The Last Legacy

by Adrienne Young

  He dropped his polishing rag over them, as if he didn’t like me inspecting his work, and went to one of his shelves to retrieve a small wooden box.

  “You sure about this?” he asked.

  I untied the cloak from my shoulders, letting it fall into my arms. “Do I have a choice?”

  “Probably not.”

  My pulse skipped unevenly, my eyes going to the inside of my elbow, where the mark would be. I’d imagined it there countless times, admiring the one Sariah had since I was little. It had always felt like a rite of passage. A claim. And that had made my heart swell as a child in a city where I had no clan of my own. I had never even had a future. But here, with the Roths, there was something to build. That’s what I wanted to believe.

  In a way, I’d longed for the day I’d bear the mark of the Roths. At least then I’d know who I was.

  “What will it change, really?” I wondered aloud, my hand tracing where the ouroboros would soon be.

  Ezra set down the box. “As far as protection goes in this city, it’s the next best thing to a purse of coin.”

  I absently reached up, touching the cut on my lip that was still healing. The mark is what Arthur had been looking for when I went to collect payment for Henrik. If I’d had it, he wouldn’t have dared lay a hand on me. Despite what Sariah had always told me about frocks and jewels, the mark of the Roths was the only real armor I had.

  “Then yes. I’m sure,” I said, unbuttoning the sleeve of my gown.

  Ezra set down a burning candle before he opened the box. Inside, the contents were arranged neatly—a few different-sized needles with flat ends opposite their points, a bottle of ink, and a square wooden block.

  He unrolled a clean cloth between us and set the items out in an orderly row, as if he’d done this a thousand times. But I was uneasy, watching his scarred, calloused hands pick up the small paintbrush. He unstoppered the ink, and a sharp smell filled the air as he dipped the little brush inside. He turned over the wooden block next, revealing the ouroboros carved into the other side. Two entwined snakes eating one another’s tails in a kind of beautiful knot. He carefully painted the black ink over the design, avoiding the corners of the block, and when he was finished, he picked it up, holding his other hand out. His fingers unfurled before me, waiting.

  “Your arm.” His deep voice grated in the quiet.

  I hesitated before I laid my arm into his open hand and I watched his jaw clench as his fingers wrapped around the place above my wrist. His grip tightened around my forearm as he turned it, and when my knuckles were flush against the table, he hovered the block over me, eyes narrowing before he pressed it to my skin. He rolled it from one side to the other, and when he lifted it, the mark was left behind in a perfect black stamp.

  “Don’t move,” he said, taking time to wipe the block clean.

  The ink glistened as it dried and he reached for a needle next, taking hold of my wrist. He leaned closer, studying the back mark and when I inhaled, I could smell him. Cloves and strong black tea.

  He glanced up at me from the top of his gaze. “Relax.”

  “I am relaxed,” I said, more sharply than I’d intended. But he was so close that I could feel his breath on my skin.

  He gave me a knowing look. “I can feel your pulse.”

  I felt my face flush warm as I looked down at his thumb pressed firmly against my wrist to hold my arm in place. When I realized I wasn’t breathing, I drew in a quick breath, and he suddenly let go.

  “What are you doing?”

  He didn’t answer, walking to the other side of the worktable and crouching down to the crates beneath it. He rooted through a few tools before he stood, a dark corked bottle in one hand and a tiny green glass in the other. He set the glass next to me and opened the bottle, filling it. The smell of rye ignited in the air.

  He said nothing as he sat down, but he was waiting, his hands folded in his lap.

  I sighed before I picked up the glass and poured the rye into my mouth, managing to swallow without choking. But my eyes watered fiercely, my throat burning.

  When I set the glass down, Ezra filled it again. He picked it up and took the rye in one swallow.

  I eyed him. I wasn’t the only one who needed to relax. Ezra had been wound tight all night. Ever since our conversation with Henrik in the study before dinner.

