by Claire Luana
Hale and I have headed back to Maradis on the early ferry. Violena found us the list of those who were present at her party where your cupcake was served, and I think once you see the list, you will understand why we left at once. Stay with Mistress Violena for a few days until Hale and I have proven what we must. This is not a request. It is an order. It is confirmed that King Imbris and his inquisitor have returned to Maradis. It’s no longer safe for you at the Guild. We will send word when we can.
Grandmaster Sable
“Stay here?” Wren said out loud, incredulous. She pulled the second piece of parchment to the front and skimmed the list of names from the top.
She didn’t recognize these women. Did they mean something to Sable?
And then she froze with a sharp inhale of breath. A name she recognized. Bianca Chandler. The head of the Distiller’s Guild’s wife.
She re-rolled the letter and shoved it in her pocket, standing. The Beekeeper’s own swarm couldn’t keep her here.
Wren flew about the house until she located a servant. “Please call a carriage to take me to the ferry. I’m leaving.”
“Mistress said you’d be staying here a few days?”
“Change of plans,” Wren said. “I must return to Maradis. It’s urgent.”
“You haven’t eaten breakfast?” Mistress Violena emerged from her sitting room, a newspaper and a cup of coffee in hand. She wore a brightly-colored Centu robe of silk wrapped about her thin form. “Well, I suppose it’s lunch at this hour. You young people sure do know how to sleep.”
“No,” Wren said, standing by the door.
Violena saw Wren’s flittering movements and understood at once. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Guildmaster Chandler’s wife was here at your party.”
“Yes, Bianca is a lovely woman.”
“Don’t you see what this means? She ate my cupcake…” Wren’s throat began to burn as her words darted too close to the truth of her Gift and the infusion of the cupcake. She trailed off with a grunt of frustration.
“I don’t understand why this flaming cupcake matters so much.”
“It means that the head of the Distiller’s Guild killed my guildmaster. And is trying to frame me.”
“Even if that is true”—Mistress Violena set her coffee down and flourished the front page of the newspaper like a shield before her—“King Imbris is back. And if you return to Maradis before Sable does whatever she needs to do, you’ll likely be executed.”
Wren ground her teeth, trying not to look at the full-page sketch of King Imbris riding tall on a dark stallion, the falcon crown on his head. How had she not noticed how much he looked like Lucas? That stately profile with his prominent Imbris nose, the thick head of salt-and-pepper hair (mostly salt, for the king), the strong chin that hinted at stubbornness—if a powerful man would ever be called stubborn. The same features that drew her to Lucas, that spoke of vitality and intelligence and steadfastness, in his father looked like cruelty and disdain.
“I’ll be careful,” Wren finally said. “There’s a meeting tonight that I must attend. It will be my only chance to prove who gave Kasper the poison. It’s a risk I must take.” She wouldn’t go anywhere near the Guildhall, wouldn’t get caught. But she couldn’t let Lucas down. They were supposed to go to the meeting together. What would he think if she didn’t show? What if Sable couldn’t find what she needed in time? Would the inquisitor take things out on Lucas in her absence? No, she couldn’t stay here in safety and leave him in the wind.
“Sable said to stay here.”
“It isn’t Sable’s choice,” Wren snapped. “It isn’t Sable’s life.”
“I hope you’re not doing this because you think this is what you deserve,” Mistress Violena said quietly. “To die a murderer.”
Wren squeezed her eyes shut against the word before leveling her gaze on the older woman. “You said I deserved a place. That I should insist on it. Fight for it.”
Violena sighed. “You have to pick your battles, Wren. Let Sable fight this one. I promised her I’d keep you safe.”
“Am I your prisoner?” Wren countered stubbornly.
“No.”
“Then have the carriage brought around. I’m leaving.”
“If you know so well how to go it alone,” Mistress Violena said. “Very well.” Violena left the room, her robe flapping behind her like a war banner. Wren deflated. She hadn’t wanted to be harsh with the woman after her hospitality, but what choice did she have? She couldn’t miss the meeting at Charger’s Estate. It might be their only chance to catch Chandler in the act.
