My friend’s arms draped about my shoulders. She smiled down at me, though the edge the curve softened simply moved to a hard glint in her lovely blue eyes. “You, I’ve faith enough in. It’s her what needs a sanding.”
On impulse, I bussed her cheek with a kiss—forced to raise up on my tiptoes to do it— and then turned out of her embrace. “All right,” I said, bracing myself. I was clean again, the lingering stickiness of sweat and grime stripped from me.
A fever I might have briefly engaged, but I felt all the better for it. Human, was I?
Well, and right enough. There was no weakness to it. I may not be a sorcerer, or as near enough to immortal as to live for centuries. My bloodline stemmed from Ashmore, but it was not filled with power as Zylphia’s was rumored to be.
I was neither beast nor witch nor creature of unmitigated magic.
I was Cherry St. Croix, daughter of a madman, widow to an earl.
I was a collector.
An unwitting agent of the Crown.
I was a student of alchemy.
Lover of a man fit to give the Devil himself a run for his wager.
And for all that, I was through acting the pawn.
Chapter Fifteen
Zhànzhàn occupied my parlor as though she were generously gracing it with her presence, for all she had not changed from her black tunic and trousers. Her plaited hair spilled from the top of her head, gleaming like wet ink in light.
She sat as regal as any queen, with her back straight and chin held high. Diminutive though her status might be in comparison to her brother’s, it was obvious she did not feel the same amongst the rest of us. Whatever her language, whatever imposition her Chinese background placed upon her, she did not act as though she felt it here.
In this posture, this profile, I saw the Veil.
Ashmore sat across from her, in his favored arm chair. Like our guest, he cradled a cup and saucer. His gaze remained upon her, curiosity and a certain intensity that spoke of a readiness to behave in any way her actions might deem necessary.
Maddie Ruth perched upon the sofa, tucked into the corner nearest Ashmore and farthest from the Chinese woman she stared at. She did not bother with tea, but she’d plucked a cloth and filled it full of biscuits from a tray Mrs. Booth had no doubt furnished.
She bit into these with absent enjoyment.
Of Hawke, there was no sign.
Disappointment merged with relief.
Both irritated me.
I strode around the sofa and sat at the other end, closest to Zhànzhàn. Black eyes met mine across the narrow distance. “You are looking better,” she said, inclining her head.
I ignored that in favor of my own interests. “Now that I am here,” I announced readily, “there is much to speak of.”
Zylphia did not sit with us, but remained standing nearest the door. That she did not like nor trust the Chinese girl was apparent enough. That Zhànzhàn ignored her entirely spoke volumes. Whatever passed between them, it was not a friendly thing.
“Firstly,” I said, lifting an ungloved finger. “What is your brother doing in the Underground?”
The ridge of her brow furrowed. “He is preparing for his plan.”
“What plan?” I asked.
“As Huangdi before us all, he intends to tame beasts and make of them a force.”
I did not like feeling as ignorant as I did when in her company. I turned a questioning tip of my head to Ashmore. The Veil—and her, especially—was rife with idioms I’d never heard.
He obliged my curiosity. “With respect to our guest should I get matters incorrect,” he began, earning a single nod of acknowledgement from her, “Huangdi is the name of the Yellow Emperor, who is credited with taming six different beasts of remarkable origin.”
“What is this Yellow Emperor to Lài?” I demanded.
Ashmore rubbed the back of his neck as he thought this over. “Bearing in mind your literal nature,” he finally said, “accept this with some flexibility. The Yellow Emperor is said to have been the mortal personification of Huan Long, the Yellow Dragon. Although,” he added with a gesture to our guest, “this is sometimes disputed among her people.”
A man who became a dragon? I understood that I was rather more literal than was strictly necessary—one of the many reasons I labored at my studies of the metaphorical nature of the Trumps—but this was farfetched enough. “If I were to extrapolate,” I said for Zhànzhàn, “you indicate that he wishes to make and tame beasts such as the Ferrymen dogs. For what purpose?”
