by C. L. Polk
I asked the dead if they had seen the sled, touching every spirit I could reach. They shrugged. They drifted away. I kept searching, kept asking, stretching my senses farther than I’d ever done.
But then one spirit roused, and I could feel the overwhelming fear, the pain, and under it all, the guilt—it rushed toward me, frantic with the emotions of the freshly dead.
“Oh no,” I said.
Miles went still. “What is it? What— Oh Solace, Solace no.”
I hardly dared open my eyes, despair pooling in my stomach. No. Please don’t be, please don’t—
But it wasn’t Grace’s shade standing before me. It was George, his orange greatcoat stained red with his blood, the fabric torn by bullet holes across his body.
“I am murdered,” George said. “They took her away. Please, help her.”
TWENTY-ONE
The War Measures Act
Grace’s sleigh, overturned in the middle of Bigby Street, blocked traffic and attracted spectators. George’s body spilled out over the road, his staring eyes wide, his mouth open as if he had shouted at the danger that gunned him down. The horses were stolen.
Miles gripped Tristan’s arm with one hand, covering his mouth with the other. “Ambushed,” he said. “Look at the street. There are a hundred shadows to hide in. They could have waited here, shot George, stolen the horses, and dragged Grace away.”
“Who, though?” Tristan asked. “And were there any witnesses? Did anyone see this happen?”
He addressed the last to the crowd, speaking at top volume, but they avoided his gaze and shuffled backward.
“Shot. George was shot,” Miles muttered. “Criminals carry pistols. Gangs.”
“So do royal guards,” Tristan said. “Or special tactics police.”
Miles stared at Tristan, his face bloodless. “We have to find her.”
“We can’t just run up and down the streets,” Tristan said. “We need to retrace her steps, from when Robin last saw her to the moment she was taken. We have to determine which of her enemies this could benefit. We have to consider ransom—”
“Whatever it is, we’ll pay it,” Miles said. “I don’t care how much. It doesn’t matter.”
“Sir Christopher?” A brown-clad constable approached Miles. “Sir Christopher, I know you want to get your sister back as fast as possible. If you’ll come with us, we’re going to coordinate a house-to-house search, and we want to ask you some questions.”
“Let’s go, Miles,” Tristan said. “Let’s get help from the police.”
I stepped closer. “Is there anyone I should inform?”
“Tell Aife,” Tristan said. “When we’re done with the police, may we shelter at the clan house?”
“For as long as you wish.”
“Ask Aife if she brought a finder. That’s our best chance.”
Tristan guided Miles up the street. They followed the constable who had invited them to the police station. George’s spirit hovered by my side, gasping as if he hadn’t realized he didn’t breathe anymore.
“George. What happened?”
“Shadows rushed the horses, like stagecoach robbers. They shot me. Dame Grace screamed—they dragged her out the back of the sleigh, I think.”
“How many?” I asked.
“I don’t know. More than a dozen. Twenty, in snow hoods, I couldn’t see their faces. Is she dead? Is she dead?”
“Quiet.” I reached out, calling to Grace’s spirit, relieved as the seconds ticked past without an answer. “No. Her ghost isn’t in Kingston. She’s alive. Could you tell anything about the kidnappers?”
“They were quiet,” George said. “They knew what they were about. They closed on us and did the job, like they’d done it before, maybe?”
Experienced kidnappers. Who had heard of such a thing? Who had experience hiding in a location, executing an attack with speed and deadly force, and then disappearing?
Former soldiers, for one—Amelia had talked to us about her support team, all experienced operators who snuck into range of their target, and then returned in stealth and speed. We’d asked about sharpshooters, but we hadn’t asked about the men who supported them.
I walked fast, headed east. George followed, darting into houses and apartments on a frantic search for Grace, just in case she had been taken to ground nearby. The wind shivered through my thin slip and lace skirt, useless for warmth in the middle of Snowglaze. Who else knew how to snatch somebody off the street?
Criminals, like Miles had said. A standover gang experienced in debt collection and swift reprisals.