  He set the glass down and picked up the needle. It glinted as he held it over the candle’s flame, turning it slowly. Again, he took my wrist in his left hand, but more gently this time. Almost instantly, I could feel the rye bleeding into my veins, warming me against the chill of the workshop.

  “It will sting for a few minutes and then your mind will sort of numb to it,” he said.

  He dipped the needle into the little pot of ink and poised it over the mark, as if deciding where to begin. I could see the moment he made the decision. His shoulders pulled away from his ears, his fingers tightening on my wrist. The first prick sent goose bumps running over my skin and I resisted the urge to pull away from him. He waited patiently for me to still before he continued, bringing the tip of the needle down in a steady rhythm.

  I grit my teeth as the sting slowly grew into what felt like fire and I tried not to clench my fist. Ezra didn’t seem to notice, so focused on his work that after a few minutes, it was almost as if he’d forgotten I was there.

  I studied his face, watching the corners of his mouth. His sharp jaw was clean shaven, his hair perfectly trimmed around his ears. There was nothing unkempt about him, except for the scars that covered his hands and arms.

  “Are those from the forge?” I asked softly, closing my eyes and trying not to think about the unrelenting bite of the needle.

  “Yes,” he answered, leaning closer.

  I inhaled the smell of him again, this time, on purpose. My heart was still racing, but it wasn’t the needle I feared. It was the fact that I liked him touching me. I liked that he was close.

  But Ezra was as much a mystery to me as he was a magnet. He had the respect of the family. The adoration of Henrik. The loyalty of Murrow. But what I couldn’t decipher was what Ezra thought about the new horizon of the family or my place within it.

  I’d sat across the table from him at dinner, watching every time he stiffened, feeling it every time his eyes drifted to me. I knew when I had a man’s attention, but this was different. Ezra had been careful to keep his distance and just when I thought I saw a glimmer of something in his eyes, it was replaced by the emptiness that seemed to live there.

  “Coen said you used to work for Simon,” I said, hoping that my curiosity wouldn’t make him withdraw from me.

  He took longer to answer this time, dipping the needle again. “I did.”

  Something warm slid down to the crook of my elbow, and I looked down to see blood pooling in the hollow. Ezra picked up the cloth and firmly wiped it clean before he started again. I stared at the bright red blot on the white fabric.

  He was right. After a few minutes, the pain hadn’t left me, but it didn’t strike an ache in my stomach each time the needle came down, and I softened under his touch when I realized that he was doing his best not to hurt me. His movements were precise and deliberate, and he was quick about it.

  “How did you end up here, then?” I asked.

  “A game of dice.”

  “Dice?”

  “Henrik won me off of Simon in a game of Three Widows.”

  My fingers curled into my palm and a soft burn ignited between my ribs where my heart was. That’s what he’d meant when he told me he’d lost enough in a throw of the dice.

  “How old were you?” I asked, more softly.

  He sat up, dipping the needle. “Twelve, I think. Eleven? I don’t know.” He kept his attention on my skin, wiping the blood as it continued to drip.

  He’d answered my questions easily, striking a different tone between us than the one I was used to. I didn’t want to tempt fate with another.

  He started again, and I bar
ely noticed. My skin was mostly numb. I watched the dwindling flame on the candlestick as he worked in silence, so intently focused that it seemed as if he’d forgotten I was there once more. It was the same look he had when he was at the forge.

  Once he was finished, he sat up, setting the needle down and wiping the length of my arm until the running ink and the last of the blood were gone. I winced at the burn, but when he turned the mark up to the light, my eyes widened. What had looked like a messy blot of black was a perfect rendering of the stamp. The snakes’ eyes looked up at me, wide and open.

  “It’s…” I said, my voice drifting.

  “What?” Ezra’s brow furrowed.

  I felt a smile pull at the corners of my mouth and I shrugged. I wasn’t sure what I’d meant to say. There was a comfort I felt at having it there, despite the sting that was raging on my reddened skin. As if the last week had been a dream and I was only now waking in Bastian.

  The ouroboros wasn’t just the mark of the family or the thing that tied me to them. It was something more. Something I could feel inside me.