“An army,” she replied.
This part, at least, was not so implausible that I considered it worth making a face over. I had seen the nature of the beasts with my own eyes, after all. “How?” I asked, my gaze fixed upon her.
She tilted her head. Her gaze flitted to my tutor. When she spoke, it was in her rapid language.
Ashmore’s aristocratic features turned severe once more. “A complex translation,” he acknowledged. “The alchemical serum utilized by the Ferrymen was only the first step. A trial, if you will.”
Beside me, Maddie Ruth covered her mouth and managed, “Bollocks.” That it came muffled thanks to the biscuits she consumed was a lecture for another time.
“And whose idea was it?” Zylphia’s voice simmered with anger. When the girl did not answer, the once sweet added sharply, “Go on. Ask her that.”
It seemed a reasonable enough interest. I studied Zhànzhàn. “Well?”
The girl’s chin lifted. “My brother’s intent has always been clear to me. However, it was I who suggested the Black Fish Ferrymen for trial.”
I sensed no apology in her affirmation, nor was there humility in her demeanor. Hot words of recrimination sprang to my lips, but it was Ashmore’s voice that interjected. “To what end?” he asked. Simple enough. Mild.
She did not look away from me. “I knew that such a thing would bring the attentions of those who could stop him.”
“A sacrificial slaughter?” I asked, though I needed no clarification. I waited for none. “You sacrificed all of those men, the Ferrymen and the Bakers they massacred, just to force my hand?”
“It had value.”
There was no word strong enough. No emotion clear enough to express. My hand fisted against the arm of the sofa. I trembled so much that my vision went unsteady, and the same ache I’d noted prior to my fever formed a curtain of pressure around my temples.
As though aware, Zhànzhàn’s voice gained a note I had often marked in the Veil I spoke to. In it, I heard the spokesman. The arrogance, the confidence that bore no hint of uncertainty. “No other action would garner a strong enough force to fight him.”
My fingers curled.
I had no other desire at that moment but to slap such excuses from her mouth.
“What is done, is done,” Ashmore cut in. A smooth interference before I lost my composure entirely. A welcome insertion of calm, but one I labored to cling to.
So many dead. So much carnage. I remembered clearly the despair, the helpless fury carved into Ishmael’s demeanor as the fighting wore on. As he lost mate after mate; friends and brothers.
Because of this, because of the Veil’s alchemical meddling, I had almost lost those dearest to me.
I stood, a swirl of skirts as I rounded the sofa once more to pace behind it. Zylphia barely took note; her gaze remained fixed on the girl who had been, at one time, her keeper.
Pacing seemed a better alternative to base threats or empty violence.
That I wanted to do both was no doubt apparent.
“My brother has given in to the temptation of power,” Zhànzhàn said, now gentler. As though it would make do for apology. “He makes of himself an…” Another word.
“Avatar,” Ashmore supplied.
Again, a nod of acknowledgement. “My brother believes that he is an…avatar of Huan Long. If not stopped, there will be much more blood.”
“His intentions below ground?” I demanded.
“His ultimate goal?”
Her mouth pursed. “What else but to conquer?”
What else, indeed?
Ashmore leaned forward, cradling his saucer and cup in one hand. “What of Osoba’s role?”
Zhànzhàn hesitated. The fire from the hearth leapt as an ember cracked, and the sparks this caused danced in the reflected glow in her straight hair.
With caution, she said, “A dog on a leash. A lion broken too far to crave anything but blood. His consequence,” she added, gaze arrowed with thinly veiled accusation upon me, “is not our doing.”
Our. As though she spoke as the Veil once more.
“’Tis mine,” I returned sharply, and spun again to pace. “I admit that much, and I’ll see to righting that wrong. But don’t think,” I added, turning so quickly that my skirts fanned Zylphia’s, “this absolves you.”
Maddie Ruth nodded in agreement; I appreciated the solidarity.
“I do not ask for absolution,” the Chinese girl said mildly. “Only for assistance.”
