Midnight Jewel

by Richelle Mead

  “You said it was an early problem. Doesn’t it still happen?”

  “Sure. But the royal navy has more of a presence now. They patrol the coasts. Lots of merchant ships arm themselves or hire mercenary escorts. The pirate trade dwindled, so some of them moved to land.”

  “Wouldn’t they be called brigands then?” I asked. “Thieves? Bandits?”

  “You’d think so. But they still claim piracy as part of their identity. And there’s more to that. Some of them have become local celebrities. They wear masks and take on flamboyant personas. Everyone knows their names and tells stories of their courage and cunning.”

  “Theft is courageous and cunning?”

  He rolled his eyes. “It is by the time these stories get around. Most of their raids are done against native Osfridians, the fat and the rich ones. Your average working colonial won’t get too upset by that. They don’t really see those kinds of people as ‘real’ people, and everyone likes a little challenge to authority now and then. From there, all it takes is these so-called pirates tossing a few coins someone’s way—to a sick old man, a hungry kid—and suddenly they’re heroes. No one’s going to turn them in.”

  “But their victims are real people. Just look at Mister Kent,” I said indignantly. “He’s very real.”

  Grant returned to gazing at the sea. “Not to them. He’s just another payday to them. Law enforcement’s sketchy there. The militia does some of it, but for a lot of people, these pirates are the closest they’ve got to justice. And if that wasn’t enough, Sir Ronald’s certain the traitors are buying stolen goods from them, making the trail harder to follow.” Grant returned to gazing at the sea. “I’m sure Silas would kill to have eyes and ears hidden in that circle.”

  “Any chance the pirates will come to Glittering Court parties?”

  “I wish. I’m sure they’d be impressed by your knife.”

  A few other Glittering Court girls had emerged for strolls, and I took a few steps back. “Time for me to go. You know, they all think you’re a brawler after they saw what I did to your face.” It had long since healed, but I felt he deserved a reminder every once in a while. Even scratched, his face had maintained the rough-edged good looks I’d found so enticing when we’d set sail. But the more I dealt with his trying personality, the harder it was to imagine him as the hero of some passionate whirlwind affair.

  “Wait. Mirabel. Before you go . . .” Grant didn’t turn around, and I heard an uncharacteristic strain in his voice. “You’re right. Sort of. I can talk to women without offending them. Sometimes I can make them like me. Am I the best at flirting? No, but I don’t have to flirt. You do.”

  “That sounds a little hypocritical.”

  “Because it’s a lot hypocritical.”

  “You’re honest, I’ll give you that.”

  He turned and met my eyes. “I have to lie for a living to complete my jobs—and to stay alive. But if we’re working together, and you’re around me—the real me—then I will always tell you the truth. I don’t like to waste words. If there’s nothing to say, I usually won’t say it. If there’s something to say, then I’ll tell you what I’m thinking. Often with no filter. But it will be the truth.”

  “Okay,” I said, a bit taken aback by his intensity.

  “And I’m telling you, for this case, there’ll be times you’ll have to do a little more than rely on your looks. I’m not asking you to go to bed with anyone. But make sure you know how to use those looks. These traitors we’re dealing with may be crafty, but even a brilliant man will get stupid with a pretty girl. And almost all of them will underestimate you. If you let them have a few drinks, boost their egos, smile in the right way . . . well, you increase the odds that they’ll start thinking more about how they want to sleep with you than about the information they shouldn’t let slip. That’s what flirting’s for.” When I didn’t respond, he asked, “Do you get what I’m saying?”

  “Of course.”

  “Of course?”

  I couldn’t take pleasure in his surprise. I was lost in the past, lost in memories of conversations I rarely let surface. Conversations very similar to this one.

  First: It’s a little skin, Mira. Just enough to throw him off so we can learn their plans.

  Later: He’ll put his arm around you, maybe kiss you, but don’t think about it. Turn off your feelings. Remember this is for the greater good.

