by Dawn Metcalf
Joy felt as if her seat had tilted out from under her, but she thought she understood. Graus Claude was giving her a convenient cover story, if she was willing to take it.
“I’ll pay for it,” she said. “I can do some work for you.” She suggested it casually, as if it were merely a passing thought, but many unsaid things passed between them just then. And all witnessed by Ink. Joy felt her insides harden. So much for the glamour. Or the door repairs. Or her cut of the fees. The Bailiwick had trapped her neatly. She was too angry to be impressed...or too impressed to be angry, and all too aware of Ink standing there listening to every word.
“Very good,” Graus Claude said with an ill-disguised grin. “Then I shall discover the Red Knight’s sigil for you and give it—”
“To Inq,” Ink said. “It would be safest.”
Graus Claude paused the merest instant. “Do you agree, Miss Malone?” Joy was ashamed and embarrassed that he was ignoring Ink while asking her permission and that Ink felt he must interject himself on her behalf. In a world of favors and influence, she appreciated that Graus Claude acknowledged her as her own person and not an extension or property of Ink, but she really wished he’d simply let her boyfriend throw money at the problem. She understood that this way she could explain her working for the Bailiwick in terms Ink could understand when she got around to telling him. It was all growing so complicated! Ink looked both surprised and confused, but she felt too awkward juggling so many unsaid things to be suitably reassuring. She simply nodded.
“Very well, then,” the Bailiwick said. “I shall bend every resource toward these efforts and offer my personal assurance that they shall be completed to your satisfaction.” He smiled again, looking quite satisfied already. Joy groaned internally. Arrogant frog.
Ink bowed at the waist, both stiff and formal. “Thank you again, Bailiwick.”
“Yes,” Joy said flatly. “Thank you.”
“It is my duty, my honor and a pleasure, as always, to help those in need,” he said without even a hint of irony. “But do take care to keep yourself intact so that we might all enjoy the fruits of my labor as I toil to correct the mistakes wrought against you.” His ice-blue eyes glittered. “Pray do nothing too foolish in the meanwhile.”
Joy pressed her purse to her stomach. “Oh, don’t worry,” she said. “My best friend and I have a saying, No Stupid.”
“A wise friend,” he said. “Now off with you—back behind your wards. I’d not appreciate the Red Knight blustering in here. It would be a terror on the woodwork and most likely soil the carpets.”
Ink strode to the door, but Joy lingered to shoot a hot whisper across the desk.
“I take it I should log in some extra hours?”
Graus Claude was busy typing on his computer and clicked the mouse with a third hand. “Why wait?” he purred with a smile and clicked a button. “As a human, you should appreciate that there’s no time like the present.”
ELEVEN
JOY WAS OPEN for business with extended hours, and, according to the files delivered by courier within moments of her arrival, she’d have plenty of clients lining up at the door any minute. Joy’s mind boggled at how Graus Claude could possibly keep this well-known secret a secret for long. She readied herself for a long shift reminiscent of late-night cram sessions for school. She could hardly believe that summer was almost over and senior year was almost here. Of course, before then she would have to answer to the Council, make a decision to keep her freedom or Ink and somehow manage to pay for—at last count—a signatura, her cell phone bill, another tank of gas, a glamour and a front door. She sighed and took out her scalpel, already regretting calling off her date with Ink.
He’d been hurt. She’d never broken a date before—they’d been too precious, too rare, too brief—and couldn’t come up with any good excuse so gave a lame, “Something came up,” which was true, but didn’t make it any easier. It was as if Ink could feel her withdrawal, catch the scent of withholding, the slightest pulling away, watching a strange distance yawn between them that he was uncertain how to avoid.
He had hesitated, watching, looking for clues, but she’d given him none. He’d left her at her door without another word, safe behind wards.
And she had left that safety as soon as he’d gone, taken the Kia and the scalpel and driven out to Dover Mill.
So much for No Stupid.
Joy shuffled her files and scanned the first entry just as her phone buzzed. She looked at the screen.
Where are you?!?!?
It was Stef, and Stef sounded pissed. Joy thumbed off the screen and plunked it into her purse. Let him find her, if he could. He could download an app. Or hire Kestrel to track her. She was staying here until she’d chipped away at some of her debt.
There was a sound on the stairs.
“Come in,” she called up and waited for the footfalls to draw closer.
And when they did, there was Ink.
Joy froze, her body tingling in all-over shock—scalpel in hand and hand on table—caught. Ink’s eyes were flat, reflecting none of the light, and his expression, which had always been hard to read before, was as blank as the slate wall.
“Ink—”
“No,” he said flatly. “No more lies.”
She swallowed. “I didn’t lie.” It was a stupid thing to say.
His chin tipped infinitesimally to the left. “What interesting things you say,” he said. “It is almost as if I am talking to the Bailiwick himself.”
She left the scalpel on the table and twisted her hands in her sleeves. “I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t...” She shook her head, rattled and rambling. “I just didn’t.”
“You ‘didn’t’?”