“On that,” Ashmore interjected, “we are agreed.”
“Where does he stay Underground?” Maddie Ruth asked.
When Zhànzhàn’s attentions flicked to her, a shudder rippled down the younger girl’s back. I halted my pacing behind her, gripped her shoulder in one hand.
The glower I levied upon the Chinese girl was, I suspect, not as effective as I wished.
Truth be told, there was precious little I could do to her. Not while my tutor remained within grasp, and certainly not while I maintained an awareness of right and wrong.
I was not opposed to violence for the sake of it. I might feel better if I were to engage the girl directly, test my skills once more against hers and this time in fairness.
Unfortunately, my integrity and my tutor disagreed on the matter. If Zhànzhàn was attempting to atone, to stop her brother from his plans, I could not in good conscience refuse her.
“He does not,” the girl finally replied. Then, when we all stared at her, she added, “His beasts remain guarded there, but Lài would not bend to such filth. It is…unclean.”
The words might seem redundant, but the nature of her hesitation suggested that unclean had a different connotation than mere dirt.
Ashmore leaned back, drawing one foot atop his knee in casual placement. He sipped from his cup. “If he does not hide in the Underground,” he mused, “nor does he retain the Menagerie grounds, then where does he reside?”
Zhànzhàn did not hesitate. “He claims sanctuary above.”
“Ouch,” Maddie Ruth muttered, and I eased my sudden grip upon her shoulder, whispering an apology.
“Society?” Ashmore asked, raising both eyebrows. His gaze sought mine over the rim of his cup.
Hell’s bells and a thousand bleeding posies. “Who?” I demanded.
She shook her head. “I do not know.”
“Bollocks,” I said sharply.
“I speak the truth.” Pique touched her features, colored her tone, but she was not so foolish as to unleash it outright. “While I know of those who entered the Midnight Menagerie, I cannot say for certain who among them made pacts with my brother alone. Our face has…” She thought. “Fractured.”
“Any one of them could be playing host,” Zylphia said tightly behind me. “Sympathizers lured by a new order or the like. Bloody fools,” she added, not so far under her breath that we couldn’t hear.
I was prone to agree.
A pulse inside my head threatened to ache if I just allowed it room. I tucked my fingertips into the crown of my hair, hoping to ease the pinch from the pins holding it in place. “Sympathizers,” I repeated, then groaned outright. “Any one of countless lords or ladies might be bought by promise of power.”
Ashmore’s expression bore a familiarity to it that hurt me to see. After all, he himself had done much in the name of power. Of immortality.
His sigh asked for relief. There was none to give. “Before we hie off in every direction,” he said, “we ought to engage in a plan.”
“I concur.” Bracing my weight on the sofa’s back, I allowed myself to sag. “Someone will have to bait Ma Lài out.”
“Of all of us,” his sister replied, “there are a scarce few who are likely to succeed.”
Ashmore’s shrewd eyes narrowed upon her. “You have already planned for this.”
“No,” she returned, her mouth easing into an apologetic smile. “I had not expected to be acquired by Miss Black.” A pause, and then she amended, “Lady—”
“That’s enough of that,” I cut in sharply, voice lifted over her stinging courtesy.
Zylphia’s fingers touched my back, a light brush. Standing beside me, she faced the girl who was half of the Veil that had owned her and asked the question the rest of us didn’t. “You are suggesting she be the bait. Why?”
A valid point. Why me?
Zhànzhàn answered with the forthrightness I expected of honesty; yet for all that, I still could not bring myself to trust her. “There are two in particular that have earned my brother’s dedicated devotion.”
“Devotion?” Maddie Ruth snorted. “More like perversion.”
This earned a quizzical stare. Ashmore’s tongue wrapped around a series of foreign words that eased it from the girl’s regard. “I have misspoke. I mean to indicate that my brother will stop at nothing to seek revenge on those who have sullied his face.”
When I raised my eyebrows at Ashmore,he translated it direct for me. “Ma Lài blames you for ruining the Menagerie.”