  And then: Men can say careless things when they’re in bed. I know it’s asking a lot, but think of it as using a tool. A weapon, even. It might be uncomfortable, but you won’t be in any danger. People are giving up their lives for this cause. Can’t you give up your body—just for a short time?

  Finally: You’re a coward, Mira. You have to learn to make tough choices. My mind dragged itself back to the present. To finding my brother. I met Grant squarely in the eye. “I’m not stupid. We talk about locks and codes, but I know that’s not what you hired me for.”

  “I’ve never, for one second, thought you were stupid.”

  “If you need me to flirt, I can flirt. I know how to get favors from men. I’ve done it before.”

  I couldn’t read the pause that followed. Did he doubt me? “Then refresh your skills, Mirabel. Get some man on this ship to go out of his way to do something for you. Something that’s an inconvenience. More than discounted paper.”

  “Easy,” I told him. “But I want something from you in return.”

  “More than fifty gold? You want my share of the reward too?”

  It certainly was tempting, but I knew his limits by now. “If I pull off getting a big favor, then I want you to tell me where you’re from. What that thing in your voice is that I can’t figure out.”

  I couldn’t see his face, but I knew he was smiling. “It had better be a really, really good favor.”

  Grant never mentioned flirting again. He didn’t push me for a deadline. When we had our clandestine meetings throughout that week, we’d talk about other things. He’d elaborate on Denham’s political climate. I worked on memorizing the list of suspect names and each one’s history. He kept saying I didn’t need to know any other tricks of the espionage trade, but he taught them anyway.

  I stood by my claim that I could charm men, but when I used to do it for my father’s causes, it was usually with men who would take the lead. I just had to show up and play along. A party of Adorian suitors might be that way too, but here, on a ship where all the men knew to be cautious with us, it could be more difficult.

  “How do you flirt?”

  Adelaide looked up from the dress she was buttoning. Our cabin mates were away, and I decided to get an outside opinion. “Do you mean me in particular?” she asked. “Or just a general method to flirting?”

  “Either.” I leaned back against the wall, feeling the gentle rocking of the ship. “And I guess it’s not just flirting. You can get anyone to talk to you. Everyone likes you.”

  “Oh, Mira. Plenty of people like you.”

  “That’s not what I’m— Look, I know it’s weird. I just want to know how you do it. How you get them to open up to you.”

  She returned to her dress. “I don’t know how I do it. I don’t even really think I’m flirting that much. But I mean, common ground is a place to start. Find a connection over something you both relate to. Be interested. Make them feel special.”

  “That’s it? Just those things?”

  “It’s more in how you do them. You can’t overthink it.” She straightened up and smoothed her skirts. “Oh, and confidence. I mean, sometimes you need to be demure. But if you’re ever in some situation that needs a crazy solution, just be confident. If you act like you’re completely convinced about something, people will go along with it.”

  I nodded, running through a mental list of passengers and what interests we might share. “Wow, you look great,” I said, suddenly noticing wh
at she had on. It was one of her nicer Adorian dresses, certainly not a ball gown, but a few steps up from the day frocks we wore on the ship.

  “We’ve got that dinner tonight—the one with other passengers?”

  I groaned. Miss Bradley had decided we needed to stay up to date on our lessons, so she’d arranged to have some of “the more respectable passengers” dine with us in our common room. She’d instructed us to put on our most formal manners—and elegant clothes. The bulk of our wardrobe, especially the truly grand pieces, was in storage. I sifted through what I had in my trunk and produced a burgundy, embossed velvet dress meant to be worn over a frilly white chemise. The velvet pattern hid the wrinkles acquired from being kept folded for so long.

  “Watch that shoulder,” Adelaide teased as I searched for hairpins. “Miss Bradley’ll have a fit over such indecency.”

  I glanced up from the hairpins and realized what she meant. The dress’s wide, scooped neckline—cut low, in the Adorian style—had slipped off my left shoulder. Hardly indecent, but Miss Bradley would chastise me for sloppiness. I tugged it back up. “I don’t remember this being so loose.”