“Not that I couldn’t,” she said with honesty. “I could. And I didn’t. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you—I didn’t know how or when or what to say...” She groped for the right thing to say. “I’m sorry!”
“You are sorry,” Ink said, more a statement than a question as he stepped around the table and examined each of the shelves with mild interest. “For what, exactly?” His fingers traced over the dental tray, the mirror, the minispeakers, the slate wall. Joy’s heart pounded hard and heavy with guilt. “For not telling me about this? For keeping it secret? For getting caught?” His face turned to her again, deadly calm. “Or for doing any of this in the first place?”
Joy trembled at his anger, but she deserved it. She deserved every bit. She knew this feeling—the feeling of betrayal, of being the last to know, having been kept in the dark, to have been lied to, even if only by the evasion of the whole truth. It suddenly dawned on her what she had really done. She had a sudden split perspective of being her mother or her father or her brother and herself all at the same time: angry and guilty and ashamed and at a loss. To have caused that look on someone’s face—someone that she loved—was awful.
She understood more in that moment than she’d ever wanted to know.
“All of it,” she said truthfully. “Everything.”
Ink strode past her, not touching her, his absence made more poignant by him being so clearly out of reach. Joy cringed. He went to the file boxes but didn’t touch them. He merely stared at them.
“This is the Bailiwick’s,” he said. “Color-coded, alphabetized, fresh labels in bold type.”
“Yes.”
Ink looked at her like she was an open file, spread bare under the overhead lights. “You are working for him.”
She closed her eyes a moment. “Yes.”
“Erasing.” He said the word as if it were squeezed out of his body. “Removing marks.”
“Not yours,” she said hastily. “Or Inq’s. They’re marks of the Twixt on one another—ones that should never have been made or are old or forgotten or cruel. Graus Claude checked. I checked. And I never had to d
o any that I didn’t...” But even as she said it, she heard her own arrogance, her own excuses, and it sounded just like her mother on the day she’d left, trying to explain that she had “needs.” No matter what she called it, she had still abandoned her family for her young lover across the country. Nothing could undo that. Nothing could change the facts.
“It doesn’t matter,” Joy said, swallowing pride and blame. “None of it matters because I should have told you. I should have asked you what you thought about it first.”
“Yes,” Ink said evenly. “Why didn’t you?”
Joy let out a long, tight breath. “I was stupid.”
“Obviously,” Ink said. “You are not heeding your friend Monica.” He placed both hands on the table, across from Joy, the scalpel winking in the light between them. “But what I meant to ask was, why do this?” And Joy knew that he was asking many things: Why do something so dangerous? Why do something so foolish? Why not tell me about this? Why risk getting caught? Why indebt yourself to the Bailiwick and become ensnared in his web? Why agree to willingly endanger yourself and others? Why mess with things beyond your understanding? Why try to lie about it? Why not trust me?
“I thought...” she started and was frightened to find her feelings had lodged in her throat, making her voice tight and thready. “I thought that I could earn my way in the Twixt, that I could do something valuable that let me into your world—something only I could do—that would keep the Council from forcing me to choose your life or mine.” She spread her hands, tears threatening to betray her idiocy. “I thought I could figure it out by myself and solve all our problems and then everything would be perfect.”
“Not like this,” Ink said, something other than hardness tingeing his words. “No, Joy. Not like this.”
“I know!” Joy said, defeated. “But I thought I was doing something good. But then the Bailiwick—”
“The Bailiwick is many things,” Ink interrupted smoothly. “But above all, he is self-serving. One of his most admirable qualities is his loyalty, but one of his greatest failings is his capacity for greed.” He gestured offhandedly to the cache office. “It is part of his auspice, part of his nature.”
“That is...pretty harsh,” Joy said. In fact, it didn’t sound like Ink at all. “Did Inq tell you that?”
Ink gave a half shrug. “More or less.”
“I knew that Inq didn’t trust the Bailiwick, but you always did,” Joy said. “I thought I could work him.”
Ink frowned. “Work him?”
Joy sighed. “Maneuver him to my advantage.”
Ink laughed, which was surprising, and shook his head. “No one can ‘work’ the Bailiwick and come to a good end. It is his auspice—his very essence—to be fortune’s beneficiary. He is a Luck Child of the water, that element which stretches, touching all corners of the world. There is no point pitting yourself against him, which is why he is so powerful and commands such respect in the Twixt. He has chosen a role that serves both our worlds as well as himself, but he would be the first to admit it is the money and the status that most appeals to him.” Ink looked at her, and she was relieved to see that some of the warmth was back in his voice. “I imagine that you were surprised to find that he had orchestrated all of this to his own benefit?”
Joy sank into her seat. “You could say that.”
“And I have,” he said, leaning against the table. “The Bailiwick knows many things—the shadows of politics are foremost among them.” He shook his head, and a gentle sympathy slipped back into his voice. “I know that it is his hand that drew you here and it is his debt that holds you to it, but I also know enough to realize that he has his eyes trained on greater things. If he wishes you to be here performing this—” he tasted the word like vinegar “—service, then I can only trust that his doing so is part of a larger plan that I cannot fathom in which you are equally blameless. Your being here is no accident.” He trailed his fingers over the silver wallet chain, his boyish face thoughtful in profile. “But I do not like it.”
