No.
She had lost herself to the story she spun to keep her life a little more hopeful, so that she could believe enough to fight on, and get a grip, Risa!
“You’re…his sister,” Risa echoed, not bothering to take the girl’s hand.
Sam had authored the dossier. Sam, who fully confessed on those pages to falling in love with the brother of the girl he was supposed to be watching, the brother who was standing there, right now, only it wasn’t some back-district fling, it was Teddy Mirabeau.
Until this moment, it’d been her brother. She and her brother were inseparably close. She and her brother would venture to the river on hot summer days. Others, more distant, were gifted initials, but clearly, the anonymity had been pressed, lest the dossier fall into the wrong hands.
Until now.
When it all fell to shit.
Fuck Clark.
This was all his fault, and mother below, did it hurt like a sonofabitch, so close and so fucking far, and she wanted to rip that mask off her brother’s stupid face, his stupid, beautiful, all-grown-up face to see, really see who he’d become.
Him.
The one that had chased her dreams.
The one that pushed her into waking.
The one that Sam loved, and his life had been sitting on her desk for years, now, hers for the taking.
He was the one who’d been sick, that winter. He was the one, inseparable from Elizabeth, her unwavering friend, her protective brother.
Adoptive brother. Adoptive. Like the word could wedge a space for Risa between Teddy and Elizabeth.
She adores her brother
Oh, that much was clear, watching her lingering close to him, his eyes darting often back to her.
Risa had found far more than a dossier in attendance.
She’d found the girl who’d taken her place.
You wanted a report, Clark’s eyes seemed to say, flicking to hers. You got it.
He was a gods-damned fool, bringing her here.
“A pleasure, Elizabeth,” Risa smiled, the name bitter on her tongue. Mask of ice. “Sam’s told me a good deal of you, naturally—excellent to put a face with the name.” Lies, all of it lies.
The whole thing stank of Clark’s interference, too, that motherfucker. Coincidences. As if. They were all just pawns in his scheming, little puzzle pieces being shuffled around the boards, even her, even the notorious Theresa Barrett, who brought men like him to heel, who made men like him think twice before fucking with her, even she had been used.
Traded, more like.
Just another bargaining chip for Mr. Clark Carson to hedge his bets on.
“You’ll excuse us,” Elizabeth said quietly, glancing to Teddy before her eyes found Risa’s. “I, um…things weren’t left well, with Clark and Sam and I, and we really must unravel it, but…could we talk?”
Risa held her gaze for a long moment.
She was jealous of those emerald eyes.
Emerald eyes that had twenty years of Teddy, all to herself.
If there’d been a better guardian for such a girl, though, Risa couldn’t have thought of one.
Teddy was everything a brother should’ve been, if her memories—and the dossier—served true.
“Yes. I think we should,” Risa said coolly, looking her over.
But Elizabeth lingered another moment, even as Clark and Sam moved around the ballroom edge, making for the exit. “Sam…told you all about me.” She leaned in, and her fingers brushed on Risa’s elbow as she moved to whisper in her ear. “Did you read his letters, too? Do…do you know who I am?”
In anyone else, the words would’ve been a threat.
Elizabeth spoke them, though, with trepidation.
She knew.
She fucking knew.
The final point, the girl’s final safe-guard—that, in the end, she believed herself to simply be ordinary—that, too had fallen away.
Risa’s gaze fell down the long neck, to the golden chain dipping down into the bodice.
Oh, Cora below.
Clark, you sonofabitch, what have you done?
There was unmistakable worry in the girl’s eyes as she watched Risa.
“We’ll talk,” Risa nodded, softening. “I promise.”
With that, the girl turned, a faint smile on her lips as she left, and Risa was left standing with her brother, stuck like a bug in the sugary trap Clark had sprung.
ELSIE
“Ah, when the lines we’ve memorized bleed from the stage, and we find our waking moments nothing more than a play-act drama.”
~Greysha Boewliç
A few quick steps, and Elsie had caught up with Sam as he trailed reluctantly behind Clark.
“Risa’s not coming?” he muttered, offering her his arm.
She took it reluctantly. “No. You didn’t mention anyone else was reading the letters.” It was a strain, to keep her tone low—and she couldn’t fight the reflex to reach for the smooth bone handle of the switchblade, even now, tucked into the pocket of her emerald dress.
She might very well look the part of the pastry. But it wouldn’t be a sugared cream filling they’d find, if they took a bite.
“I didn’t know anyone else was reading them,” Sam breathed, glancing up at her.
“She said you told her all about me?”
“Okay, that was clearly her way of saying she’d read the letters—which I didn’t know about—he must’ve had them copied out—”
“Clearly? You went behind my back once,” she bit back under her breath, “so pardon me for being concerned when the man who will talk for hours about anything under the gods-forsaken sun hasn’t mentioned an associate who knows my life story.”
