Understanding sunk in slowly. I was right. Henrik was after Holland’s merchant’s ring.
He picked up the small, wrapped package. “It came with this.” He held it out to me.
I stepped forward, taking it from him, and everyone watched, waiting. I swallowed, prying up the corner of the wrapping until the small box inside was sitting in my hand. When I lifted the latch, the light gleamed on the smooth gold surface.
It was the watch, the face engraved with my initials. B.R.
“The watchmaker,” I said, almost to myself. Henrik was courting the patronage of Simon.
“Well done.” Henrik’s approval dripped from the words. “Murrow said you charmed him.”
I didn’t know if it was the heat of the fire or the narrowed eyes of my uncles on me, but I was sweating. “What do you mean I’ll be ready?”
Henrik leaned forward. “Most of the members of the guild inherited their rings from aging family members or had powerful connections. Simon, however, is the only member of the guild who rose up the ranks from the bottom. The very bottom.”
That was why Henrik believed he could win his patronage. He thought they were the same.
“But he’s not going to take us on as our patron unless he believes we won’t make a fool of him. This dinner will set into motion everything we’ve been working for. If we are granted Simon’s patronage, we will have that ring. And once we have license to trade in Bastian, everything will change for us.” His eyes flicked to the portrait of the Roth siblings on the wall. So quickly, I wasn’t sure I’d even seen it. He was antsy, nearly coming apart beneath his skin. It was unnerving to watch. “We’ll be counting on you, Bryn.”
“For what?”
He set the letter down gingerly before him. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we aren’t particularly well versed in this kind of company. You, however, are a proper young lady with proper manners, and I have a feeling that you’ll smooth out our rough edges in no time.”
“I…” I didn’t know what to say. “I don’t think I understand.”
“I’d like you to prepare us for the dinner. No detail should go overlooked. No expense spared. We will have one night to convince Simon to give us the patronage and we can’t waste it. You and I will need garments for dinner. Ezra, too.”
I glanced at the silversmith, who was still standing wordlessly in the corner. He didn’t look surprised by Henrik’s plan, but I was. Why would Henrik take his silversmith to a dinner with a guild member? It didn’t make any sense.
“I also want every member of this family outfitted for the exhibition. Can you do that?”
I met his eyes, searching them. There was a desperation in the request. He needed me, and that was an advantageous position. After what happened at the pier, I needed it. “Yes,” I answered.
“Good.” He let out a heavy breath. “Worth a little blood on your frock, eh?”
I went still. The slow, sickening realization of what had transpired was only beginning to come together in my mind, the facts still in pieces. It was obvious that Murrow taking me to the watchmaker wasn’t just about me getting a watch. They were dangling me in front of Simon like a carrot. But the blood on the frock … I reached up, absently touching the cut on my lip. Sending me to Arthur’s wasn’t about giving me a job. That, too, had something to do with the invitation in Henrik’s hand.
As if he’d read my mind, he stood, dropping it on the desk. “I’ve been working to secure this patronage for months, but word had it that Simon was considering offering himself as patron to Arthur. As soon as the story about him laying his hands on a young woman, especially one as pretty and proper as you, started circulating last night, I knew Simon would be forced to cut ties. It doesn’t matter what kind of slum he came from, he wouldn’t want to be tied to someone wrapped in rumors.” Henrik was absolutely gleeful. “Now, it’s time to get to work,” he said, throwing his acute attention on the others. “You all know what needs doing. And we have five days to do it.”
Casimir, Noel, Ezra, and Murrow answered with nods and grunts, but my stomach was twisting on itself, nausea climbing up my throat.
He’d used me.
I knew when I came to Bastian that Henrik would have plans for me, as he called it. Sariah had made sure I understood that much. But he’d willingly sent me to that pier knowing I’d be hurt. And he’d done it for his own gain.
My eyes trailed up to the portrait on the wall, to where my mother looked down at me. The pendulum swing of my uncle’s wrath and affection was a dangerous, shifting wind. In only a few days, I’d seen it firsthand, and I knew there were much darker deeds in this family than the ones I’d witnessed. This was only the beginning.
TEN
It was going to take more than fine garments to impress the watchmaker, but a visit to the couturier was a start.
The nimble-fingered work of a talented seamstress was more than enough for the usual commissions of frocks and jackets, but Sariah had taught me that if you wanted garments cut for the likes of a guild member, a seamstress wouldn’t do.
Sariah’s wardrobe had been the envy of Nimsmire, every stitch and seam perfect, every bead exquisite. While the other women went to a seamstress, she went to the couturier—the skilled tradesmen that crafted the finest suits and boots.
There was only one in the Merchant’s District, and I’d sent a message ahead to reserve the shop for the entire afternoon. I would need his full attention if I was going to outfit the whole family and I needed first pick of the fabrics that had arrived on the ships that morning. With a little charm, I’d have my pick of trimmings, too. Buttons made of animal horn or polished onyx, thread that glistened with the shimmer of gold.
