Rook

by Cameron, Sharon

  She shook her head, meaning to refuse, and was immediately sorry. The pain in her skull quadrupled. She put a hand over her eyes. Her side burned like a hot poker had been applied, vomiting was not entirely out of the question, and her recently turned rogue fiancé was trying to get her drunk, or possibly decapitated, she wasn’t sure which. She wanted her bed.

  When the wave of pain eased, she found a glass of clear golden liquid on the table beside her head, and René with his untamed hair behind an ear, hunched over the candle. He was running one end of a needle back and forth through the flame. It took a moment for the significance of the needle to set in.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “No.”

  “You are in no position to refuse me.”

  “What do you know about stitches?”

  “Enough.”

  “And what do you mean by enough?”

  “I mean that my maman always let me help with the mending. You should drink what’s in that glass, my love.”

  “You are not giving me stitches.” Sophia had forgotten all about coy and moved straight on to temper.

  René took the needle from the candle fire and considered her. “Should I bring your father, then? Call the nearest doctor? That Sophia Bellamy runs about the countryside in breeches falling on knives in the dark will make for excellent conversation, especially at dinner tonight. Tell me I am wrong.”

  There was that other voice again. Who was this man? René began threading the needle with a thin silk.

  “I am an only child,” he said, holding the needle close to the light. “Perhaps you did not know that, Mademoiselle. But I have many uncles. Six of them, and they are always in need of repairing, I assure you. The cut is not deep, and the muscle will not need my attention. You will have only the smallest scar to mar all that beautiful skin.”

  She opened her mouth, and found nothing to say. She’d forgotten how much of her skin was on display at the moment. René was smiling at her again, something slightly devilish. No, this René Hasard wouldn’t be stealing a woman’s purse, Sophia decided; it was the daughters that needed locking up. His smile widened, and now she was going to flush, and that made her angry.

  She picked up the glass and drained it. It wasn’t much, but the whiskey went gliding down her throat like soft, hot coals. She set down the glass, won a mighty struggle not to cough, and, still on her side, raised her arms carefully to get a good grip on the iron bed frame.

  René folded her shirt up one more time, to keep it clear of the wound. The rough palm of one hand was pressed against her ribs, fingers bringing the edges of the cut together, and somehow she could feel the heat of this burning in her face.

  “So you carry needle and thread about in your pockets, do you?” Sophia asked.

  “My tailor insists. You can be still, yes?”

  She nodded, head swimming even more after Mr. Lostchild’s poisonous concoction.

  “Relax,” he said. “It will hurt some less if you do.” He paused, waiting to feel the tension leave her body. She wasn’t sure that was going to work, since he was the one creating it by having his hands on her skin. “Tell me about this room,” he said. “Do you know what it was used for?”

  “No, not what it was used for Before,” she replied. “But the Bellamys used it for contraband, a long time ago. Tom calls it his sanctuary.”

  “Because of Kings Cross and St. Pancras, the words on the wall?”

  “Yes.” She sucked in a breath at the first jab and pull of the needle.

  “Who was St. Pancras?”

  “No idea … Mostly Tom calls it … that because he … likes to spend time … here.”

  “And the shelves?”

  “He digs …” She breathed. René was going very fast. He had already tied off two stitches and was starting another.

  “And what does he find?”

  “He has buckets … of bits and pieces. Plastic, but sometimes cast metal and … carved stone …” The pain was doubling with each fresh prick and pull. “He thinks we must be on top of a town … or a city. You can’t dig a well … or plow a field without hitting … something. Especially at the beach.”

  “And the tunnels that are blocked?”

  “They go out to the sea, drop right away in … the middle … of the cliff face. You have … to climb down. The cliffs … must not have been … there … Before.”

  “Did Tom block them up?”

  “Yes, there was too … much wind to use the room. But he was careful. The stones can come … back out … without hurting anything.” Unlike René, who was killing her.

  “And your brother keeps his finds? He does not give them over for study? Or sell them?”

