The Conjurer's Riddle

by Andrea Cremer

  When Meg had gone, Charlotte let her head loll back against the velvet upholstery. Grave remained upright, his hands resting on his knees.

  “Grave.” Charlotte looked at him. “Do you ever get tired?”

  Grave considered her question, then said, “No. I don’t think I do.”

  “But you sleep?”

  He shook his head. “I close my eyes and wait when everyone else sleeps, but I’m always awake.”

  When Charlotte didn’t say anything, Grave asked, “Does that trouble you?”

  “I don’t know,” Charlotte answered honestly. “It’s very strange, but there isn’t any reason that you not needing to sleep should be bad.”

  He is neither good nor evil. He simply is.

  Grave had been created through a heretofore unheard of mixture of mechanics and magic. It could be the machine, a system of perpetual motion at work within him, that rendered him tireless. Or it could be the magic that freed his body from the physical tolls life exacted. And there wasn’t a way to know. At least, not one that Charlotte deemed feasible. Hackett Bromley could be questioned about his work, but he had been taken into custody. He couldn’t be reached. Grave didn’t know his own makeup, and opening up his flesh to see how he’d been put together was a horrifying proposition. It was even more horrifying because Charlotte was certain there were those in the Empire and in the Resistance who would rationalize that act.

  The more entangled Charlotte became with Grave’s strange existence, the more it became clear he needed to be kept safe. And not just from the Order of Arachne. That someone with inhuman strength and ceaseless energy required protection struck Charlotte as counterintuitive, but it was nonetheless true. Perhaps she wasn’t the ideal person to take charge of Grave’s well-being, but Charlotte believed the task was her responsibility.

  The door opened and Meg slipped into the room. She carried a small bowl and a steaming towel, and fresh strips of cloth were tucked into her belt. Grave moved from the sofa to a chair so Meg could sit beside Charlotte. After she’d removed the temporary binding from Charlotte’s arm, Meg pressed the towel against her wound. Charlotte drew a sharp breath. The towel was scalding hot.

  “I’m sorry,” Meg murmured. “It has to be cleansed before I apply the poultice.”

  Charlotte nodded. “It’s fine.”

  When Meg was satisfied that Charlotte’s torn flesh was sufficiently clean, she picked up the bowl. It was filled with a green paste with an acrid scent that made Charlotte’s eyes water. With careful strokes, Meg applied the mixture to the four parallel gashes in Charlotte’s arm. The paste was warm on her skin, and while even a light touch on her tender flesh was painful, the mixture itself didn’t aggravate the wound. Charlotte remained still when Meg secured the poultice with bandages—at least until the suite door banged open and a rain-drenched man masked as a falcon stood framed by the doorway. Even with his face covered, Charlotte knew it was Jack who gazed at her, his eyes livid.

  “Where in Hades did you go?” he demanded, tearing the mask from his face. “I’ve been looking for you for hours!”

  Charlotte tried to jump up, but Meg caught her in a firm grip so she could finish binding Charlotte’s wound.

  “It’s not your business where I choose to go,” Charlotte told Jack, hating that she had to lift her face and look up at him from where she sat. “You had no reason to be looking for me.”

  “No reason?” Jack slammed his fist on the door frame. “The hell I didn’t.”

  One of the bedroom doors opened and a bleary-eyed Pip peered out at them. “What’s going on?”

  “Go back to sleep, Pip,” Charlotte said. “This is nothing you should worry about.”

  Pip nodded drowsily and closed the door.

  While Meg had been focused on bandaging Charlotte’s arm, she was angled away from Jack. She hadn’t bothered to remove her mask when she returned to the suite, but she did now and turned to face him.

  “There are better ways to tell Charlotte you were worried than to yell at her,” Meg said.

  Charlotte would never have guessed soft-spoken words could sound so menacing.

  Jack took a few steps into the room, staring at Meg in disbelief. His brow knit when he assessed her clothing.

  “What is . . . when did you . . . where . . . does Ash know?” Jack’s anger had dissolved into bewilderment.

