“Stop fidgeting,” he chided. “You’re acting like a child who abhors dressing up for Sunday services.”
Luthor frowned but lowered his hand to his side. The pair stopped at the landing between the second and third floors in the mansion. Above them, they could hear soft string music drifting down from the grand ballroom.
“I feel preposterous,” Luthor complained.
“You look preposterous, but that doesn’t mean you have an excuse to mess with your well-manicured features.”
“You should have let me wear my bowler cap, at the very least.”
Simon smirked at Luthor’s request. “It’s impolite to wear a hat indoors. Try not to think of this as an obligation, but rather as an extension of our investigation. I have a strong feeling that many of our queries will be revealed before we retire for the night.”
The servant at the top of the stairs motioned for Simon and Luthor to advance. They climbed the stairs side by side, Simon in his well-fitted, black, three-piece suit, and Luthor tugging endlessly on his coarser, tan, wool jacket. As they reached the third floor, the servant pulled aside a heavy cloth curtain that separated the ballroom from the rest of the house. A cacophony of sound rolled from the room, overwhelming the pair.
Ladies in long dresses milled about beside their dates, their bouffant hair rising to ever increasing heights as though the rise of their hairstyle signified their societal standings. The gentlemen were all similarly dressed to Simon and spoke to one another in boisterous tones, while servants drifted through the busy ballroom serving glasses of champagne. A string quartet sat on a raised dais, playing soft music to which a few couples danced.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a man announced from just inside the ballroom, “I present Royal Inquisitor Whitlock and his companion, Mr. Strong.”
The faces in the room turned toward the entryway, as Simon and Luthor begrudgingly stepped past the curtain. The doorway opened onto a small ledge, from which a few stairs descended to the ballroom’s official floor. The two men walked calmly down the steps as previously interrupted conversations resumed throughout the room. A few nobles positioned close to the stairwell paused to shake the Inquisitor’s hand as he passed. Simon nodded politely as they introduced themselves, surely intent on befriending someone so closely associated with the crown and the capital city, but Simon forgot their names as quickly as they said them.
Simon’s gaze drifted over the room until he spotted Governor Godwin. The heavyset man sat at a head table near the far side of the room, laughing heartily to whatever witticism Mr. Dosett offered. The thin businessman sat on the governor’s right, as he had done at the dinners.
A servant passed them, and Simon deftly snatched two glasses of champagne from the tray. He handed one Luthor.
“What is our plan for the evening?” Luthor asked. “Do we in fact have a plan, or are we merely mingling until you’ve deduced the answers to the mysteries of the universe after witnessing nothing more than the shade of mud smeared on the bottom of a man’s shoe?”
Simon turned curtly toward the apothecary. “Luthor, I’m noticing a very blatant amount of hostility. You’re being rather rude at the governor’s party.”
Luthor tilted back his glass and drank most of it in a single long draw. “I joined you as your traveling companion because I have a deep rooted fascination with the occult and mythology. I find true happiness in a book or in a wicked brew that I can create from local flora. I understand books. I understand plants. What I don’t understand is people. Therefore, when you force me into a room full of not just people but arrogant nobles and men of affluence, I find myself quite out of my element. So forgive me if you perceived a hint of insolence because I clearly meant it to be much more pronounced.”
Rather than seeming upset, Simon tilted his head back and laughed. “That’s why I like you so much. Please, don’t let me keep you confined in the middle of the room. I believe there’s a balcony that you could explore that would be better suited to your tastes, though I’m sure it’s a bit frigid for standing outside.”
Luthor smiled, though the humor wasn’t reflected in the rest of his expression. “I’ll take my chances with the frostbite. Better to risk the cold in the air than be exposed to the ice in some of these men’s veins.”
Luthor touched his forehead in a salute before making his way across the room. The tall doors that separated the main ballroom from the outer balcony swung open briefly as the apothecary stepped outside. In that short moment, Simon could feel the arctic chill wash through the room. He understood his companions dislike for such formal occasions, but he struggled to understand why anyone would rather risk their death in the cold rather than enjoy good food and spirits.
Simon wandered through the room, shaking hands politely but never letting his gaze drift for too long from the governor and Gideon. Despite his chiding of Luthor, the apothecary was correct. Simon didn’t truly have a plan, though he knew that observing Gideon would offer the best chance at discovering what the businessman knew about the werewolf attacks. Contrary to Luthor’s opinion of him, Simon showed surprising understanding of the importance of attending formal events like the governor’s Winter Ball. Though he generally lacked decorum at such events, Simon could be political if it suited his purposes.
As he reached the far side of the room, Simon turned and caught sight of two very familiar faces. The tall Mr. Orrick of the Artisan’s Guild and stocky Mr. Tambor of the Miner’s Union stood merrily by one of the hors d’oeuvres tables, laughing at one another’s jokes. Of all the people he expected to see at the Winter Ball, he was most surprised by these two, who were such outspoken opponents of both the governor and Mr. Dosett.
A guest of cold wind washed over Simon once again, and he shivered involuntarily.
“Have you conceded that it’s more comfortable indoors?” Simon asked without turning toward the apothecary.