Wren’s harsh words to Mistress Violena needled at her the entire ferry ride across to Maradis. She couldn’t enjoy the blue afternoon skies or the fresh breeze off the lake like she had on the way over. She would write a letter of apology to the woman, thanking her for what she had done. She had helped them. She had heard Wren’s secret and been kind to her. Understanding. She hadn’t deserved such treatment.
Wren had brought the last of the macarons, a solitary ginger cookie. She ate it in one defiant bite, closing her eyes to savor the sharpness of the ginger nipping at her tongue. And then that telltale tingle—the taste of infused magic. Luck be with me. She sent up a prayer into the universe.
Wren made her way through the city to Lucas’s apartment, trying not to look about furtively for Cedar Guardsmen, or worse, the Black Guard, the king’s personal soldiers. It turned out that trying not to look suspicious made one feel all the more suspicious.
Wren let herself into Lucas’s apartment building as another tenant left through the front door, a scruffy dog in tow. She knocked on Lucas’s door several times, but finding no answer, she let herself in with a few flicks of her wrist and a pin in the keyhole. She couldn’t go back to the Guildhall, not right now. She would wait.
She busied herself for a time going about the rooms, inspecting his things. So much could be determined about a person by their possessions. His desk held a fine nib pen and luscious paper, the kind that one buys only when they think carefully about the words they choose to share. On the wall, there was a framed watercolor of three young boys and a toddling girl in pigtails on a lakeshore. His siblings perhaps? Nestled in the corner of the frame was a feathered fly used for trout fishing, perhaps a relic of some country journey. She brushed her fingers against its tufted end. Each of the items in Lucas’s apartment held a feel of him that brought a smile to her lips. To imagine that such a man had sprung from King Imbris’s lineage was nearly unfathomable.
She pawed through the stacks of books on the floor, taking in the eclectic mix. Economics. Naval history. Encyclopedia of the Ferwich Clans. The Art of Confectionery. That one made her pause. Had he been reading up on her discipline? It was strangely sweet. A cookbook. The man could cook? Animal husbandry. Fiction. Mysteries, mysteries, and more mysteries. It seemed Lucas liked to flex his investigative muscles even in his leisure time. Wren herself had never had much love for reading. If she was being honest with herself, it was because she wasn’t very good at it. She had stopped attending school at eight to start working in the bakery, and her attendance before that had been spotty. If it hadn’t been for Hugo helping her with her letters, she wouldn’t have been able to read at all. Her heart twisted painfully at the thought of Hugo, as it always did, and she tucked the memory away carefully.
She had no idea when Lucas would return, and so Wren picked a novel that looked interesting, The Enigma of the Odette Isles, and settled onto the couch to wait. That was how he found her, hours later, curled up in the same spot, engrossed in the story.
When Lucas opened the door, her heart leaped at the sight of him. “Hello,” she said loudly, announcing her presence.
Lucas started, nearly dropping his package in shock. “Wren! You gave me a fright.”
“Sorry,” she said, setting the book down gently. “I needed a place to be before we went to Charger’s Estate tonight. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Yo
u shouldn’t be here,” he said. “The inquisitor is looking for you.”
Her heart seized in her chest. Was he going to turn her over? Had she misjudged him? “I’ll go then. I shouldn’t have come.”
He set his bag down. “I didn’t mean it like that. I won’t turn you in. I just meant Maradis isn’t safe.”
“I couldn’t miss the meeting tonight,” she said. She pulled the scroll out of her pocket, unrolling it to show him the name. “Bianca Chandler was at the party with the poisoned cupcake. And Guildmaster Chandler gifted the whiskey with the other half of the poison.”
“The handwriting does match the threatening letter,” Lucas admitted.
“Our guilds are bitter rivals,” Wren explained. “They’ve been feuding for decades over water rights. Don’t you see? I don’t know if it’s politics, or something more personal, but it’s Chandler. Tonight we can prove it. Tell me you found Charger’s Estate.”