  He dropped the rag, folding his arms on the table. “Why did you lie to Henrik about the ledger?”

  I froze, every muscle in my body tensing. “What?”

  “You lied. Why?” He waited. It didn’t sound like an accusation, but I couldn’t make out the look in his eye. He was calm. Too calm.

  When I didn’t answer, he guessed. “You feel guilty.”

  My mouth twisted to one side. The words were on the tip of my tongue. For some reason, I wanted to tell him the truth. But I couldn’t bring myself to say it.

  “You liked him—the watchmaker,” he guessed again.

  How did he do that? He always seemed to see beneath things.

  “And the watchmaker’s son?” he said.

  My eyes snapped up, the heat flashing over my face.

  The breath he’d inhaled poured from his lungs. He reached up, rubbing the heel of his hand over his jaw. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Then why did you?” I asked, staring at him.

  He didn’t have to say it. The reason had been all over his face in the study before the dinner. He didn’t like the idea of matching me with Coen. And he hadn’t liked seeing us together at Simon’s, either. But the most unnerving truth was that I was relieved that he didn’t like it.

  I stared at his hand on the table, my eyes running over the pale silver scars that covered his skin. Almost every moment since I touched him in the study, I’d felt the echo of him. Before I even thought about it, my hand lifted, moving across the table.

  Ezra went still, watching as I traced the pattern of scars on his hand with the tip of my finger. When he didn’t pull away from me, I threaded my fingers into his. For a fleeting second, a pained look broke the surface of his contained exterior. He stared at our hands, a hundred thoughts passing over his face in an instant.

  “Bryn.” He swallowed. “Henrik has plans for you.” He searched my eyes. “You understand that, don’t you?”

  I didn’t care. The only thing I cared about right then was the way my skin was set aflame every time he looked at me.

  “That’s part of all this.” He looked around the room. “That’s how it is here.”

  Slowly, I stood up off the stool, sending my skirts cascading around my legs, and I didn’t let him go as I leaned over the table. Ezra stayed perfectly still as I moved closer and I watched his lips part. His eyes dropped to my mouth and the seconds pulled, dragging time until I couldn’t breathe. Until my heart was beating so hard that I could feel it in every inch of my body. I wanted so badly for him to kiss me.

  The hinges on the door creaked and Ezra pulled his hand from mine, dropping it from the table. We turned to see Tru standing in the doorway. “Henrik wants to see you.”

  Ezra looked stunned for a moment, closing the box of inks clumsily and standing.

  “Not you.” Tru looked at me. “He wants her.”

  NINETEEN

  The warmth of Ezra’s touch was still alive on my fingers, but now his hands were stuffed into the pockets of his trousers, the muscles in his arms clenched tight.

  Tru had already disappeared, leaving the door to the workshop cracked open, and I could smell Henrik’s pipe all the way from his study.

  “Better go,” Ezra said, but his voice was strained. He looked like he was about to come out of his skin.

  I let my hand drop from the table, hurt curling between my ribs. I felt foolish suddenly, standing there in a glittering gown in the dim light of the workshop, my cards laid out on the table. Ezra still held all of his.

  My slick palms clutched my skirts as I started toward the door, but Ezra’s voice stopped me. “Wait.”

  I turned back, the tightness in my chest loosening just enough to let me breathe.

  Ezra looked at me before he went to the shelf on the wall, picking up a small round tin. He walked toward me, holding it in the air between us. “Twice a day until it’s healed.” His eyes dropped to my arm.

  I looked down, only just remembering it was there—the ouroboros. It stained the inside of my arm, where the sleeve of my gown was still cinched up to my elbow. I could hardly feel the reddened skin, every inch of me humming with how close Ezra had been only seconds ago.

  He turned away and went to the table along the wall, leaving me standing there alone. I wanted him to say something. Anything that would make it feel like he wasn’t turning his back on me. When he didn’t, I pressed the tin between my palms and left him in the workshop.

