Midnight Jewel

by Richelle Mead

  The mercenaries weren’t on alert yet, and once I made it past them, it was easy to walk through town to the address Grant had given me. It was a second-floor loft space like Silas’s, except above a bakery instead of a tailor. The entrance was on the building’s side, away from the main thoroughfare. All the better to conduct clandestine business, I supposed.

  “This is yours?” I asked when he let me in. Grant’s new lodging smelled like fresh bread. The space consisted of a tiny living area and, from what I could see through a half-open door, an even smaller bedroom that was completely taken over by the bed. It was also the only piece of furniture he had. There was no kitchen either, and I wondered how he ate. “You should get some furniture or decorations. Right now, it looks like a ghost lives here.”

  “I’ve been a ghost for a long time. I don’t mind it. And look, you’re wrong about decorations. I’ve got a mirror over by the door.”

  “Yeah, but that’s not for aesthetics. It’s to put on your disguises. When are we going out?”

  He peered at my burlap cloak. “As soon as I figure out what exactly it is you’re wearing.”

  “I didn’t have a lot of options,” I said defensively, trying to smooth out the tarp.

  He tossed me a bundle that had been sitting on the floor. “Good thing one of us has access to a supply store.”

  I unrolled the clothes and found pants and a real cloak made of drab but rugged fabric. There was also a plain, button-up shirt cut for a man but small enough for me. I changed in the bedroom, impressed that he had guessed my size correctly. “No boots that little,” he said later, nodding toward the black dance slippers on my feet. “You going to be able to walk in those?”

  “I’ve been doing it all night.” I certainly wasn’t going to tell him how much my leg was hurting.

  Abraham Miller lived just outside the bustle of Cape Triumph’s heart, not far from the town green, which I had yet to see. Here, stately homes and town houses lined quiet streets free from the heavy foot traffic that businesses attracted. Grant—still in his earlier disguise—led me toward a group of identical white town houses. We stopped in the shadows of a cluster of newly planted saplings and watched as a man paced the block in front of us, pausing once to light a pipe.

  “A lot of single rich men live here—ones who are too good to stay in a boardinghouse but haven’t yet settled down enough to buy a home,” Grant explained. “Miller’s place is at that end, on the top floor.”

  “And him?” I asked, pointing at the man with the pipe.

  “Watchman. Lots of these houses have them. He’s too lazy to go around back, but he’ll keep an eye on the front doors, which is—unfortunately—where we need to go.”

  “How do we get past him?”

  “That’s where you come in. Assuming you haven’t used up all your charm for the night.” The way he said “charm” made it sound like he questioned if I ever had any at all.

  “Is that what Silas would do if he was helping you?”

  “He’d distract in a different way. Maybe flash some credentials and claim he was chasing a criminal.”

  “That sounds a lot more dignified than what I have to do.”

  “We all work with the gifts we have,” said Grant. “Mine is picking locks. Go talk to him. Keep him facing away from the doors. Once I’m in, finish up and go around to the back of the building. I’ll meet you there.”

  Mystified as to how that part would work, I doggedly set out on my task and headed toward the watchman. He straightened up, startled at my approach, but relaxed when he got a better look in one of the streetlamps. Probably because he thought I was some meek, unthreatening woman.

  “Excuse me, sir,” I said. I used a lower-class accent, similar to Tamsin’s natural one. “Do you know where Benjamin Pierce lives?”

  The man, middle aged with a crooked nose, scratched his forehead. Behind him, I saw Grant creep toward the door at the end of the building, keeping to the shadows as much as possible. “Never heard of him.”

  That was because I’d made Benjamin Pierce up. “They said this was the place. Corner of Pine and West. White house.”

  “You must’ve got it wrong.” He eyed me suspiciously. “And what business does a girl like you have visiting a man this late at night?”

  I put on an affronted look. “Honest work. His housekeeper’s out of town and hired me to come tidy up his place.”

  Grant was still working on the lock. So much for gifts.

  “This late?”

  “He doesn’t like to be around when it’s cleaned and had me come while he’s at some fancy party,” I replied bitterly. “You think I want to be out this late for one stupid copper? But a girl’s got to survive.”

  “We all do,” the watchman said sympathetically. “But you shouldn’t be out on your own. Never know who’s lurking in the dark.”

  I knew Grant was in the dark, still unable to open the door.

  “My pa’s out helping down at the wharf. He would’ve taken me if he could.”

  “Well, I’ll take you over to East and Pine,” said the man. “You probably mixed them up.”

  Panic hit me. I needed to stay around here, not head off to some other part of town. “Couldn’t let you, sir. What if one of your masters came by and you weren’t here? You’d lose your job.”

  His hesitation told me that was true. And at that moment, I saw Grant open the door and slip inside.

  “I’ll be careful,” I told the watchman. “I know how to stay out of sight—a girl’s got to do that too. You’re probably right, and I just mixed up the streets. Thanks for your help.”

  I hurried away and walked down Pine until I couldn’t see him. Circling around, I made my way to the back of Miller’s town house, which faced another building and created a narrow alley in between. The windows at street level were barred, but the upper ones weren’t.