He gave a small sigh of exasperation, pace slowing slightly as they followed the Commissioner. “Apologies for not mentioning every secretary I’ve met during my time at the manor house,” he snarked stiffly, tone chilled. “In case you haven’t noticed, he tends to be involved with a rather unsavory crowd—”
“You seemed to remember her just fine tonight—”
“Because he’d already introduced her to me again by the time you managed to drag yourself away from Augustus—”
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
His arm flexed with frustration beneath her fingers. “It means,” he said slowly through gritted teeth, “that I am stressed, Elsie, and I am not dealing with it particularly well.”
Her fingers were digging into him, she realized, nails biting into the sleeve of his coat as they strolled down the gilded corridor, the Commissioner more than a few paces ahead.
Not dealing with stress particularly well seemed to be a theme for the evening.
“Yeah, well. Me neither,” she grumbled, relaxing her grip. “Where’re we going?” She’d been trying—and failing—to keep a mental map of where they’d woven through the hallways.
“Carriage house,” Sam whispered, an uneasy edge to his tone. “He doesn’t conduct business in the house.” His eyes flicked to hers. “What did you tell Risa, before you left?”
“That I wanted a word with her. She said she’d wait around.”
If everything went according to plan, the partygoers wouldn’t even know their Commissioner had fallen until the revelry died of its own accord.
“That bodes well, I suppose,” Sam mulled. “Don’t know many of his associates who’d willingly agree to linger, especially at the behest of…”
“Of a bastard?” she offered.
“I was going to say, of anyone who’s not the Commissioner himself. But you’re not wrong. And on a quick note,” he added hastily, watching as Clark glanced back over his shoulder, “it seems to me a bit of bickering might make for an interesting knot to unravel, if you follow.”
“What are you two gossiping about, back there?” Clark fell back to match their pace, seedy eyes pecking them apart with an insidious gaze. “I suppose I shan’t complain, though, finding my two sweetlings as thick as thieves. I take
it you have reconciled your differences?”
Elsie raised an eyebrow. “I thought Sam wasn’t to be trusted.”
“Oh, that doesn’t mean you can’t be the dearest of friends.”
“It is rather a prerequisite, to my understanding,” Sam muttered.
Keep him distracted.
Keep him guessing.
She forced a derisive snort, looking away.
“You disagree?” Sam challenged.
“I think it’s amusing that you’re going on about trust, when you’re not the one who was betrayed,” she snarked, earning an approving look from the Commissioner—and a look of hurt from Sam.
Oh, but he was.
Clark had betrayed him, as much as any of them.
She held Sam’s cinnamon eyes.
His expression was one of flawless apology as they found hers. He understood, she saw, why the words were coming so easily to her.
Saw that she could not yet bring herself to entirely disbelieve the lies she told.
Clark put a hand on Sam’s back, running it in a few brisk strokes between his shoulders. “Learning well, isn’t she?”
Sam only frowned, shaking off Clark’s hand with irritation.
The noise from the ballroom was at last beginning to fade as they stepped into a thoroughly over-wintered garden, and she found herself holding on to Sam a little tighter, savoring the radiating warmth clinging to his suit coat.
It felt wrong, coming back to the carriage house at all, much less draped like a pastry on the arm of a tart.
Suddenly, she had a thousand questions she wished she would’ve asked.
Why were you even at the carriage house that night?
Why did you wait for me, even hearing what you heard?
Did you know he was going to betray you, in the end?
The carriage house was unchanged.
Warm, soaked in bourbon and firewood.
“I confess,” Clark simpered, sinking down in an armchair, “I was pleasantly surprised when Lora informed me you’d begun making house-calls.”
Sam exchanged a dark look with Elsie, bracing his hands on the back of the leather sofa, puckered and polished. “And I suppose you find it very clever, inviting Theresa here.”
Smart. See if he could draw the information out. See precisely how much they could wring from him before he fell.
“Oh, far more clever than you realize, love. But I haven’t got all night.” His smile faltered as he glanced between them. “What’s this about?”
“We’ve talked it over,” Elsie said quietly, perching on the edge of the sofa, finding his gaze. “Sam and I. And I’m ready.”
TEDDY
“Tragedy is the prerequisite of healing.”
~Dradan Proverb
Teddy’s sister.
Sam’s told me all about you.
To love, to really love, was to trust.
And it was a decision, in that moment, watching Sam and Elsie disappear into the crowd, arm in arm.
A decision to trust his husband.
“So, how—how do you know Sam, again,” he asked quietly, glancing back to Risa.
Nine years hanging about with Sam, and he’d learned enough to know that Risa didn’t belong here. Her purple gown hung off her, a veritable sheath of a thing, so unlike the puffed pastries encompassing them, and her sleek chestnut hair had been rolled elegantly back, almost quaintly simplistic in comparison to the other women about her.
“We’re acquaintances from a few years back.” Her eyes lingered on his, a fierce shade of blue. “It is lovely to meet you,” she added, nothing more than an afterthought. “Sam speaks quite highly of you.”
Funny. He hasn’t said a word about you.
Teddy wracked his memories, suddenly doubtful.
Take a nice girl with you, he could remember naively telling Sam as his best friend had spilled his worries over Mattie and the introduction.
I don’t fancy girls. You know that.
Did he?
Stop it, Theodore. Stop it this instant.