“Me?” I repeated, and then laughed a shaky laugh. “I suppose that’s fair.”
“You, yes,” Zhànzhàn replied. “You are the phoenix that seduced our tiger.” Her gaze flicked to Zylphia beside me. “And you the black serpent within who scarred the face of our accord.” Her gaze dropped lower. “Carrying the tortoise’s brat, no less.”
The threat implicit in such a regard earned an immediate response of protective fury. “Now see here,” I began, but Zylphia’s hand pressed firmly against my back. Reassurance, I thought. A steady calm.
Zylphia had never been ashamed of her role as a sweet, nor of her efforts to tear down the Veil that had begun to ill-treat the girls she watched over. She was not ashamed of her relationship with the man called a “tortoise”—and were I not feeling ornery, I could well see the comparison. Ishmael was large and thoughtful, and nigh indestructible.
Zylphia’s pride was such that I could only envy. To be sure, she had led the mutiny that tore down the Veil. I could well see why Ma Lài would despise her.
“You’re suggesting Cherry and I go up as bait,” Zylphia said. “Both of us.”
“Yes.” Zhànzhàn spread her hands apart. “My brother will not move against you himself. He is too attached to this world to risk leaving it in such a manner. But he will send those who sympathize with him. Learn their faces.” Her hands came together. “And you will find the door.”
I mused on this for a moment. No matter how I considered it, if that metaphorical door resided above the drift, it would be no different than trodding through a vipers’ nest. I was not welcome there, and there were some concerns as to the safety of my identity should I risk it.
To say nothing of them who already hated me.
Such challenges did not speak to my interest. If anything, they burdened me with a weariness I could not stave off.
“The cost could be rather more high than you’re willing to pay,” Zylphia pointed out to me. “Aren’t you hated up there?”
“More or less,” I acknowledged.
“There is one more truth,” Zhànzhàn interjected.
“’Course there is,” Zylphia muttered.
The girl ignored her. Her gaze leveled upon me, as direct as I could wish. Without the screen between us, as the Veil had always used, I found the focus of her
eyes to be refreshing.
Even if they proved as inscrutable as Hawke ever was.
“It is Lài,” she said, her tone pitched in a manner that suggested a verbal carrot, “that holds the key to the tiger’s fangs.”
I grimaced. What was the sense of all this metaphorical business, anyway?
Fortunately, Ashmore understood rather more readily. “You claim he holds Hawke’s cure?”
“Yes.”
This sharpened my focus. “Is it…” I hesitated. “Is it sorcerous?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“What manner?” I demanded.
She did not look away. “I will give it to you when Lài is no longer.”
“The devil,” Zylphia began, but I caught her arm before she could finish her hot recrimination.
My friend glanced once at my face, and no doubt, I had little luck in hiding the severity of my feelings on this matter. Hawke’s cure, the promise of a thing that would finally give him peace, would be worth any price.
Even if it came from the hands of the Veil itself.
She huffed an uncivility that was at least twice as harsh as any I’d forced on Ashmore.
He did not comment. Instead, he exchanged a look with me that indicated his thoughts mirrored mine.
Perhaps it was rather rude, if not outright manipulative, of the girl to hold Hawke’s cure—whatever it was—hostage. Perhaps she had deeper ulterior motives than this.
The risk, however? I deemed the cause, and the consequence, valuable.
His features settled into lines of critical caution. “You have,” he pointed out, “every right to take your place among Society.”
I swallowed a laugh lest it crack. “Be reasonable. You know what awaits me if I do.”
“It won’t be easy, but you only must remain for the length of time it takes to bait the Veil.”
That Ashmore suggested the role himself both surprised and delighted me. Humor welled up, wry as it bit. “I assumed you to be the last to encourage such tomfoolery.”
Ashmore did not smile. His gaze remained steady, measured. “I might be loathe to suggest our Zylphia partake in such a thing,” he admitted. “To say nothing of the fact that Communion will have my hide if I allowed it.”
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