  Meg laughed quietly. “All fair questions. I’ll let Charlotte fill you in on the first few. As for Ash—”

  She stopped because Ashley, the top of his face hidden by a mask of silver fish scales, had appeared in the doorway with Coe at his side. Ash stomped into the room, looking as hell-bent on scolding Charlotte as Jack had.

  “I take it this ruckus means you found—” Ash jerked to a halt when he saw Meg. He fell silent for several seconds before he managed to whisper, “Athene’s mercy, are you really here?”

  Meg didn’t reply. She didn’t move, nor did she take her eyes off Ash.

  Charlotte would have sworn that no one in the room was breathing. Even the deluge outside seemed muffled by the tension.

  Without making a sound, Ashley was suddenly across the room gathering Meg in his arms. Meg started to say something, but Ash covered her mouth with a kiss.

  Charlotte did jump up then, sidestepping quickly from the couple’s embrace—which gave no indication of ending anytime soon. Of course Charlotte had known that her brother loved Meg, but it was quite another to witness Ash, always so reserved, utterly undone by passion.

  Coe quietly stepped into the room and moved to Charlotte’s side. “What happened to you? Was there trouble?”

  It was all too much. Grave’s abduction, the words of the conjurer, the assassins’ attack, Meg’s reappearance—the world was hurling shocks at Charlotte so often it felt as if she were dodging lightning strikes. She needed to breathe, to gather her thoughts. Ignoring Coe’s expectant gaze, Charlotte retrieved her mask from the side table and went for the door without looking back.

  CHARLOTTE TIED ON her mask as she retraced her path down the servants’ stair and out the back door. The storm had gone from sullen to furious. What had been pellets of rain now lashed through the air in sheets, accompanied by rumbles of thunder. Lightning webbed through the sky, flashing white against the impenetrable gray.

  She didn’t hesitate before plunging into the rainstorm. Within moments her already damp clothes were sodden. She hoped that her bandages could withstand this drenching. The excess of water poured off the roofs of buildings in spontaneous waterfalls before disappearing into the grates. Charlotte turned from the back corridor, rounding the side of the inn. She paused at the edge of the main walkway. Quite sensibly, no one shared Charlotte’s proclivity for outings in a thunderstorm. The Domicile appeared deserted, its walkways empty.

  Water sloshed in the corridor behind her at regular intervals, signaling footfalls of someone quickly approaching. Charlotte moved her hand to her dagger’s hilt, flinching at the sharp pain caused by the movement. She cursed her luck for letting an injury befall her striking arm. She knew that spot would stay sore a long while.

  When the heavy footsteps drew too close, Charlotte whirled around with her dagger held low and ready.

  “I know you’re cross with me, Charlotte.” Jack had covered his face with the falcon mask, but Charlotte heard the smile in his voice. “But I’d rather you didn’t stab me with that.”

  “I’m sure I can find something else to stab you with, then.” Charlotte sheathed her dagger and turned away from Jack.

  He came around to stand in front of her. “Where are you going?”

  Charlotte didn’t answer. She hoped that if she ignored him long enough, he’d get tired of standing in the rain and leave. And while she was ignoring him, she would also convince herself that she did in fact want him to give up.

  “How badly are you hurt?” Ja
ck reached for her arm, but she jerked back.

  “Meg tended the wound,” Charlotte said. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Are you in pain?” he asked. He moved toward her again.

  Charlotte backed up, but found herself pinned between Jack and the side of the building. “I’m fine, Jack.”

  “Charlotte, what happened to you?” Jack’s piercing gaze was enhanced by the falcon, making her feel as if there was no way to escape it. “You and Grave were gone for hours. And now Meg is here? And what was she wearing? Did she use those swords?”

  Dozens of answers crowded Charlotte’s mind. Reproofs, explanations, apologies, dismissals, excuses, tirades all presented themselves, waiting to be selected. Charlotte didn’t know what to say. Meg’s arrival wasn’t something to be happy about—Meg had made that clear enough. And Charlotte was certain all that Meg had told her about the Temple and the Order of Arachne was intended to be kept secret. Charlotte didn’t know whether she could tell Jack the truth. She didn’t know what she could tell him at all.