Luthor’s teeth chattered, and he rubbed his arms to promote the return of circulation to his extremities. “I concede nothing.”
Simon motioned with his now-empty champagne glass toward the two men. “Do you see who else has graced this soirée?”
Luthor saw the two men and frowned. “They seem like the least likely people to be in attendance.”
“My thoughts exactly. You asked me previously if I knew what I was searching for tonight? I believe I’m now ready to answer that question.”
The duo walked back through the crowd, approaching the two guild leaders. Upon seeing the Inquisitor, their faces brightened considerably.
“Inquisitor Whitlock,” Tambor said with a firm pat on Simon’s shoulder, “it’s very good to see you again.”
Orrick pulled a glass from the table beside him and offered it to him. “We weren’t sure we’d see you here tonight. You seemed so thoroughly committed to your investigation, we were sure you’d be locked away in some dark laboratory running experiments.”
“Quite on the contrary,” Simon said as he took the filled glass from Orrick. “I’m quite in my element at parties like this. I must confess, however, that I’m more than a little surprised to see you both here. When last we spoke, you weren’t exactly fans of either of our hosts.”
Tambor waved his thick fingers as though brushing aside such nonsensical thoughts. “We spoke out of turn. You were right to chastise us at the time.”
Simon arched an eyebrow. “So you’ve made amends with the governor and Mr. Dosett?”
“We had a meeting with Mr. Dosett shortly after we spoke at the tavern,” Orrick explained. “He was courteous enough to let us voice our concerns. In return, he offered concessions and, in the end, made an offer that neither of us could refuse.”
“You yourself said during our last meeting that he swindled families out of their property and businesses by offering coppers against the real value of the land.”
Orrick shrugged, his handlebar moustache bouncing with the movement. “I was mistaken.”
Simon clenched his fists. �
��You both practically spit venom at even the mention of his name.”
“We erred,” Tambor replied with an irritatingly jovial smile. “We judged him too harshly.”
“You filed reports with the crown contrary to Mr. Dosett’s accounts. Your reports were practically the reason the Order of Inquisitors were so intrigued with this specific investigation. I’m here as much on your contrary accounts as I am from the governor’s initial report.”
“No one feels worse about wasting your time than we do,” Orrick said. “If we had the ability to turn back the hands of time, we would have certainly voiced our support for Mr. Dosett’s accusations.”
The red on Simon’s face began at the neckline of his suit and crept slowly to his ears before finally crashing onto his cheeks in splotchy patches of crimson.
“Good day, gentlemen,” he said through clenched teeth.
Orrick and Tambor nodded to the Inquisitor, as Simon spun angrily on his heels and stormed away. Luthor didn’t bother returning their polite nods, feeling no need to smooth the waves Simon was creating.
“Can you believe those bastards?” Simon stammered as the elegance of the language eluded him.
“If you were searching for something out of sorts at the party,” Luthor offered, “I believe you found it.”
“Not two days ago, they were the vocal minority. Now, they’re even more sheep, catering to Gideon Dosett’s every whim. They stand there with the same glassy expression as the governor, on bended knee and bent ear toward every—”
Simon stopped in mid-sentence. The pause took Luthor aback, and he had to look at his mentor to ensure the man was still feeling healthy.
“Sir?”
Simon shook his head. “I’ve been a fool, Luthor. I’ve allowed myself to become flustered for all the wrong reasons. Let’s forget about Misters Orrick and Tambor. Let them cater to Mr. Dosett if they so desire. You and I should be enjoying the night’s festivities.”
Luthor frowned and ran his hand nervously through his greased hair. “Did you take an imaginary blow to the head that I somehow failed to observe?”
Simon laughed. “Not at all, dear friend. Our encounter with Orrick and Tambor was far more revealing than you could possibly imagine. It may not be your proverbial smear of mud on the bottom of a man’s shoe, but it was as close to a smoking gun in this case as I’ve seen thus far.”
Simon looked over only to realize that Luthor hadn’t heard much of what he had just said. The apothecary’s gaze was set across the room. Simon followed his gaze and saw a splash of red against the otherwise powdered white skin and wigs of the women in attendance.
The woman’s tresses of unkempt red hair framed her narrow face. She had tried to pull it back into some semblance of order, but it fought free of its confines as though from its own volition. The tendrils of free hair fell to the dark leather corset pulled tightly around her waist. It ended in a long, flowing red dress that match the fiery copper color of her hair.
Though she was attractive in her own right, she stood in such an unpolished stance—with her hands placed on her hips as she stared with an expression that bordered between anger and fear—that Simon was immediately intrigued.
“Do you know her?” the Inquisitor asked.
Luthor shook his head. “I’ve never seen her before, though she’s stunning.”
Simon shrugged. “She’s plain. For an unrequited bachelor who constantly ridicules my relationship choices, I would expect you to select a better mate.”
Luthor shot Simon a glance devoid of amusement. Simon merely shrugged and looked back at the redhead. Her gaze hadn’t wavered since they first noticed her. Her eyes remained locked on something across the room. Simon tilted his head to the side in an attempt to estimate the recipient of her hatred and was stunned when his gaze drifted to the head table. Truly, if looks were daggers, she would have been flaying the governor and Mr. Dosett alive.