  “It’s the food around here. We’re all losing weight. When we get there, you’ll have to make up for it in Adorian pastries or get your wardrobe altered.”

  “Ugh, don’t mention pastries. I wonder if Miss Bradley’s going to dress up tonight’s food too.”

  Adelaide grinned. “Sure. Maybe a nice butter and wine sauce to go over the hardtack?”

  We arrived in the common room early and found a few of the guests already seated, including my acquaintance Mister Kent. I was pondering whether to use tonight as my big flirting opportunity when a fretful Miss Bradley said, “Mira? Will you go round up the others? They should be here by now.” We had a half hour until dinner, but she was treating this like a royal banquet.

  I knocked on a few cabin doors and passed on her message. Sylvia and Rosamunde were still unaccounted for, which meant they’d probably lost track of time above deck. I headed for the end of our corridor, and as I turned toward the steps that would lead up, I nearly ran into Grant coming from his section of the ship. I froze a moment, surprised to see him over here at all and dressed up. He had on the fine suit he’d worn at our departure, with the linen shirt and suede vest, but it had been further embellished with a dinner coat and black cravat.

  “You’re one of the better passengers?” I blurted out.

  “What?” He looked equally rattled.

  “Miss Bradley said she was only inviting the, uh, elite passengers tonight. I didn’t expect you to see you.”

  His face settled into its characteristic wryness as he leaned against the ladder. “She must have been desperate to fill those seats with whatever vagabonds she could find.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest and immediately felt the dress slip again. Grant’s posture didn’t change, but his eyes tracked the fabric’s movement as it bared the top of my shoulder. It didn’t surprise me that he noticed it; he noticed everything. But it seemed to me he studied it more intently than he needed to. And he certainly didn’t need to examine the rest of the dress’s lacy neckline as it ran along my cleavage—but he did anyway. I left the rebellious sleeve where it was and took a step closer.

  Even a brilliant man will get stupid with a pretty girl.

  “They are going to think you’re a vagabond if you don’t neaten yourself up,” I scolded. He practically jumped when I lifted his collar and began retying the cravat. Aside from our fight in his cabin, we’d never touched before. “Wasn’t the whole point of you going to Osfro to get some polish? You should know how to do this.”

  “I do know how to do it. I just don’t like taking the time with the details.”

  “You took the time with your Flatlander disguise.”

  “That’s different. That was a riskier job. But a comfortable shopkeeper? A few wrinkles aren’t going to raise anyone’s suspicions.”

  I finished the cravat and tucked it down under the vest, making sure my fingers also grazed the skin on his neck. “A few?” I let my hands run slowly down his chest as I smoothed out the soft fabric. “You’d better brush up on your counting skills before we arrive. Seems like a necessary ability for a spy who’s supposed to be collecting information.”

  “I . . .” He watched my hands for a few seconds and then cleared his throat. “I count just fine.”

  I stopped fixing the wrinkles but left my hands pressed against him, as though some unexpected thought had suddenly distracted me into forgetting they were there. “Look . . . seriously, I’m sure you really will be busy with all sorts of things once we’re in Cape Triumph, and I know what you said, but . . .”

  He cocked his head. “But what?”

  I sighed, gave his coat one last tug to straighten it, and then clasped my hands before me. In doing so, I leaned forward ever so slightly, exposing just a whisper more of what lay underneath the dress’s top. I could imagine Miss Garrison nodding in approval. My job is to make the most of what everyone’s got. You’ll thank me later.

  “Are you sure you won’t have time to look into where my friend with the bond went?” I asked.

  “Oh.” He didn’t immediately reject me, so that was promising. “Well, I meant what I said. It’s not as easy as it sounds.”

  “I know, but—” I looked up and feigned shock. “Don’t you own a comb?”

