passed orchards, topiaries, and brightly colored flowers she could not name, all things she’d missed in last night’s darkness and rain. She was entranced by their vivid pinks, yellows, and deep, vibrant reds. The road turned, and she saw a small shrub tucked away off the road, the first in a neat series of rows. Triumph bloomed in her.

  She urged her horse closer and inspected the flowers. Long, delicate white petals, freckled with a muted gray. The center and stamen were a gentle, blushing pink. She was no botanist, but even she could identify a flower if given enough detail. She didn’t hesitate, but swung down, sliding her field knife from the leather sheath attached to her belt. Florencia cut away a small branch with three of the flowers, wrapping the stem in a dampened handkerchief as she’d been instructed. Giddiness filled her, as it always did when a job was going well. Now all she had to do was take the train back over the border and collect.

  Florencia turned to grab her horse, but never reached the reins. Metal brambles, their thorns thick and barbed, boiled from the forest floor, trapping her. Up they grew, tangling her in their grip, until her feet left the ground. Her horse shied away from the magecraft, but not fast enough, the reins snagging on the briar, keeping the horse from bolting completely. There Florencia hung, bleeding, fuming, and cursing the magic that held her tight, when a roar cut through the forest.

  All bird chatter stopped.

  Insects quieted.

  Even the sun hid behind a cloud. She reached for her pistol, her fingers barely grazing the grip. Her knife lay on the grass under her, useless.

  Florencia’s mind tried to make sense of the creature materializing from a copse of woods. Horns spiraled back from an angry brow. Eyes flashed. Fangs snarled. A scaled tail lashed, and a grinding voice of nightmares issued forth from its maw. “How dare you take what’s ours?”

  Florencia trembled, the brambles digging deeper, and for the first time in her life, she knew real fear.

  “You will pay,” the creature snarled. “With your life if need be.” The creature moved then, all sinuous grace and predatory glide.

  “I have no money,” Florencia said. She’d sewed her coins into her jacket lining this morning. It was unlikely that the creature would find them. Florencia kept her words calm and even, though her mind spun, looking for an out. There had never, not once, been a situation she couldn’t spin, or a deal gone south that she couldn’t talk her way out of.

  “What you hold is more precious than money. You have taken my hospitality. You’ve seen my home. Do you think I need something as common as coin?” A chuckle escaped the beast, low and mean.

  Only someone born to privilege could be so dismissive of such things. Florencia ignored the voice, the tail, the snarling teeth. Those would only frighten her, and she needed her wits. She looked into its eyes and calmed almost immediately. This beast may snarl and growl, but the eyes glittered with intelligence. She could reason with it. Florencia had spent her entire life fleecing those born to privilege. Whether the creature was hideous and horned didn’t signify. Inside, the rich were all the same.

  “I’m sure we can come to some sort of understanding.”

  “Perhaps,” the beast said. “I think our trade should be like for like, don’t you think? You took several blooms, likely damaging the plant in the meantime. Blooms that could mean someone’s life.” The creature stalked closer to her now. She could feel its hot breath on the back of her neck.

  “You want my life?” Florencia asked.

  “I’m not sure it would be worth the trade,” the beast snarled. “Caen’s bloom is worth more than the life of a dishonorable thief.”

  “You’re right, of course,” Florencia said quickly. “I’m hardly worth the trade. What use would I be?”

  The beast stopped, eyes narrowing. It hadn’t expected her quick agreement.

  Florencia licked her lips, the idea barely forming before she spoke it. “I have nothing, am nothing. The only thing I have worth a bean is my son.”

  The beast crept around her now, staring her in the face. “You wish to trade your son for your freedom?”

  “Yes,” Florencia said. “As you have pointed out, I have no value. But Tevin? The light of my life? The jewel of the DuMont house? You will find no one more charming or handsome. He would cover my debt, I am certain.”

  And so Florencia DuMont sang the praises of Tevin to the beast, feeling no guilt whatsoever about trading away her oldest son. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time.

  CHAPTER 2

  GOOD FAMILY ALWAYS BAILS YOU OUT

  Tevin DuMont waited at the servants’ entrance. Now that the Downings knew the truth, they wouldn’t want the likes of him coming in the front door. He spun a bowler hat in his hand, his body relaxed as he leaned against the brick edifice that was the Downing household when they weren’t at their country estate. The town
house was in a fashionable neighborhood off of the market square, nestled right in downtown Grenveil. If that didn’t tell Tevin how deep the Downings’ pockets were, the bustle of servants going in and out the back and the scale of deliveries being dropped off would have. Out of habit, Tevin counted them up as they went in the door next to him. Hothouse flowers, sides of venison, a brace of quail, cheeses in thick wax rinds, fresh apples, and cases of sparkling wine. And more—so much more. It was an embarrassment of supplies, and they weren’t even having a party. Well, maybe they were going to have a private one as soon as they got rid of him.

  Tevin popped his hat back on and began to whistle. That was usually the last straw for most people. He only managed a few bars before the door snapped open and one of Downing’s hired men poked his head out.

  “The master will see you.” His tone very much implied that he didn’t think the master should do any such thing.

  “Obliged.” Tevin tipped his bowler with a grin, and the man softened. That was the best way Tevin could describe it. His gift of charm didn’t change people or cloud their minds; it only made them more moldable, like warm wax in skilled hands. The charm might have been a fairy gift, but his looks were his own, and he wielded both with the casual ease of someone long used to a task.

  The hired man—probably a butler—led Tevin through the kitchen. “Would you like something? Sandwiches? A fresh apple? The cook makes a lovely raisin bun—”

  Tevin patted the man’s shoulder genially. “No, thank you. I’m sure the master would like to see me quickly.” When the butler looked crestfallen, he added, “Perhaps on the way out.” After all, he didn’t want to disappoint the man. And he was hungry.

  The butler nodded. “I’ll ask the cook to set one aside for you.”

  Tevin followed the butler through the obscene wealth that comprised the Downing household. His boots met thick imported carpets. The light that fell on him was filtered through stained-glass windows. The candleholders all had fresh beeswax tapers ready for dusk. Mage light would have been cheaper and more convenient, but Downing had an old fairy lineage and wouldn’t want to dirty his home with mage magic. It would be beneath him. To Tevin it seemed senseless to pass up a cheap and useful innovation, but what did he know?