“I found it,” Lucas said. “But, you know, we may find nothing there.”
“I do,” Wren admitted. She had thought as much herself. “If the meeting was only for Chandler and Kasper, then Chandler will have no reason to attend, now that Kasper is dead.”
“We could be on a fool’s errand.”
“We have to try. Perhaps others were invited. Perhaps Chandler will be there anyway, confessing his evil plan to the night sky,” she said wryly.
“If only we were so lucky.” Lucas chuckled.
She smiled grimly to herself, thinking of the tingling she had felt after eating the macaron. Maybe they would be so lucky. “We have to try.”
“Agreed. But I don’t want you to get your hopes up.”
“All I have left are my hopes,” Wren said, putting the scroll back in her pocket. “So they will go in whatever direction they please.”
Lucas approached her, suddenly awkward, all arms and hands with nowhere to put them. “Your hopes are my hopes,” he said, finally tucking a lock of auburn hair behind her ear.
“Because if I die, you die.” She said it like a statement but meant it as a question.
“No. Because your life matters to me. I’ve found it a very precious thing that I’m not interested in going without.”
She stepped into his arms and he enveloped her, the heat of his mouth on hers, the taste of peppermint lingering on his breath. His kiss this time was slow and deliberate, full of promise, unlike the frantic press of their last meeting. Like he was memorizing her too.
His lips left hers and he wrapped her in an embrace. “You are without a doubt the sweetest thing the Confectioner’s Guild has ever produced,” he murmured into her hair.
Her heart melted like warm butter, and she leaned against him, enjoying—for the first time in a long time—not feeling alone.
Chapter 30
Charger’s Estate was a sprawling property on the Northeastern shore of Lake Viri in the Lyceum Quarter. Through some surreptitious questioning, Lucas had discovered its location and its owner. Guildmaster Chandler.
Wren’s mind raced as she and Lucas rode in the carriage that would take them to Nysia Avenue, the main drag of shops and bars and unseemly nightlife that cut through the Lyceum Quarter. From there, they would walk, make their way over the fence, and hopefully find the hermitage.
She fought down tendrils of fear that threatened to wrap around her lungs, squeezing them tight. She tried to focus on her hand, which was currently wrapped securely in Lucas’s calloused fingers. On the memory of his butterfly kisses trailing fire down her neck… on the way her body flushed and pulsed at the nearness of him. Lucas was something unexpected. Something new, that she wanted to savor like a dark chocolate peanut butter truffle. Her favorite. But that fear kept squeezing, kept circling her thoughts back to the fact that now that she had found him, she had something more to lose.
The tree-lined street was dark and quiet. They skirted the perimeter of Charger’s Estate, keeping a hawkish eye out for a way over the tall wrought-iron fence. From time to time, they’d pass someone—a lone soul out for a walk, a group of lyceum students ruddy with wine and company. Each time, Lucas and Wren would melt into each other, his arm would be around her in a flash, his face buried in her hair, hers on his chest, as if they were two young lovers floating in a universe all their own. When the strangers would pass, they’d pull apart, a little more slowly each time. Lucas’s fingers would linger in her hair, her hand on the warm flat plane of his chest.
Focus, she thought.
At last, they found their way in. An ancient elm tree sprawled between sidewalk and fence, its branches hanging over into the grassy estate. A limb hung over the sidewalk and roadway, low enough to clamber onto.
After casting furtive glances about, Wren made quick work of it, taking her sandals off and tucking them into the belt of her dress. With her bare feet, she scrambled up the trunk, stretching for the branch and pulling herself onto it.
Lucas gaped at her from below when she straddled the branch and offered a hand. “That was…”
“A holdover from childhood,” she said. “We had a lot of trees. Come on, before anyone comes by.”
Between his height and her hand, Lucas was able to make his way up onto the branch, hauling himself over it like a fish flopping onto the bank.