Joy leaned her elbows on the table, denting the plush. “So do you think I should stay?”
He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “I think you cannot leave.”
“Oh,” she said into the tense quiet. “Well, if it helps, I was also trying to earn enough to buy you a present.”
Ink cocked his head. “A present?” he said. “Your freedom should not be considered a gift for me, but for you.”
“I don’t mean the Red Knight’s signatura,” Joy said. “I meant something for you.”
“For me?”
“And me,” Joy admitted.
“What...?” he began and dropped his head, looking oddly embarrassed. His fingers twitched on his lap. Her hands, her fingers, now his. “What did you have in mind?”
“A glamour,” Joy said. “Inq showed me hers and I thought...well, obviously I thought a lot of things and most of them were wrong.” She placed her left hand near him on the table. “But I wanted to introduce you to my family and friends. To let them finally meet you, to show you off to them.” It sounded stupider than she’d thought it would, having now said it out loud. I’m such an idiot. “So it wasn’t just the Bailiwick that was being self-serving. I wanted to do something for you.”
“And for you.”
“For us,” she said, and when she said that word, she felt the tension melt between them. There is still an “us,” she thought. And that’s what Monica’s missing right now, what Dad missed after the divorce: suddenly, no “us.” Joy came around the table and stood as close to Ink as she dared without invading his space. The light caught the chain at his hip and the tips of his hair. “Can you do something for us?”
He looked up, his eyes curious and a little afraid.
“What can I do?” he said. “For us?”
“Forgive me?” she said, her heart beating quickly. “Please, please forgive me.”
It was the longest pause she’d ever known without breath.
“You hurt me,” he said gently and pressed two fingers to his chest. “Here.”
“I’m sorry,” Joy said again, and this time, tears fell. “I am so, so sorry. I never meant to hurt you.” She wiped her hands over her cheeks. “It hurts me that I hurt you.” She held both hands out, palms up, helpless. “Ink, I am sorry. I am sorry, Ink!”
He stood up and took her hands, placing them around him, folding her against him and completing the circle with his arms. He rocked her, breathing slow, deep breaths, and whispered into her ear. “I forgive you, Joy,” he said. “I love you and I forgive you.” Joy closed her eyes and tried to press him closer, so she could not be certain if he said the last words or if she’d invented them in her heart:
“I forgive you, Joy, but I do not forget.”
Where are you?!?!?!
Joy scrolled past Stef’s text as she sat on the guest bed in Enrique’s apartment, stifling a yawn. It was his sixth text, copied and pasted and resent. She couldn’t even try to explain, so why bother? Her brother clearly didn’t approve of her involving herself in the Twixt or being with Ink or getting protective armor, but it wasn’t like he was going to run and tell Dad. She mentally chuckled at the thought of being grounded for getting magical, invisible tattoos without parental permission.
“Thanks again for coming to get me,” Joy called over the splash of water. Inq had hopped into the shower as soon as they’d arrived. “Ink had to go to some farm town in Poland and I hadn’t realized that I’d run out of gas. I didn’t know who else to call.” While not strictly true, she had decided to leave Stef out of this and keep Filly and her magic message pouch out of the picture for now, too. She was beginning to think the less Folk like Filly and the Bailiwick knew about what she was up to, the better.
“I still can’t believe he just stormed in,” Inq said in her voice that slice
d through white noise. It didn’t even sound as if she’d raised her voice—it slipped through the air like a knife.
“I think he was mad,” Joy said. “Not mad, exactly, but disappointed.”
“I think he’s being an idiot.” The water shut off, quick and final, without any faulty last drips. “He still thinks of you as perfect and this has thrown him off, but hey—no excuse. He knows you’re being hunted by this Red Knight and he knows you agreed to work for the Bailiwick. I bet he’s just sore your life’s not all about him. Men are such babies.” Inq huffed as she walked into the room, wrapped in a thick, fluffy bath sheet, her signaturae flying over her water-warmed skin. Joy remembered that her marks were temperature sensitive. Inq grinned at Joy staring at her.
“You ready?” she asked impishly and then opened her bath sheet, flashing Joy.
“Hey!” Joy shouted, averting her eyes.
“I thought it only fair,” Inq said, tucking her towel back into place. “I show you mine before you show me yours? I thought it would make you feel more comfortable.”
“Yeah, well, it doesn’t,” Joy said, trying to scrub the mental image of a perfectly formed alabaster statue out of her head. “Get dressed and then you can complete the armor, okay?”
“Of course,” Inq said, opening a drawer. Joy shouldn’t have been surprised that Inq kept some clothes in Enrique’s apartment. “That’s why I brought you here. I thought if I couldn’t get past the wards in your room, at least this would feel more familiar.” She zipped on a sleeveless silver leather corset and picked up a thong. “Besides, I warded this place seven ways from Sunday.” She glanced at Joy as she tugged on skintight black jeans. “Why are you still dressed?”