  The house felt empty as I walked down the dark hallway, but Henrik’s shadow moved in the crack of light on the floor.

  His voice called out as I lifted my hand to knock. “Come in.”

  The door opened and Henrik stood beside the fire, puffing on his pipe. The room was filled with fragrant smoke, making it look like a scene from one of my great-aunt’s oil paintings. His suit jacket was flung over one of the leather chairs, but his white shirt was still buttoned all the way to the neck.

  A feeling of dread crept through me, slow and cold. I was afraid he knew, like Ezra, that I had lied. Or he wanted to reprimand me for what I’d said to him at the dinner. Or that somehow, he knew about the almost kiss in the workshop, and the wild tangle of vines around my heart that squeezed tight every time I thought about Ezra.

  His attention went to the tattoo that marked my arm and he smiled, coming around the desk to take hold of my wrist. He held my arm toward the firelight so he could inspect it. “Very good,” he said, almost to himself.

  There was a kind of ownership in his eyes that I didn’t like. Something possessive.

  “I wanted to speak with you privately.” He dropped my arm, going back to the fire.

  “All right,” I answered.

  He motioned for me to sit in one of the chairs, but he remained standing. I couldn’t help but wonder if it was so he could look down on me. But after a few silent moments, he changed his mind, taking the other chair and setting one foot atop his knee as he let another ripple of smoke trail from his lips.

  “I wanted to tell you that I’ve thought about what you said.”

  I waited.

  “The tea house. I think you’re right.”

  I could feel a trap somewhere in the words. Something lingering behind what he was saying. He’d already told Simon about his plan to open it and until now, he hadn’t said a word to me.

  “And you’re perfect for the job,” he added, eyes sparkling.

  I couldn’t hide my surprise. “You want me to run it?”

  “Yes.” He laughed, his white teeth showing. “Of course I do. It was your idea.”

  My grip on the arm of the chair loosened and I sank back into it. He hadn’t cut me out after all.

  “You know far more about these things than I do, and it’s a good way to get your face and name out there in the Merchant’s District. You proved tonight that you’re up to the task.You handled those merchants beautifu
lly.”

  I stared at him, unsure of what to say. He was confusing. Rash. One minute he was angry and the next, he was proud. I couldn’t keep up with him.

  The tender skin on my arm stung as I ran my fingers over the mark. That was what this was about. He was bringing me into the family completely. No more tests.

  He opened the drawer of the desk, pulling out a large purse full of coin, and set it down in front of me.

  “What is that?”

  “You wanted a stake, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said, my voice feeling far away.

  “Well, now you have one. That’s your copper to start. I expect you to manage it. We’ll need the tea house up and running as soon as possible. I want every member of the guild through those doors by the time they vote at the exhibition. Can you do it?”

  My eyes lifted. “I can do it.” I felt a smile on my lips. It was getting easier and easier to say those words.

  Henrik was beaming. “Seems fitting, doesn’t it? After all, it was Eden’s to begin with. Everyone in this family has a stake, and you’re uniquely suited for this one. But most importantly, you’ve earned my trust, Bryn.”

  My eyes flickered up, a sick feeling souring in my gut. Behind his eyes, I could see he was thinking about the dinner, where I’d smiled in my pretty gown for the watchmaker’s son. Like he’d told me to. I’d played his game and now he was giving me my prize.

  I was getting what I wanted, but I wasn’t proud of how I’d earned his approval.

  He looked me in the eye. “We’ve had many legacies in this family, Bryn. Thieves, criminals, cheats. But this…” He paused. “This will be our last. Just like Eden wanted.”

  I stared at him as my mother’s name filled the study around us. He really did want to legitimize the family. To scrub it clean of fake gems and bribes and dark deals. It wasn’t only the family’s legacy. It was Eden’s. Was this all about her, in the end?

  “I had a feeling, even when you were young, that you were special. That you would play a role in this family’s destiny. The others weren’t sure when you arrived from Nimsmire, but I was. And Ezra…” His voice trailed off.