  “Took you long enough,” a voice said from above. Looking up, I saw Grant watching me from a second-story window, arms crossed on the sill as though he’d been lounging there all night.

  “I’m the one who took a long time? You should’ve let me pick the lock while you asked for directions.”

  Grant’s response was to toss down a rope. I’d climbed plenty of times on my family’s farm and easily made my way up. Two small candles were lit inside, and he handed me one. “Only light we can use without being seen. Search everything, no matter how unlikely. If he’s got something here, it’s not going to be anywhere obvious.”

  We still examined the expected places: desk and bookshelves. There were papers and ledgers, but all were clearly marked accounts of army transactions. From there, it was odder locations, like drawers and bureaus. Finally, under Miller’s mattress, I found a single piece of paper.

  “Got something,” I called. “More accounting. But no clear explanation.”

  Grant came up behind me and peered over my shoulder. “That first column is ship names. Those dates go back to last summer, probably when they came into port. I’m sure customs records will confirm Miller was the agent who did the inspections.”

  “Five yards oilcloth, ten pounds tin . . .” I tapped the column next to the dates. “Cargo?”

  “Stolen cargo. Small amounts, siphoned off the top, probably not significant enough for their owners to notice or protest. It’d be easy for Miller to make that happen, especially with any shipments that sat in the customs houses for a while.” Grant’s eyes narrowed. “I bet someone noticed, though. Probably figured their goods were stolen by sailors, not a customs inspector. We’ll have to go through the official records for any filed complaints.”

  “Look at the names next to those. Craft is listed five times.”

  Grant nodded along. “Because he’s one of the couriers who carries off the contraband. Those were his assignments.”

  “Do you know the others?” Fou
r other names were listed multiple times, presumably other couriers who’d transported the cargo Miller helped steal for the traitors. Madisin, Bush, Skarbrow, and Cortmansh.

  “Bush. Not the others—at least I don’t think so. I know a Madison with on, not in; Miller might just be a terrible speller. Regardless, men rarely keep honest records hidden under their mattresses. It’s not the bed’s purpose.”

  “You mean sleep?”

  “Oh, Mirabel. You’re such an innocent.” Grant took out pen and paper from inside his coat and began copying the records. “It’s like you don’t even understand men sometimes.”

  “I understand them well enough. There was this one I met on a ship. I got him to do a big favor for me.”

  “Not that big. And you know, I’ve been thinking about that time.”

  “Oh, have you?” I asked archly.

  He paused and looked up, a rueful expression obvious even in the candlelight. “The falling sleeve. Real or faked?”

  “Real.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  He returned to his work with a sigh. “That makes it even worse.”

  “What?”

  “Forget it.”

  When he finished, he returned the ledger to its original hiding spot, and we planned the complicated task of making our exit. We didn’t want to leave any sign of our visit, so we couldn’t just climb down the rope and leave the window open.

  “I’ll go down,” Grant explained. “You’ll untie the rope, step down onto that ledge, close the window, and jump.”

  He said it so reasonably, so easily, that I had to replay it in my mind several times, just to make sure I hadn’t missed the part where it actually made sense. I peered out the window. “Ledge” was a bit of stretch. It was really a type of ornamental molding that wrapped all around the building between the two floors. There was a flat surface on top of it, probably just wide enough for my feet to fit. Certainly not his.

  “That’s a big jump,” I said at last.

  “Not really. These stories aren’t that tall—not like the place you’re staying. Besides, I’ll catch you. If you’re okay with that.”

  “As opposed to you missing?”

  “You’ve been in men’s arms all night. I figured you might be tired of that.”

  “I can handle one more set—assuming I land in them. I’ll probably knock you over.”

  “Then I’ll break your fall. The risk is on me. Now, come on.”

  I was skeptical of who was really taking the greater risk, especially as I watched him easily climb down the rope and then beckon for me to follow. He was right that this was a much shorter building. It was classy but not meant to impress the way Wisteria Hollow did with its vaulted ceilings and gables. And the ground, at least, was packed dirt. I had to imagine cobblestone would hurt more.

  Come on, Mira, I told myself. Father would do this. Lonzo would do this.

  I untied the rope and let it fall. Gingerly, I stepped onto the narrow molding one foot at a time. It seemed almost laughable now, thinking the climb out of Wisteria Hollow’s back window was dangerous. The sill jutted out, and I held on to it firmly with one hand while using my other to slide the window shut. With that complete, I painstakingly turned myself around so that I now faced Grant and not the building. The ground seemed a lot farther away than it had the last time I looked.

  Grant held out his arms. “Would it make you feel better to know Aiana’s going to kill me if anything happens to you?”

  “Not really.”

  But I tensed, ignoring the pain in my calf, and then launched myself up. In the split second that my feet lifted from the ledge, a shout sounded from far down the alley. “Oy! What do you think you’re doing?”

  The watchman. It threw both of us off. My jump was clumsy, and I completely forgot about aiming at Grant. He too was startled and looked away for a moment toward the sound, just as I plummeted toward him. The result was that he did, in fact, break my fall, and we both tumbled into the ground.