“You know, Luthor, I believe I owe you an apology. This stranger with whom you seem infatuated has suddenly piqued my interest as well. Why don’t you get us all drinks while I introduce myself?”
Simon walked toward the redheaded woman while Luthor begrudgingly went for more drinks. The Inquisitor skirted the edge of the dance floor as couples waltzed around the polished wooden floor, though his eyes never left the strange woman. Throughout it all, her eyes never left the head table.
As he approached her, a servant with a tray of champagne happened by. Simon grabbed a pair of flutes, holding one in each hand. He stepped innocuously to the woman’s side and turned toward the head table as well. From her periphery, she noticed the tall man and frowned.
“I’m not interested,” she said gruffly. Her accent was thick and her words seemed muddled as she barely opened her mouth to speak.
“You don’t even know why I’m here,” Simon replied calmly.
“Nor do I care,” she said curtly. “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested. Just go away.”
Simon offered her the champagne glass, but she refused to even look at the drink. “You’re not being at all polite.”
The woman turned sharply toward the Inquisitor. “Nor am I trying to be. I’ve made myself quite clear that I’m not interested in your company. Do the gentlemanly thing and oblige a woman’s request. Kindly go away.”
Simon set her champagne flute down on the table beside him and took a slow drink from his own. With a satisfied sigh, he set his half-empty glass down and turned toward the woman, flashing a broad smile.
“Sorry,” he said, “but you’re far too interesting to leave be.”
The woman sighed dramatically and turned her attention back to the head table. She took a step away from him but he merely followed suit, stopping beside her once again.
She threw up her hands in disgust and turned back to Simon. “Why are you even talking to me?” she asked. “There are plenty more attractive women here with whom you could discuss the finer points of aristocracy.”
He looked to the other women, who fawned over their dates as they paraded around the dance floor. “The other women here are draped over their dates like pieces of jewelry, like they’re struggling to be the most fashionable new bracelet or fanciest pocket watch. They lack a sense of self-worth, as though their mere existence is defined by the political station of their date for the evening. You’re something different, independent and abrasive. Frankly, you intrigue me.”
The woman frowned. “I’m not intriguing. I’m boring and should be duly left alone.”
“Quite on the contrary,” Simon replied. “Everything I know about you is intriguing.”
“You know nothing about me.”
“Again, on the contrary. I know you’re one of the locals, are you not? I don’t mean one of the people who have settled in Haversham. I mean those who lived here long before the city was more than a trading outpost in an inhospitable land.”
She looked at him suddenly, startled.
Simon raised his hands, begging her to remain calm. “I’m not a threat to you. I’m merely remarking on the texture of your skin, which shows signs of extended exposure to strong winds, rather than the polished alabaster of the other women in the room. The lines at the corners of your eyes are indicative of someone who squints against the glare of sunlight reflected off snow. I know that you have an unhealthy interest in the governor and the businessman who even now laugh irritatingly at the head table.”
She turned toward him slowly, her eyes widening in surprise. Simon acted as though he hadn’t noticed her obvious concern as he continued.
“I know that you’re an imposter and feel that you don’t belong at this event. Your eyes constantly dart around the room, as though searching for that certain someone who will march over and reveal you for the charlatan you are before summarily and unceremoniously removing you from this Winter Ball.”
The woman’s pale skin blanched even further, and her lower lip quivered in fear.
Simon turned toward her, his
soft expression hardening. “And I know that you’ve been exceedingly rude to a Royal Inquisitor.”
The woman tried to turn away, but Simon grabbed her painfully by the wrist.
“Let me go,” she hissed, as she struggled against his iron grip.
Simon was surprised by the lithe woman’s obvious strength. Though his hand remained firmly affixed around her wrist, he struggled to maintain his balance as she pulled away.
“I don’t want to have to hurt you,” she threatened.
Simon shook his head and pulled her closer to him. “You couldn’t if you tried. Why don’t you calm yourself and tell me exactly why you’re here.”
The woman shook in his arms. Simon glanced around the room and saw a few faces turned toward their direction as she struggled against his grip. He slipped a hand around her waist and forced her to step to the side and onto the dance floor.
“Quit struggling, unless you want to draw the attention of every person in this room,” Simon warned. “If you wish to remain inconspicuous, you’ll do exactly as I say.”
Simon stepped back, pressing on the small of her back as he did so. She obliged, taking a step forward, beginning a slow waltz with him on the far corner of the dance floor.
“Are you going to kill me?” the redhead asked nervously.
“You’ve hardly given me good cause to kill you. Is there a reason I should be considering that course of action?”
The woman shook her head slowly.
Simon took her right hand and placed in on his shoulder. Taking her left hand, he held it properly out to the side so they looked more like a formally dancing couple.
“Then let’s begin at the beginning, shall we?” Simon asked. “What shall I call you?”
The woman sighed in surrender. “Matilda Hawke. Mattie.”
“Excellent, Mattie. Now why are you at the Winter Ball? Do you intend harm to the governor or Mr. Dosett?”
Wolves of the Northern Rift (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 1) Page 13