  “You’ll have to ask Meg.”

  Jack pulled off his mask and gave a low snarl of frustration. “Don’t do this.”

  “Don’t do what?” Charlotte began to edge along the building, toward the corridor at its rear. She was reassessing her decision to leave the suite. Meg wanted them to leave New Orleans.

  Just the three of them.

  As far as Charlotte knew, Ash and Jack had no role in Meg’s plan, and until Meg said explicitly otherwise, Charlotte wasn’t going to give away any secrets.

  “Don’t try to push me away by pretending you’re angry.” Jack moved with Charlotte as she slid along the wall.

  “I am angry!” Charlotte snapped, without even thinking about her reply.

  “No you’re not.” Jack was infuriatingly calm.

  Charlotte stopped her retreat, ready to offer Jack an elaborate description of all the ways she was furious with him. But she was already exhausted and refused to waste any more of her time bickering with him.

  “Just leave me alone.” Charlotte looked at her feet. “Leave me alone, Jack.”

  “That’s not possible.” Jack’s voice had become quiet. Then his fingertips were under her chin, tilting her face up, forcing her to meet his eyes.

  Charlotte heard footsteps coming up behind them. “I believe Charlotte asked you to leave.”

  Coe’s face was soaked with rain and his eyes narrowed with fury.

  “That’s enough, Coe.” Charlotte stepped between the two brothers. “I’m tired of enduring your petty spats.”

  “Petty?” Coe righteous anger dissolved.

  “Spats?” Jack’s expression was one of bewilderment.

  “Yes on both counts,” she continued. “Jack, I meant it when I told you to leave me alone. I shouldn’t need Coe to threaten you for that to happen.”

  Jack blanched. He swiped rain from his face and cast a furious look at Coe, but said to Charlotte, “Far be it from me to deny your wish.”

  He turned his back on her and walked into the rainstorm, disappearing behind the next building.

  Coe chuckled. “Well done, Charlotte. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that expression on his face. You taught him quite the lesson.”

  The rain on Coe’s face amplified the sound when Charlotte’s palm struck his cheek.

  “You have no right to speak about Jack that way,” she said, her voice shaking with rage. “You always talk as though you’re superior to him, more noble, more worthy. But you’re a manipulative liar!”

  “What are you talking about?” Coe asked, startled, but beneath his surprise Charlotte could see outrage at the insults she’d thrown at him.

  “I heard you speaking to my mother about Grave,” Charlotte told him. “I know you’re planning to mold all of my actions to your liking.”

  Coe’s jaw twitched with anger, but he kept his voice steady. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Charlotte. What’s happening here is much bigger, and much more important, than you or Grave. This is about winning the war. This could change everything.”

  “For the war?” Charlotte snapped. “For the Resistance? Listening to you and my mother, I don’t know what any of that means. You want to use Grave to make the perfect soldiers, but you have no idea what that truly entails. You won’t be able to re-create Bromley’s invention, and even if you could, you shouldn’t. You’d be endangering us all.”

  “What do you mean we don’t know what this truly entails?” Coe asked.

  Charlotte silently cursed herself for saying too much.

  “You know something,” Coe continued. “Where were you? Who did you see?”

  When she didn’t answer, Coe said, “It would be unwise for you to keep secrets from me, Charlotte. Believe me when I say I have your best interests in mind.”

  “I have nothing else to say to you.”

  Coe leaned close, whispering in her ear. “You’re a capable and talented girl; the Resistance needs you. I need you. Think carefully about what you want for your future, Charlotte; you want to give up everything you’ve been raised to fight for?”

  She refused to acknowledge him.

  Coe straightened and said, “We’ll speak more of this tomorrow.”

  When he’d gone, Charlotte leaned against the wall, feeling as though the weight of Coe’s chastisement and Jack’s anger were crushing her chest.

  “Isn’t love wonderful?” Linnet’s voice pierced the shadows, and a moment later the girl appeared, cloaked and hooded against the rain.