“George,” I said, and the spirit was right next to me, blood shining on his coat buttons. “Were they wearing gray?”
“I don’t know, miss,” George said. “They had on hoods, like everyone has for deep freezes. Service coats—everyone wears those. Oh. Ribbons on their left arm, like—”
I lifted my left arm, where a yellow satin ribbon fluttered. “My people wouldn’t do this.”
“They wore them.”
“They sell four-foot lengths for a nickel.”
No one in Solidarity would kidnap Grace. But someone wanted it to look like they had. And who would that benefit?
The answer weighed a hundred pounds, all of it pressing on my shoulders. I climbed the stairs to the Clarkes’ apartment. I made my way inside and stopped at the settee where Aife and Ysonde shared a seat; they turned to stare at me in the exact same moment.
“Tristan sent me,” I said. “Grace has been abducted. He wants to know if you brought a finder.”
Aife glanced at Ysonde. “We did, but only one.”
I sighed, but the stiffness of their postures halted my relief. “What? What’s wrong?”
“Our finder is—was,” Ysonde amended, “the criminal and life-taker Aldis Hunter.”
I shivered. Miles had told me what Aife did to the Amaranthine responsible for the Laneeri scheme to attack Aeland from within its borders, transforming him into a riding beast and putting him in the royal stable. “So you can’t find Grace.”
“We cannot.” Aife gave me a regretful look. “We Amaranthines will help search for her, but your king is deeply fond of Grace. He’ll turn the entire city over searching for her, and those responsible will regret ever laying a hand on her.”
Would he? I didn’t know. At the very least, King Severin was furious with Grace for turning on him. Would he lift a finger to help her? Or was he connected to her disappearance?
I couldn’t let my doubts show. I smiled at Aife, nodded my head in agreement. “Miles and Tristan are spending the night in the clan house. They don’t want to leave Riverside until she’s been found.”
“I wouldn’t either,” Aife said. “I wish I could help you.”
“I can,” Ysonde said, rising to his feet. “May I open a window?”
“There’s a balcony on the other side of those doors,” Winnie said. “What are you going to do?”
“Recruit helpers,” Ysonde said, and opened both doors wide.
Chill air filled the room, and the sound of beating wings, soft trilling calls, harsh corvid cries, the hoot of an owl. Summoned from their nighttime hunt and comfortable roosts, bird after bird fluttered and landed near Ysonde, jostling each other for the Amaranthine’s attention. A nightjay made a sound like a bicycle bell. Sparrows landed on his outstretched hands, then flew off in a flapping hop to the rails. An owl took a prime spot on the railing, joined by a second, and then a third. Flocks of birds. Flights of birds. Braces and broods and bevies of them, all of them bright-eyed and centered on the Amaranthine, who said not a word as they gathered and crowded around him.
They waited, heads cocked as if they were listening, bobbing their heads as if they nodded agreement. Ysonde regarded them all, silent as he gazed on every one of the citizens of the air, and then nodded.
“Go,” he said, and the beating of their wings was like thunder. They rose in a great cloud into the midnight sky, their silhouettes blackening th
e moon. They circled the sky above the street and scattered in all directions.
The gathering had gone utterly silent. Ysonde closed the balcony doors, and the soft puff of a feather floated in the air.
“They’re looking for her,” Ysonde said. “If she’s outdoors for even a minute, they will find her.”
“Thank you.” I bent my head and my knee and touched my heart as I stood up. “I hope they find her. I have to go—I don’t know when Miles is going to need me.”
I put my boots back on and walked out into the street.
In a nearby tree, a wakeful sparrow chirped.
* * *
I waited for them in the kitchen. I kept the kettle warm and readied a pot of herbs to infuse and soothe frazzled nerves. There wasn’t enough sugar for cookies, so I kept a pan of oil on the stove, ready to make fry dough to serve with butter and jam. Miles loved fry dough. I hoped he’d be able to eat some.