My freshly shined boots clipped at a quick pace as I followed the street curving through the Merchant’s District. I’d put on one of my nicest frocks and pinned my hair back with emerald-studded combs. I had to look the part if I was going to get the couturier to take me seriously.
Nearly everyone in this part of the city was cleaned of the grime of the sea and docks, the red, windblown faces replaced with smooth ones. Traders didn’t come this far from the taverns down by the water. They rarely had need to.
The family had been in a flurry since the invitation had come, with Ezra getting straight to work on the pieces they would present to the guild in the exhibition. There would be no fake gems or sleights of hand. These would be the creations of a master silversmith, the best curated work to convince the guild of Henrik’s worthiness of the merchant’s ring. My uncle had placed an enormous amount of trust in Ezra and that was more than a little puzzling. For someone not even related by blood, he held the family’s fate in his scarred hands.
If Henrik got the merchant’s ring, everything would change. With enough time, coin, and recognition, the sullied reputation of the Roths would fade into obscurity. Henrik would be allowed to trade as a merchant, building his own inventory outside of Ceros. It was something my great-grandfather Sawyer and my grandfather Felix had only ever dreamed of. But with the winds changing in the Unnamed Sea with the fall of Holland and the Narrows rising in influence, there was new power to be found. If Henrik had his way, he’d be climbing the ranks of Bastian by the next winter.
Copper jingled in my skirt pockets as I walked, and my hand curled around the smooth case of my watch. It felt like an anchor, seeing my initials engraved into the gold. As if that single thing gave me claim to what I was about to do. In the next several days, it would be up to me to refine the Roths into some semblance of acceptable company.
The wealthy were as much concerned with association as they were coin, because they were intrinsically tied together. Until now, the Roths had relied on their brutality to get what they wanted. But breaking noses and bribing apprentices wasn’t going to help them edge into this corner of society.
A tall building appeared ahead, its smooth white face standing out from the others. Two large lanterns were lit on either side of the double doors, with danci
ng flames despite the early hour.
The commission. I stopped, staring up at the seal of Bastian carved into the stone wall. The commission was the meeting house for the guild when it was in session. In a few weeks, it would house the exhibition, where the members would vote on the recipient of the merchant’s ring. When the Roths walked through those doors, they would turn every head. I would make sure of it. My reward would be Henrik’s trust. And the more trust I had, the closer I got to my own stake. My own power and safety.
I pulled the folded parchment from my pocket, glancing at the crude map Murrow had drawn for me of the Merchant’s District. I would need to memorize these streets and the shops, along with the names of their proprietors, in the coming weeks. Every detail mattered and there was no telling when I’d need the fragments of information at my disposal. It was all part of the task Henrik had given me and while there were some things that were true everywhere in the Unnamed Sea, the guilds in Bastian would have their own little secrets.
I paused when my eyes followed a small side street labeled with Murrow’s messy handwriting as Fig Alley.
It’s just rotting at the end of Fig Alley.
That’s what he’d said when we’d gone to the watchmaker’s shop.
I watched the busy district around me, searching the blue placards on the corners of the buildings until I found the one that read Fig Alley. I walked toward the break in the street, where the pavers ended and a narrow path opened up between the shops. It was lined with shorter streetlamps on either side, where a few windows were scattered along the brick walls. But the storefronts didn’t come this far. It looked to be more of a shortcut that led to the other end of the Merchant’s District than an actual path. It wasn’t until the curve in the alley took me out of sight from the main thoroughfare that I saw it.
A single wood-framed building was set between two brick walls with a boarded-up door. The glass of the tall windows was hazy with the salt in the air, but the sign that hung above them was still legible.
Eden’s Tea House
I stopped, the soles of my boots sinking into the soft earth. It was run-down and forgotten, much like some of the storefronts I’d seen in Lower Vale, but my mother’s tea house was still here, tucked back into the shadows of the Merchant’s District.
I walked toward it slowly, cupping my hands around my eyes to peer through the glass. It looked as if it hadn’t been touched since my mother died. Inside, I could see tables and chairs and wood-carved booths along the wall. Above them, dingy chandeliers hung from the ceiling.
Rotting was the right word. The fabric covering the chairs was eaten through by moths in some places, the large mirror behind the bar losing its silver backing. It was like the inside of a sunken ship, left to decay in the dark.
“So very unfortunate.” The sound of a voice made me jolt and I looked up to see the reflection of a woman in the window behind me.
I pressed a hand to my chest, turning to face her. “I’m sorry?”
The woman stood only a few feet away, her hands gently clasped together on top of her full silk skirts. Delicate black feathers edged the collar and cuffs of her brilliant red frock, the same hue painted onto her curved lips. She watched me like a cat, her fixed stare meeting mine.
“I always thought it was such a shame this place never opened,” she said, her eyes lifting to the sign over the windows. “Tried to buy it myself a time or two, but the owner wouldn’t hear of it.”
She stepped past me, the toe of a glossy black boot peeking out from beneath her skirt as she peered into the window. Her glistening black hair was braided up at the crown of her head, beneath a semicircle of what looked like sapphires. They sparkled, catching the sunlight like the quick flashes of a lighthouse.