  Grant made it to his feet first and jerked me up. “Run,” he said, steering me in the opposite direction of the rapidly approaching watchman. “We’re younger and in better shape. He can’t catch us.”

  The watchman’s whistle pierced the night. “Thieves! Thieves! Help!”

  “Let’s hope whoever he summons isn’t younger and in better shape than us,” I grunted as we cleared the alley. I was keeping pace with Grant so far, but pain shot through my leg with each step.

  “Which way did they go?” a new voice barked.

  “There—down that alley!” yelled the watchman. The sounds of boots—more than one set—pounded on the ground, one street over at most.

  “By the governor’s authority, stop and surrender!”

  “Of all the damned luck, the militia would be out tonight,” growled Grant. “This way. We’ll lose them downtown.”

  We rounded a corner and found ourselves back on the edge of Cape Triumph’s nightlife. A giant tavern and inn took up almost the entire block in front of us. Music spilled out of it, and the golden windows revealed crowds of people inside. Other clusters lingered out on the porch, men smoking and women strutting in scanty dresses, despite the cold. Glancing back at the direction we’d come from, I could hear shouts and just barely see silhouettes of running men about three blocks away.

  “Take off the wig,” Grant ordered as he began tearing at his own and the beard. I pulled mine off, wincing as hairpins snagged at my real hair. He stuffed both wigs into yet another pocket of his giant coat and then grabbed my hand, leading us toward the establishment’s door.

  Inside, the noise was even more intense. The piano sang with a jaunty tune far removed from anything I’d learned at Blue Spring, and patrons laughed and yelled around us. Some played poker, slamming cards and coins on the table. Deft servers slipped through the crowds with drinks and food. Smoke and the scent of sweat hung heavy in the air. More barely dressed women sauntered around the room—some doing more than sauntering. I stared in disbelief as one couple kissed in a doorway, oblivious to those around them. Another woman had climbed to the center of a table of men, teasing and laughing with them as they tried to lift the edge of her skirt. I became very conscious of my missing wig, with only a mask to shield me.

  “I can’t be recognized in a place like this!” I shouted to Grant.

  “Better here than jail,” he called back. “Look—a table opened up by the bar.”

  We pushed our way through the mob, snatching the two chairs before anyone else could. We sat so close to the bar that Grant only had to stand and call out to the bartender for wine. Moments later, a decanter and cups appeared on the table.

  “We’re just having a nice drink. A pleasant time.” Grant’s gaze, anything but pleasant, remained fixed on the door as he spoke. “If the militia does think to look in here, they won’t recognize us from whatever descriptions they got.”

  My hands shaking, I filled the cups with wine but didn’t touch mine. “So much for the watchman being too lazy to patrol the other side of the building.”

  Grant shot me a withering look. “How bad is your leg?”

  “Before or after I fell out a window?”

  He grimaced. “You should’ve told me it was still bothering you. I’ll take a look when we get back to—” His focus shifted behind me, and I knew what had happened.

  “The militia’s here.”

  “Just one. Don’t turn around. Drink your wine. Smile.”

  I couldn’t manage the smile but brought the cup to my lips without drinking. A man stormed up to the counter beside us. “I’m looking for a couple of thieves,” he told the bartender importantly. “A man and a woman.”

  The bartender didn’t blink. “We’ve got plenty of them. Take your pick.”

  “Young blonde girl. Older man.”

 
“Take your pick,” the bartender repeated, gesturing to the crowded room behind us. “I didn’t notice anyone like that, but then, your description’s a little vague.”

  The militiaman scowled and scanned the room, his eyes passing over Grant and me. “Hey,” he yelled, waving at the door. “Come here, and tell him anything else you saw.”

  Grant’s fake smile grew even stiffer. “It’s the watchman. He’s walking over.”

  I met Grant’s eyes in alarm. I’d been face-to-face with the watchman. Even without the wig, he might recognize me. I averted my gaze as he stomped up to the militiaman and sputtered out what he’d seen.

  “I didn’t get a good look at him. But I think he had a beard. Gray. The girl was blonde. Pretty. Had a mask.”

  “Search around if you want,” said the bartender, more weary than concerned about housing thieves.

  “Let’s split up,” said the militiaman.

  I didn’t hear what they said next. All I knew was that I couldn’t let them see my face. I couldn’t be caught, not after everything I’d done to get to Adoria. My heartbeat roaring in my ears, I climbed over to Grant’s lap without any warning and kissed him, angling my body and face away from the bar. His shock lasted only a second, and then he put his hands on my hips, fingers curling tightly into me. His mouth opened against mine, and the taste of his tongue and his lips flooded my senses as my earlier panic melted away. I wrapped my arms around his neck, and one of his hands slid up my back, entangling itself in my hair. His other hand pushed my mask up, and I opened my eyes, meeting his for the space of a breath before our mouths were on each other again. His teeth grazed my lips, and every part of my body tensed, eager for . . . something.

  A man cleared his throat loudly behind us, and it took my addled brain several moments to even register it. I quickly shoved my mask down and broke from Grant. We both looked up and saw the scowling bartender standing over us with crossed arms. The watchman and militiaman were nowhere in sight.