After two hours, I paced from the warmth of the kitchen to the chilly front parlor, peering through the windows for any sign of Miles and Tristan, my own thoughts insisting on circling around the whole evening. King Severin could have had Jacob assassinated—and I had already guessed that Jacob had been killed by a spy exposing the steering committee’s secrets. That spy could be Gabrielle Meadows, the youngest member of the steering committee. The most passionately devoted to Solidarity. My biggest supporter.
I was so tired. My thoughts raced in weary circles. I walked to the kitchen, checking on the simmering kettle, then drifted back out to stare at the window. Grace had been kidnapped. Severin was a murderer. Gaby was a spy.
I rubbed my temples, massaging a throbbing ache across my forehead. I tried to fit my puzzle pieces together, but they wouldn’t fit with a tidy, satisfying click.
A peloton of bicycles rode up to the house, and I flung open the front door, running outside in my slippers. Miles and Tristan hoisted themselves out of sidecars and came to me, speaking quietly for the neighbors’ sake.
“The police want to search Hensley House for clues,” Miles said. “We’re going with them, to smooth the way with the staff.”
“We’ll stop at my house for rest and come back here after we’ve gotten some sleep,” Tristan said. “Did Aife bring a finder?”
“Only Aldis.”
“Blast,” Tristan muttered. “I should have known this wasn’t going to be easy.”
“Ysonde summoned the birds,” I said. “They’re all searching for her too.”
“That’s something,” Tristan said. “We’ll be back in Riverside soon. I still think she’s here.”
“Get some sleep,” I said. “You’re no good to anyone groggy.”
“Same to you,” Miles said.
“We will find her,” Tristan said. “We’ll find her, and we’ll bring her back.”
Soothing words. Something to believe in. I nodded and let them go, them and their squad of policemen, and went inside to take the oil off the stove.
Even with strong midnight herbs, I couldn’t sleep. I turned my face into the pillow and tried to breathe, imagining my body falling asleep bit by bit, from my littlest toe to the hair on my head, and instead I just watched the sky turn deep blue, streaked by the salmon pink and rose gold of dawn.
I was out of bed before the sun came up, and I opened the front door to two huge black headlines from the papers. KIDNAPPED! read the Star, with its usual terse sensationalism, but it was the Herald’s headline, taking up half the folded page that chilled my blood:
“I WILL NOT REST”: KING INVOKES WAR MEASURES ACT TO FIND ABDUCTED CHANCELLOR
Chancellor? Not former Chancellor? I backed into the house and unfolded the Herald. The article put ice in my stomach—in a passionate midnight declaration, King Severin had vowed to find “my loyal friend and most principled Chancellor” and blamed radicalized extremists for her disappearance.
He meant us, Solidarity. And he had mobilized the army, the police, and the royal guard to find her. To leave no stone unturned.
There wasn’t a single word about firing her. Or her resignation. My friend, the King had called her. My most loyal friend.
Lies. All of it lies. Grace had gone to quit her job. She had gone to tell him she was standing with Solidarity. And now she was missing, and the King was not-so-subtly blaming Solidarity for her disappearance. But when Grace was rescued, she’d shatter those lies in a minute. She’d tell the truth about deserting Severin. She’d tell the truth about who had taken her.
So why make up this story? Why lie to the papers like this?
Why lie, unless you knew the truth would never come out?
Nausea rolled through me. Severin had already killed someone, trying to take Solidarity down. He’d murdered a good man for the sake of holding on to power. Grace had turned on him. And once he found her murdered body, he could tell any story he wanted about it. He could use it to crush Solidarity to dust.
I had to go. Now. I had to get out into Riverside and find Grace before it was too late.
I dressed quickly. I called in Joy, and Mahalia, and George. I hauled my bicycle out of the shed and headed east, calling to Grace’s spirit.
I prayed she wouldn’t answer me.
TWENTY-TWO
A Nice Brick House with Beautiful Light
No answer as I pedaled out of the neighborhood. Carlotta Brown stopped me and pointed at her left arm while shaking her head vigorously. I stopped, and she crossed the street to meet me.
“They’re arresting everyone in Solidarity colors,” Carlotta said. “You’re no good to anyone locked up in Central.”