  “How long have you been listening?” Charlotte asked. She didn’t know whether to be relieved she could share the burden of her fights with the Winter brothers or if she was simply mortified that they’d been witnessed.

  Linnet shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I’m here on official business.”

  “What sort of business?” Charlotte frowned at her.

  Linnet nodded. “Lord Ott sent me. He’s had some news and a bit of a fright. Did you know he abhors spiders?” Her glance flitted over Charlotte’s bandaged arm.

  “Spiders.” Charlotte stepped toward Linnet, curious about how much she already knew regarding the Order of Arachne.

  “I see from your expression you aren’t fond of them either.”

  “Definitely not,” Charlotte answered. When Linnet didn’t say anything else, Charlotte said, “Aren’t you taking me to meet him?”

  “Of course I am,” Linnet replied.

  “Then why are we still standing here?”

  “I’m waiting for you to be sensible and get a cloak,” Linnet said. “You do know it’s raining. Don’t you?”

  LINNET NOT ONLY sent Charlotte back to the inn to get a cloak, but also suggested she take the time to trade her rain-soaked garb for dry clothes. While Linnet waited at the servants’ entrance, Charlotte climbed the stairs and entered the suite.

  Meg was alone in the sitting room, and when Charlotte drew near, she saw that Meg’s eyes were red-rimmed, still bearing the sheen of tears.

  Where is Ashley?

  “Oh, Meg.” Charlotte sat on the sofa and took Meg’s hand.

  Meg sighed and gave her a wan smile.

  “What happened?”

  “I hope that there will be a time when I can tell you everything, Lottie.” Meg withdrew her fingers from Charlotte’s. “It would be such a gift to unburden my heart. But now is not that time.”

  “Where’s Grave?” Charlotte asked, suffering a pang of guilt at having abandoned him when she’d fled the suite.

  “Sleeping.” Meg gestured to one of the closed bedroom doors.

  He doesn’t sleep. Charlotte held her tongue, still cautious with regard to how much she revealed about him. But he’s observant enough to go through the motions of seeking rest at the appropriate times.

  The thought o
f sleep reminded Charlotte of how hollow she felt for lack of it.

  Reading her expression, Meg said, “You should get some rest, too. It’s been a difficult night.”

  “It has,” Charlotte replied, straightening and pushing her exhaustion aside. “But I can’t sleep yet.”

  “What do you mean?” Meg frowned at her.

  “I’m going to see Lord Ott,” Charlotte said. “And you’re coming with me.”

  • • •

  A short while later, a much-drier Charlotte rejoined Linnet. Linnet’s face registered surprise when Charlotte appeared with Meg at her side, but Linnet didn’t object to or inquire about Meg’s presence, and they left the inn without further delay. The storm had diminished, hard rain giving way to a misty veil. The city began to stir despite the absence of a morning sun to urge residents from their beds. They left the Domicile, crossing the bridge to the Market. A few merchants passed the three women, carts laden with canvas-covered wares, muttering complaints about the damp that clung to everything.

  Linnet led them past the crossing where Charlotte’s mother had taken her to the Sintians’ Warehouse. Most of the stores on the main walkway were still shuttered, though a few buildings showed signs of people stirring within, and a handful of proprietors were taking their morning tea in their doorways or on their porches, while casting sour looks at the gloomy sky. A tall silhouette loomed up through the mist, an archway with curling sides that met at a high point to hold up a fleur-de-lis.

  “Is that gold?” Charlotte asked, when the gilt shade of the archway became clear.

  “Would the entryway to the Salon be sculpted of anything else?” Linnet replied with a snicker. “It’s excessive. And that’s just the bridge.”

  The golden trellis ran the length of the bridge between the Market and the Salon. On a clear day its gleam probably appeared to be in competition with the sun’s rays. When they reached the other side of the bridge, Linnet’s declaration that the Salon’s design favored excess was brutally apparent. One of the most glaring differences between New Orleans’ most exclusive district and the others was the space between the buildings. In the Domicile and Market quadrants, the structures were separated by narrow corridors, but broad swaths, each as wide as the main walkway, separated the grand habitations of the Salon.