“Graceful,” she remarked before making her way to the next branch. The thick network was easy to navigate, and in no time, they were over the fence and silently dropping onto the broad lawn.
Wren put her shoes back on and they set off.
“I found an old building permit in one of the city files,” Lucas whispered as they moved down towards the gentle lapping of the lakeshore. “I think the hermitage building is by the edge of the water.”
“I don’t like how exposed we are,” Wren admitted, her nerves jangling with warning. The broad expanse of lawn had trees dotted here and there, but very little cover.
“There it is,” he said, pointing to a granite rotunda bounded by arched columns. Light poured from within, illuminating stripes across the lush grass.
“Someone’s there!” she said, gratified. She knew it was the right idea to come here.
They gave the hermitage a wide berth, skirting around to crouch behind another massive tree. Thick ivy snaked up the walls, punching through panes of the leaded glass dome that topped the structure.
“We can climb the ivy and look in from above,” she whispered.
Lucas took out his pocket watch. “It’s fifteen to midnight. Almost time.”
Without another word, Wren dashed across the lawn in a half crouch, adrenaline pounding in her veins. Hope beat in her chest like a drum. They were going to figure it out. Clear their name. And then… then she could finally think about the future. Think about becoming a master. Finishing what she and Lucas had started…
She filed away these thoughts as she reached the edge of the building. The only windows were too high for her to see through from the ground. She pulled at the ivy, testing its strength. Between the rough edges of the stones and the gnarled covering of ivy, the building seemed easy enough to scale.
Lucas had crept from the tree next to her and was looking up the side of the hermitage uncertainly.
Voices sounded a ways distant, from the direction of the well-lit manor house. Someone was coming.
“Come on,” she hissed, and she began to climb.
She made her way to the domed roof without too much trouble. Finding a comfortable perch was considerably more difficult. The stone edge of the dome had a small lip, but if she sat on it, anyone looking up through the glass would be able to see her. However, the dome was made up of three crisscrossing stone arches, which held up the ornate glasswork. If she shimmied along the rim to one of those stone arches, she would be blocked from sight for the most part but still be able to peer in. The pane of glass next to the closest arch was broken as well. So she could hear.
Lucas had made it up the ivy-covered side of the hermitage and was performing the same mental calculu
s as she. He began working his way to the left, using the ivy to assist him.
She hissed at him and he froze when they both saw Chandler nearing from the manor house.
Lucas hid his face, sinking into the ivy, letting the thick leaves block him from view.
Then Chandler was inside. Wren and Lucas both let out a breath.
She peeked in through the dome as she began to slowly slide around towards the arch that would be her perch. There were other men inside. One was huge, even larger than Hale. He had a thick, brown beard and forearms like tree trunks.
The other seemed quite ordinary—brown hair, scholarly spectacles, a well-tailored waistcoat and jacket. But when he turned to greet Chandler, Wren saw that the man had only one arm. The sleeve of his jacket was pinned neatly.
“I wasn’t sure we were still meeting,” the one-armed man said. “Now that Kasper is dead.”
Wren continued to inch towards her perch.
“Kasper’s death only proves that this group is more important than ever,” Chandler said. “In fact, I think this group is the reason Kasper was murdered.”
“I thought some jealous guild-girl slipped him poison,” the big man rumbled.
Wren narrowed her eyes while she continued to inch. She was almost there.
“If you believe that, you’re as dense as you look,” Chandler retorted. “The girl is a patsy. Someone to distract us while the real killer slips away unnoticed.”
Chandler was defending her? If he murdered Kasper, wouldn’t he want the suspicion to stay on her? And what was this group? Who were these men and what had Kasper been doing with them?
“So if you have it all figured out, who murdered Kasper?” the shorter, one-armed man retorted.
“The king,” Chandler said.
Wren lost her grip on the edge as a piece of granite crumbled under her hand. She pitched forward, through the hole where a pane of glass had once been. Hands windmilling in panic, she fell down, down, into the empty space below.