  Sophia took a moment to grip the bed frame. “Tom thinks it’s a … crime to … melt such things. He’ll donate … give them to the Commonwealth, all at once …”

  “And they will either put them in a box or lose them.”

  “That’s why he … wants to study them first. He writes down what he … learns.”

  “And what of all those powders on the far wall? In the kegs. What are they for?”

  She held the cold iron harder. Those kegs contained Bellamy fire, her father’s discovery once upon a time, most recently used to panic the mob in the Sunken City. It was Tom who had learned to give them sparks and colors, to make the explosions small in order to frighten, not kill. But Sophia was beyond thinking of a lie to tell about Bellamy fire. For the moment, she was beyond speaking.

  “There!” René said, running a sleeve across his brow. “Twenty-two. That is not so bad. I am a marvel, am I not? My uncle Émile says I am the fastest in the city.”

  Sophia didn’t answer. She was sure her face must be white.

  He dabbed at the newly bleeding wound with the bandage she’d been wearing, and then leapt up, wiping his hands on the front of his shirt. Her eyes followed as he retrieved Mr. Lostchild’s bottle, then widened as he got right on the bed and straddled her, one knee to her back and one to her stomach, pinning her legs down with his weight. Sophia realized what he was about, allowed herself a sigh, and got a tighter hold on the bed frame.

  “Apologies, my love,” he said, right before he tipped the bottle over the wound. Her body jerked of its own accord, but he had her held tight beneath him. She squeezed her eyes shut. He poured once more, liquid running down her stomach and back, not unlike the tears she could feel leaking down each side of her face.

  She stayed still, panting as the weight of him left her and she heard the bottle being set back on the table. When she opened her eyes again he had taken off his shirt, ripping methodically, tearing away another strip from the bottom. His back was a little tanned, muscled, like the men of the Lower City. Not what she would expect from the Upper. And equally unexpected was the sharp glance of fire-blue curiosity she intercepted when his eyes darted toward hers. But the expression was gone almost before she’d known it was there, and he came back to the bed, standing over her with no shirt and a smile that came straight from the Bellamy ballroom.

  “May I?”

  She watched as he knelt down, lifting her body just enough to slide the strip of cloth beneath her, almost formal as he wrapped the wound again, and again, tight. While he was tying, Sophia reached cautiously, respecting the pain in her side, and grabbed the bottle from the table beside the cot. She emptied the rest of its contents into the glass, turned her face to brush the wet streaks from her cheeks, took a small sip, and then silently held out the glass to René. He laughed once before he took it, and by the time she’d gotten herself painfully upright, the last of Mr. Lostchild’s whiskey was gone.

  René sat next to her on the bed. “And how is your head, my love?”

  It was awful. He reached over and ran a finger very delicately over the bump at her hairline, and when he put his arm back down again, it was behind her on the mattress. Sophia only just kept one of her eyebrows from rising.

  “You never told me of the kegs,” he said, voice much closer. “What doe
s the powder do?”

  Tom had said those kegs could blow Bellamy House right out of the ground, and now Sophia was thinking it was a good thing René hadn’t gotten a candle too near. But either way, there was no one, she feared, who would be coming out of the sanctuary unscathed. She remembered to be coy and peeked up at René from the corner of her eye. “I’m sure I don’t know. Tom is the scholar.”

  “Do you curl it on purpose?”

  She drew her brows together in question and René again lifted a finger to one of the little spirals behind her ear. She was fairly sure it had dried mud on it. “Sometimes,” she replied.

  “But not when you ride?”

  “No, not when I ride. You are so full of questions, Monsieur.”

  She was on high alert now. René had a look about him, something about the slightly parted lips. It was dangerous. And fascinating. She forgot her pain for the moment and waited, curious to see what he would do. What he did was lean in closer, loose hair brushing her shoulder, his eyes half-closed. He smelled like wood and resin; she’d thought it would have been perfume.

