“You worry too much about a society you secretly despise,” I said.
She raised an eyebrow, but conceded the point with a half shrug.
“Sometimes you cling to what you have, whether it fits or not,” she said. “I would think you of all people would understand that.”
I looked around the grounds of the great house, one of the many places in which I did not truly belong, and smiled ruefully.
“Speaking of your society friends—using the term loosely,” I remarked, deliberately shifting the direction of the conversation. “What can you do for Violet Farthingale?”
“What do you mean?” asked Dahria.
“You said she was in danger of losing everything. Her job. Her position. All because of a scandal in which she was quite guiltless.”
“You want me to ensure that her position in Bar-Selehm society goes untarnished?”
“Yes,” I said.
“I don’t think I can do that.”
“You need to think more like an aristocrat,” I remarked, grinning. “You can do anything once you put your mind to it.”
She matched my grin.
“Perhaps the Farthingale woman will be gainfully employed in the service of other people’s unpleasant little children.”
“Perhaps twist your brother’s arm a little, and she might be paid a little extra to teach occasional classes at a fledgling school that meets in the Drowning.”
“You think she would?”
“I do, actually,” I said. “I think she has a good heart.”
Dahria cocked her head on one side, eyeing me curiously.
“You want to see the best in people,” she said.
“I need to try,” I said.
Before she could respond, Willinghouse came strolling out of the house, tieless and in a suit of light gray that made him look buoyant and youthful.
“Ladies,” he said, “I have been told to inform you that dinner will be served in half an hour.”
“You may consider your mission complete,” said Dahria.
“Mr. Willinghouse,” I said.
He stopped in the act of walking away and turned to me.
“Please,” he said, “I think you have earned the right to call me Josiah.”
“Thank you,” I said, fairly sure that I would not do so except in the most extreme of circumstances. “I never got a chance to say that I was sorry about Namud.”
His jaunty manner clouded over, and he nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “We all are. Thank you.”
“You will need to hire a replacement,” I said.
“I suppose so,” he replied. “My grandmother will want to be involved in that. Her requirements are quite particular.”
“Imagine that!” said Dahria.
“Perhaps you might consider some of the Quundu,” I said. “They are not all children, and they need work. They would not be able to take Namud’s place, of course, but perhaps they could do some of his duties.”
He seemed to consider this.
“I wonder if having so many black servants sends the right message?” he mused.
“To whom?” asked Dahria. “Your electorate? I think that if they want the work and you pay them well and treat them with respect, that is the only message you need to worry about.”
He looked at her, blinking in the sun, as if one of the hyenas had just given him precise instructions on how to prepare its dinner, and then nodded vaguely.
“Perhaps so,” he said. He gave us an equally vague wave and returned to the house, lost in thought.
I caught Dahria watching me as he left.
“You like him,” she said.
“He’s a good employer, who has trusted me when no one else—”
“Yes, yes,” she snapped, “but that’s not what I meant, and you know it. You like him.”
“Why do you make every conversation so difficult?” I said, flushing. “You’re always … probing, making fun.”
“Not at all, my dear steeplejack, not at all,” she replied. “If I play, it’s because I like you. You know that.”
“Yes,” I said, grudgingly, avoiding her eyes.
“I just mean that you’re going to have to choose. At some point.”
“Choose what?” I replied.
“Who you like best, me or my sainted brother. Which you like best.”
“Why?” I said and, with a private smile at her baffled exasperation, turned back to the house. “Come on, Dahria. We have to get ready for dinner. I’m sure your sainted brother has matters of urgency to discuss, new threats to the security of Bar-Selehm that he wishes me to investigate.”
“You are the most maddening person I ever met,” said Dahria, linking her arm through mine and leading me up the stairs to the house.
“That, my dear Miss Willinghouse,” I observed, pushing open the door and catching the scent of roasted meat on the warm air, “is why we get along.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to Diana Pho and all at Tor Teen; to my agent, Stacey Glick; to Stephen Melling, Finie Osako, and Sebastian Hartley.
BY A. J. HARTLEY FROM TOR BOOKS
Steeplejack
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A. J. HARTLEY is the international bestselling author of a dozen novels, including several archaeological thrillers, the Darwen Arkwright middle-grade series, the Will Hawthorne fantasy adventures, and novels based on Macbeth and Hamlet. He is the Robinson Distinguished Professor of Shakespeare at UNC Charlotte. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Acknowledgments
By A. J. Hartley from Tor Books
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
FIREBRAND
Copyright © 2017 by A. J. Hartley
All rights reserved.
Cover art by Mike Heath
A Tor Teen Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates
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Tor® is a registered trademark of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC.
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-0-7653-8813-1 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-0-7653-8814-8 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9780765388148
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First Edition: June 2017
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