I wanted to rebel. My first urge was to refuse to take it off, that it would be cowardice, and I was no coward. But Solidarity wasn’t a ribbon. It wasn’t a color. And I couldn’t find Grace if I was locked up in a cell.
I held out my arm and let Carlotta pull the ribbon free. She slipped her own headwrap off her undressed hair and wound it around my head, hiding my distinctive braids. It wasn’t even half a disguise, but it might help.
“Go. Keep your head down. Find your friend,” she said, and hurried back to the sidewalk.
I tucked the ribbon into my pocket and pedaled on. Half a block later I had to stop at an intersection for a troop of brown-clad police marching young protesters to the police station. Shops had hastily taken down anything yellow in their display windows. The color had vanished, as if the hope of a better Aeland had fallen, trampled under the heavy-soled boots commanded by the King.
Mahalia and Joy moved through shops and returned, telling me the news—Angelus Merchant, vintage home goods dealer and secret book publisher, had been arrested. The Riverside community center had been raided, and police were arresting street peddlers offering spirit readings and other magical claims. They were arresting witches again. Mama’s had been taken over as a base of operations by the royal guard and had demanded she feed the guards with only a letter of promise for payment.
Doors were locked. Curtains closed, twitching open only long enough for a furtive peek. I joined a draft of bicyclists and no one even said good morning, let alone the usual talk and gossip that traveled with the people. And everywhere I looked, I saw the headlines.
But the birds flew overhead, singing in whatever tongue their species understood. None of the spirits I spoke to had seen anyone who looked like Grace. And her spirit never came to my call, no matter where I stopped to summon her.
Still alive. Hope beat fiercely in my chest. Grace was still alive, and I kept riding, climbing up King Philip Hill and heading east, calling to her spirit, hope rising with every unanswered minute, every silent mile.
I had gone so many blocks, stopping for soldiers, my gaze respectfully averted, that I had nearly forgotten why they were there and who they were looking for. I stopped at another intersection, but one of the scarlet-coated guards broke free of his unit and approached.
I took my hands off the handlebars, raising them. “Good morning, sir.”
“What’s your
business out here?”
“My name is Janice Baker,” I said. “And I’m going to call on a friend who’s feeling poorly.”
“What’s your friend’s name?”
Panic battered frantic wings against my ribs. I blurted the first name that fell off my tongue. “Gabrielle Meadows. She’s an art teacher.”
“You didn’t bring her any soup? Any bread?”
“Supplies are low at home,” I said. “I thought I’d help her with the washing up, make a little lunch—”
“It’s dangerous out here,” the guard said, peering at me. “You came out all this way for a friend?”
“She’s important to me,” I said. “I want to be sure she’s all right.”
“And what do you do, Janice Baker? Where do you work?”
“Beauregard Veterans’,” I said, and bit back a curse. “I’m a cafeteria worker. I work a split week, evenings.”
“So you’ll be out again. I’ll take you to your friend’s house. Where does she live?”
Blast it. Blast it to pieces! “Just outside Five Corners, on Quincy Street.”
“Come on,” he said. “My patrol’s in Five Corners. It’s on the way.”
I did my best to look grateful. “Thank you.”
He didn’t talk to me. He walked, so I walked, pushing my bicycle as we moved through the streets, and I kept my mouth shut. This was no time to trip on my own tongue. He stopped to get reports from a group of soldiers, who hadn’t seen anything, and from some police, who had more people under arrest. I recognized faces among the arrested. One of them saw me and opened her mouth, only to be elbowed by her neighbor.
“You there.” A constable pointed a truncheon into the crowd. “What mischief are you up to?”
The elbower spoke up. “She stepped on my toe. Needs to watch where she’s going.”
“I said sorry,” the other one said, sullenly, and didn’t look at me.
“Keep order,” the constable barked.
My escort moved away, leaving me to follow.
“About time we cleaned up the streets,” the guard said. “They’ve gone too far, taking the Chancellor. Don’t know what they thought that would accomplish. The King’s not one to bow to the mob.”