Insecurity wasn’t a good look on him, Elsie had remarked once. She was right, of course, this was absurd.
“So, the companion of Sam Carson,” Risa mused, looking him up and down.
“Alderton,” he corrected in a mumble, “and husba—fiancé.”
A small smile was dancing in her eyes, now, as she folded her arms across her chest. “A bit eager, there, are we? Did you almost call him your husband?”
“Meant to say husband-to-be,” he lied, face heating.
Her eyes narrowed.
She didn’t buy it, not for a hot second.
“M’kay, then. So, what does the husband-to-be of the infamous Sam Alderton do, when he’s not confusing the facts,” she prodded, her voice playful.
“Shop clerk.” He barely muttered the words as he stuffed his hands in his pockets, looking down.
“Oh.”
He glanced up, meeting her surprised expression. “Oh?”
“You don’t help out on the farm?”
“Oh. No,” he swallowed, the Thread awakening, a tangled knot in his tight chest. “No, it—it wasn’t ever really enough for me, or—or them.” Not that it mattered anyway. All that was gone, now. “What about you?”
Risa sucked her teeth, eying him with skepticism. “Sam tell you what was going on with your sister?”
“With Elsie? Yeah,” he lied. “Yeah, they, um…they told me everything.”
What the hell are you doing?
You know they’re lying to you, part of him seemed to say.
But it’s none of your business. Leave it alone, you’re only going to get hurt, prying where you shouldn’t. All you’d have to do is ask Sam, and he’d lay it all out. You know that. And that’s why you haven’t asked him, because you know it’s gonna hurt. So stop it. Stop it this instant.
She seemed to sense the fib, though. “Mm-hmm. Well, I advise the Commissioner on legal regulation. Compliance, that sort of thing.”
“You’re an advocate,” he pushed, hedging his bets.
An infectious smile split across her face, a quiet laugh on her lips. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m an advocate,” she sighed, running her hand reflexively across her already-smooth hair.
“Not the one that defended Clark in the recent, er, situation?”
“Oh, gods—no,” she snickered, shoulders relaxing. “I can’t believe you heard about that. No, that would’ve been my advisor, Adrian—and if by defend, you mean reluctantly drag a screaming Commissioner out of a Caelaymnic cell whilst trying to hide any sort of regret that the Chancellor made him fish that skeez out of there, then yes, I suppose he did technically defend Clark. Though ‘rescue him from his own incompetence’ might be a better way to put it.”
“Sorry, but…you think he’s actually innocent?”
“I think he’s actually a self-serving sonofabitch. He knows we’ll bust his balls for that kind of bullshit. The Guild may be autonomous, and protected by the Treaty, but there’s a limit, even to that kind of freedom.”
They should’ve been reassuring words.
But her confidence in them stirred something uneasy in his gut.
She was shrewd, offering an unapologetic analysis of the Commissioner to a veritable stranger, not seeming to care if he got wind of it or not.
He shook the doubts from his mind, watching her toss back the dregs of champagne.
He didn’t know her.
She didn’t know him.
There was no reason to preach the innocence of Clark Carson based on the words of a woman who had fully admitted to giving him counsel.
“Did I say something to upset you?” Risa was watching him, almost unblinking.
It was unnerving, the way she read him like an open book.
“No,” he edged slowly, “I…I guess I’m just not convinced he’s innocent.”
She pursed her lips. “Being innocent and being not guilty are two very different things. What—”
Her
words were cut off, though, as a gut-ripping snap of thunder shook the room, the tinkling of glass following the groan of metal and the resounding crash.
There, in the center of the ballroom, a chandelier had come crashing to the floor, sending wax and crystal everywhere.
Move.
The air was caustic, sterile, as he dodged the pastries, moving for the scene. Someone was screaming, disconcerted murmurs filling the room—
His breath caught in his throat, looking at the wreckage.
Pinned beneath the massive chandelier was a young woman, her pale pink gown already blossoming with blood where a metal shaft had pierced her gut, had sheered through her arm, had left her face an unrecognizable, bloodied mess. His hands were shaking as he pushed forward, finding the Thread, summoning it with every ounce of anger and grief and regret and sorrow and pain he could find.
He recognized that gown.
It was one of Sam’s.
He felt a pulse—weak, but there—and it was only when he took a single breath to steady himself that he realized Risa was kneeling beside him, hands hovering across her body like the girl was a fire, and Risa was warming her fingertips.
“Go on,” she muttered, eyes flicking briefly to his. “Get to work.”
Another Healer.
He’d found another Healer.
CHIM
“The best games we play are the ones we know not, for when given the rules, it is in our nature to break them.”
~Dryadic Proverb, from the Book of Adagic Texts
She had arrived too late.
It had once been said that the best laid plans were for no better than the stones that paved the garden walk. Good for nothing but to be trod upon by unseeing boots.
They were correct.
The Master had been a fool to attempt to reign in a kobalde.
Foolish, trying to capture the wild magic.
He would unleash a flood, and even the gods could not control the deluge.
And yet, the story had been set long ago.
Death and the Merchant (River's End Book 1) Page 27