“I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.” Her green eyes brightened as she studied me.
Whoever she was, this woman was clearly affluent. And I wasn’t going to give more away than necessary before I knew just how important she was.
“I’ve only just arrived from Nimsmire. I’m Bryn,” I said, reaching out a hand and taking care not to mention the name Roth.
The woman glided toward me, a rueful smile stretching across her red lips. “It’s lovely to meet you, Bryn.” She put her hand into mine and squeezed, her eyes falling to my mouth. “Looks like you met some trouble there.”
I reached up, remembering the cut and bruise that still stained my skin. But she didn’t stare, her attention returning to the window behind us just as the clap of boots came down the alley. When I heard voices, I turned to see two men coming around the bend in the path. They didn’t even notice us as they sauntered by, lost in what sounded like the beginnings of an argument.
“I…” The word dissolved on my tongue when I turned back around.
The woman who’d been there only a moment ago was gone, her bloodred frock already turning the corner ahead.
The sound of her footsteps faded, leaving me in the silence of the empty alley. I hadn’t even gotten her name.
I smoothed my hands over my blue skirts, looking up to the sign that hung over the tea house. The woman was right. It was a waste, just sitting here in a back alley of the Merchant’s District. A perfectly good enterprise if Henrik had ever bothered to open it.
A thought like a single flame ignited behind my eyes as I stared at it, the paintbrush of my imagination coloring the tea house to life. Glowing candles on the crystal chandeliers. Velvet curtains draped behind the windows. The soft clink of teacups and the high-pitched jingle of a bell on the door.
Maybe … my mind whirled.
Maybe I didn’t need to carve out my own stake in the family after all. Maybe I could take the one my mother had left behind.
Until I had earned a place for myself among them, I would be an outsider to the Roths. Sariah had taught me from a young age that being indispensable was the best protection. That’s why Henrik had sent me to Arthur’s and hooked me on a line like a lure to Simon. He hadn’t truly needed me yet.
Perhaps it was Henrik’s own superstition that had kept the doors of the tea house closed. Maybe in his mind, this place was some kind of monument to his sister. Or maybe, this gem rotting in the belly of Bastian had just been waiting for me.
ELEVEN
This was something I knew how to do.
I stood before the long table in the couturier’s shop as he laid out the bolts of fabric. He worked with quick hands, lining everything up side by side, and unrolling a flap of every tweed, wool, and silk taffeta in a cascade of colors to be inspected.
A fresh pot of tea sat on the counter behind him, steam pouring from its spout, and a half-moon of cakes from the baker was arranged on a porcelain plate. This was going to take all afternoon and the couturier had prepared, making sure to have everything ready with his stock at hand.
Tru had been the first to arrive, and when he got too close to the table of fabrics with his teacup, the man nearly bored a hole into him with his glowering. Couturiers were fiercely protective of their supplies and you never so much as lit a candle near their fabrics. Even the cuts of leather for boots were under lock and key in the glass cases along the wall. There was no telling what the items in this shop added up to in coin.
“All right, what will it be?”
I walked down the table, studying the cloths and feeling their corners. “This one.” I set a hand on a dark blue tweed. This would be for Henrik. He needed something to brighten and balance that dark gloom in his eyes. “And this one.” The emerald color was next—a perfect hue for Murrow. Dressed in green, his light brown hair would look like a rich auburn, and there would be more than one young lady at the exhibition who would be looking at him.
But Ezra … My hand flitted from bolt to bolt as I conjured the image of him to mind. He was fair and stark, with a pale smooth complexion and raven hair, his narrowed gaze intent. These colors wouldn’t do for him. They’d only look like a costume.
No, his would be the obsidian. A deep, inky
black.
I unfolded the edge of the wool, holding it in my open hand, and a feeling like embers under my skin made me shiver as I pictured it. The way his gray eyes would smolder in this color.
I blinked the image away, dropping the cloth and curling my fingers into a fist, as if it had bitten me.
“Next?” The couturier waited, the knife clutched in his hand.
I chose fabric after fabric, piecing them together until I had every Roth dressed up like a set of chess pieces in my mind. Together, they would be magnificent.
Henrik was taking Ezra and me to the dinner at the watchmaker’s house, but he wanted formal garments for everyone in the family. The first of many engagements, he’d called it. The Roths knew how to present themselves, their clothes and boots and watches pristine even when there was no company. But dressing for polite society was another thing altogether. It didn’t matter how white their shirts were, my uncles and cousins and Ezra had the manners of wolves and the guild would spot it a mile away. If Henrik wanted to be accepted by them, he would have to learn to be civilized. That was going to take some time, so we’d start where we could—the garments.
The couturier started cutting right away, sliding the blade of his cloth knife down the stitching in clean edges and setting aside the bolts we weren’t using.
“All dinner clothes?” He pulled a strand of thread with his teeth, biting the length so he could use it to measure.
“That’s right.” I went to the window, watching the street. Murrow and Ezra were late. “Where are they?” I murmured to myself.
“They’ll be here,” Tru said, dropping a third cube of sugar into his cup.
The Last Legacy Page 7