  “You have such pretty skin, Sophia Bellamy. Like sugar on the fire. What do you call it?”

  “Caramel?”

  “Yes, caramel.”

  A draft moved across the flickering room, but Sophia didn’t.

  “And now that we have been so intimate,” he whispered, voice low in her ear, “do you not think we should discuss that wedding, my love? Or …” He still had fingers on the other side of her face, playing with her hair. “Or do you need a statement from my banker first?”

  Sophia didn’t breathe. He was going to kiss her. She ought to say something, back away, tell him to stop. But she didn’t. Instead she wondered what it might feel like to be kissed by a daughter stealer. Turn her head just a little, and she would find out. The air hummed, full of static, stubble just brushing along her jaw. Her eyes closed on their own. And then René’s cheek slipped to her shoulder, leaning there for just a moment before falling straight down onto the bed like a stone.

  She opened her eyes and waited, drawing a shaky breath, and when she was sure he was not going to move she lifted his arm from her lap and scooted off the bed, wincing as she stood. She looked at René as he lay facedown on the mattress, running a hand through the curls behind her ear, brushing away a few small grains of white powder that had stuck to her fingers. The same white powder that had been hidden beneath the pale stone of the ring that was hanging around her neck. The same white powder she had poured from the ring into René’s whiskey glass.

  Then she walked slowly to Tom’s worktable, dizzy and a little sick, found the glass vial, refilled the cavity in her ring, clicked it shut, and one by one blew out the lamp and the candles. It took a long time. When the only light left was the fire, she looked again at the bed and sighed. With difficulty and not a small amount of pain, she got onto her knees and managed to put René’s booted feet on the mattress, pushing one of his shoulders around so that he turned onto his back. No, definitely not Upper City. He had the body of a man who’d been working a ship. She threw the damp and bloody blanket over his chest. The sanctuary was going to get cold, especially for as long as he was about to sleep.

  She banked up the fire, retrieved her vest and knife, breathing hard, and then paused again. For someone who had made it a point not to look at René Hasard’s face, she certainly had stared at it enough today. He was still something wild, dark red hair everywhere, wrapped in a blanket smelling distinctly of homemade bevvy. But the daughter stealer had been replaced by someone different. A bit like Tom when they were little. Almost innocent, but not quite. And he was beautiful.

  Sophia stepped back. René Hasard was not innocent, and therefore could not be beautiful. He had blood under his nails, not just hers, but the blood of the hundreds—maybe even thousands—who had gone beneath the Razor. Like anyone who chose to ally themselves with LeBlanc. And he would not be sharing anything he’d seen in this room with that particular man tonight.

  She climbed the steps one at a time, a hand over her bandaged side, and when she reached the bright sunshine beyond the little door, she looked back down the curving stairs. She had almost let him kiss her. She should never, ever think about that again. She turned the key and locked René in the dark.

  “I don’t know, Tom. What should I have done?” Sophia leaned back into the pillows, having just vomited for the second time into the bowl Orla held out for her. She was glad she had at least waited until now for that humiliation.

  “Let her alone,” Orla chided. “She’ll rip that cut open if she keeps this up.”

  Tom stopped limping about his room and sat down in the armchair, thumping his stick to take out his frustration. His room was on the ground floor, in the oldest part of the house, thick-walled, gloomy, and away from the nicer apartments. Which was the way he liked it. It was as far as Sophia had gotten after she left the sanctuary.

  “It is well sewn,” said Orla, peeking beneath the blanket, where Tom could not see. She handed Sophia a wet cloth for her face.

  “I’m shocked a man like that would know how to do it,” Tom commented. “And how in the name of the holy saints is he getting out of the north wing?”

  Sophia shook her head. She didn’t know. There was much, she now realized, that they did not know about René Hasard. They might not know anything about him at all. “And where is the other one?” Tom continued. “What’s his name?”

  “Benoit,” Orla replied.

  Tom turned to Sophia. “Did Hasard mention where he was?”