  “Wha—”

  I stood on my tiptoes, bringing us closer, and tried to smooth down the flyaway pieces of his rebellious hair. It was softer and silkier than I expected. “Your hair’s actually manageable when it’s not out in the wind. You have no excuse.”

  My fingers trailed idly through the strands of his hair, my face was only a couple of inches from his, and . . . was he breathing faster? Yes. Yes, he was. Against all odds, I’d sidetracked shrewd, no-nonsense Grant Elliott with feminine wiles. Maybe even flustered him?

  I hadn’t known if my impulsive idea to make him the object of the flirting challenge would work. He wasn’t the type to get easily distracted. He lived and breathed his mission. He should’ve noticed my act right away, especially since he was so good at spotting subterfuge.

  Except it wasn’t subterfuge. Not exactly. Maybe I didn’t always like him, but his infuriating personality didn’t seem like such a deterrent just then, not when an unexpected thrill was slowly uncoiling and spreading throughout my body. I wanted to stand closer. I wanted to touch more than his hair. I wanted him to touch me back.

  And maybe Grant didn’t always like me either, but I could tell, at least in this moment, he liked being close to me too. He liked looking at me. He liked me touching him. It turned out we had common ground after all.

  “Now,” I said, forcing myself back to cool calculation, “about my friend.”

  “Your . . . ? Right. Finding where he is.” Grant was having trouble deciding where to focus. Looking into my eyes seemed to unsettle him. So he’d let his eyes stray to my bodice and linger there until he remembered he wasn’t supposed to. “There should be a ship manifest on file with the port, and maybe a record of who he signed on with. But if they left Denham for some unknown colony, that gets a lot more complicated.”

  “But it’s not impossible.”

  “No. It just means sending out feelers to a lot of different places.”

  “Don’t you have friends everywhere?”

  “Silas does.”

  I finished taming his hair—it really did look better, not that I minded the tousled look—and let my hands drop to my side. But I stayed where I was and looked up at him with wide-eyed pleading that wasn’t faked.

  “Please, Grant? Can’t you just make a few inquiries?”

  Silence hung between us. And more. The space between us smoldered.

  He exhaled. “I . . . There are a couple of people I can check with.”

 
“Only a couple? After I went to all that work so that you’re fit to be seen in polite company?”

  A little of his old sardonic smile came out, but his eyes still betrayed other thoughts in his mind. He reached toward the fallen sleeve and pushed it up. And just with that, his fingertips against my skin, I inhaled sharply and forgot all about my scheming.

  “You have no reason to talk,” he said. “You’re just as negligent—”

  The door to the upper deck suddenly opened, and we sprang apart as Sylvia and Rosamunde came scurrying down, faces frantic. “Are we late?” Sylvia exclaimed. “We almost forgot about dinner.”

  I swallowed. Increasing the space between Grant and me made me realize just how little there’d been moments ago. “No, you’re fine. But we should get to dinner.”

  Grant gestured toward our hall. “After you, ladies.”

  Sylvia smiled as she passed him. “You look very nice tonight, Mister Elliott. Is there something different about your hair?”

  At dinner, Grant and I sat at opposite ends of the table. He barely glanced in my direction and made his typically flawless conversation with those near him. That distance cleared my head. I relaxed. That craving to touch and be touched faded, and I felt more in control—and exultant. My plan had worked.

  Now I had to wait and see how long it took him to notice.

  The next morning, as I was watching the sunrise at the stern, I heard footsteps behind me. Then: “What you hear, what no one else ever seems to hear, isn’t some regional colonial accent. What you’re hearing is that I didn’t start speaking Osfridian until I was eight.”

  I turned to find Grant standing with his arms crossed. “Of course!” I exclaimed. “It’s not your first language. I considered that, but I know how most Evarian speakers sound when they learn Osfridian.”

  “I didn’t grow up speaking any language from Evaria.”

  I stared, confused, for several moments. Then, I couldn’t help a slow smile spreading over my face. “You’re Balanquan.”