  She shook her head. They’d been careless about Benoit—watching René, or trying to, but not his manservant, misjudging Benoit’s potential in the same way they had always depended on others underestimating Orla. A stupid mistake. The kind that could get someone’s head cut off.

  “Then the question is,” Tom said, “how soon might there be a hue and cry over his missing master?”

  Sophia sighed. “Orla, go to the north wing and see if you can find Benoit. Tell him that René sends word that he’s with his fiancée, and might not return until just before dinner. Make it seem … you can make it seem as if he’s in my rooms, if you want. I doubt Benoit will question you then.” Sophia ignored the soft swearing coming from Tom’s chair. “We’ll think of some other excuse before dinner. Perhaps Monsieur will be ill.” Likely he already was. She looked to Tom. “Do you agree?”

  He nodded. Orla, grim as ever, patted her head once and hurried out Tom’s door. Tom leaned back in his chair, rubbing a rough chin. “LeBlanc knew the Red Rook would come. It was a trap.”

  “But I think,” Sophia ventured, “that he did not expect the window.”

  “Perhaps not.”

  Sophia closed her eyes, trying not to remember the way it had felt to pull a knife out of a dead man. “Is there news from the Holiday?”

  “Oh, yes. It’s all over the countryside. Burglary and murder. They’re tracking the scent west. Spear is with them. He was worried sick when you didn’t come back. I thought he was going to tear the house down.” Tom waited, but Sophia didn’t say anything. “And the dead man was a stranger to you?”

  “Yes. Was he LeBlanc’s?”

  “Must’ve been. He was a stranger to everyone. And who do you think killed him?”

  Sophia’s eyes opened. “Wasn’t it me?”

  “Did you clean your knife?”

  “No.” Sophia thought back to the fuzzy dark with the foxes barking and the unnatural silhouette of a knife sticking out of a chest. “It wasn’t my knife,” she said suddenly. “The handle was too thick. Did I have two knives when I came in here?”

  “No, only your own. Where is the other knife, then?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And more to the point, whose knife was it, who put it into the stranger’s chest, and who else might have seen you climbing out a window of the Holiday?”

  They were questions neither of them could answer.

  Tom sa
id, “We are in a fix, my lovely sister.”

  She nodded.

  “But I am very glad you’re not dead.”

  She smiled wanly from his pillow. She had considered long ago what might happen on one of the Rook’s missions, what was sure to happen if she was caught. She had thrown her death on the scale, weighed it out against her future, and made a choice. And that choice had been a secret shame to her. It hadn’t been that many generations since the chaotic centuries following the Great Death, when all that could be expected from life was feuding, war, and the struggle to survive it. Personal fulfillment just wasn’t one’s top priority when the children were starving or raiders were cresting the hill. But Sophia Bellamy had not been born into those dark times. She had been born into an enlightenment, an age of privilege, art, education, living in a way that her Bellamy ancestors would not have dared to dream. And she’d been more than willing to risk it, everything her forebears had struggled to achieve, for nothing better than adventure and a challenge to her wits. When it came down to it, Sophia Bellamy simply feared boredom more than she feared death.

  But all of that had changed the first time she crawled into the Tombs. Being the Red Rook hadn’t been about adventure then. Suddenly it was about blood and disease and death and the children who watched their parents’ heads being tossed into coffins. It was about injustice and a city possessed. It was about stealing from Allemande and cheating the Razor. And knowing that, in her opinion, only made her actions all the more reprehensible.

  What sort of person went to the lengths she did to dam a flood of evil, and then lay awake at night dreading when there would be no more evil behind the dam? Without the Red Rook, she would be nothing but the girl she was before and the girl she would become: a wife, doing just as her mother and grandmother had, doomed to managing a house and dinners with Mrs. Rathbone until the end of her days.

  The truth was that Sophia Bellamy went to the Sunken City because she didn’t know who she’d be anymore if she didn’t. If she was caught, she wouldn’t be sorry. She would only be sorry that the people she loved most would bear the pain of it.