“Jack, get a hack. Quickly!” her father ordered.
Her brother dashed off. As he passed by Lucy, he paused and put a hand on her shoulder. She nearly sobbed at his gentle, blameless touch.
“What am I going to do? Where can I go? I can’t take this home. I should go to Merstone—but I can’t! I have to get rid of the ciphers first.”
Her father edged forward, kneeling down before her. He gently gripped her shoulders, pulling her against his chest and pressing his chin against her head. He stroked her hair. She could no longer hold back her tears, sobbing her remorse and fear.
“Sh, sh, sh—sweetheart. It’s going to be all right. We’ll take you home and send everyone away. There are majicars in the family—did you forget? They’ll help. It might take a few days. You must calm yourself. You must think rationally if you are to get through this.”
His voice was soothing, as if talking to a frightened animal. As her jagged crying subsided, he pushed her up, wrapping his handkerchief around one of her hands. He pulled off his cravat and wrapped the other. The crunch of wheels on the driveway warned them that Jack had found a hack. It rolled around the curve, Jack standing on the footrail. He hopped down and came to help Lucy.
“Go fetch your sister’s cloak and a blanket,” their father said, waving him off, and then guided her to the door of the carriage. He helped her inside and settled beside her on the seat. She sat rigidly. Jack quickly reappeared and clambered inside. Their father put her cloak around her and tucked her beneath the blanket.
Jack knocked on the roof of the carriage and it jolted to life. Lucy closed her eyes, snuggling against her father’s chest. She felt her fragile control melting. Quivers radiated from deep inside her. She began to tremble, and then quake. He pulled her more tightly against him, closing both arms around her. At last the tremors subsided. Lucy slumped against her father’s warmth, sniffling and wiping the tears from her cheeks. The pain from her hands began to burrow through her daze. She held them up. The white handkerchief and cravat were blotched crimson and she couldn’t seem to uncurl her fingers.
“Here, this might help.”
Jack unstoppered a bottle of brandy and held it for her to drink. She took a healthy swallow, feeling the alcohol burn down into her stomach. She drank more and nodded to Jack to pass the bottle to her father.
“So, don’t we have egg on our faces,” Jack said drily. “All those years telling you to stop making up stories about sensing majick, and you were telling the truth all along.”
“Which makes this whole mess my fault,” her father said heavily, rubbing his hand in a circle on her back. “If we’d believed you…”
The resentful child hiding inside Lucy crowed vindication. Yes! Yes! It was all their fault! They should have believed her; they should have listened. But the adult Lucy knew better. She shook her head.
“When has anyone been able to stop me from doing what I want to do? I knew what going after true ciphers meant and I went after them anyway. You ought to be blaming me for tangling you in this mess. I thought I could get rid of them by faking a Chayos Harvest collection. But I don’t think I’m going to have enough time before…” She drew a breath.
“I’ll send word to Hedrenion. He’ll think of something. It may be a few days.” Her father paused. “Can you hold on?”
“I’ll do my best. Can I keep that bottle of brandy?”
The two men chuckled, as she meant them to.
“You should try to stay calm. The…attack…started when you told us your story. It may be that it responds to your emotions. They may have nothing to do with one another, but it couldn’t hurt you to keep your composure. Call it a precaution.”
“I’ll do what I can.” Which meant not looking at her mail, not having nightmares about sylveth spawn, not thinking about the cipher or the blood oak, and…she couldn’t see Marten. Not that she wouldn’t have canceled their appointment anyhow. Lucy sighed. She had those new books. She’d spend tonight and tomorrow curled up by the fire reading. After that, she’d have work to lose herself in.
“Just ask Cousin Hedrenion to hurry,” she said, thinking of the salvage report she had yet to write for Alistair.
When they arrived at her home, she was startled to realize the sun had set. Where had the day gone? She allowed her father and brother to help her out of the carriage, but then waved them away when they would have accompanied her inside.
“Go home. I’ll be fine.”
They both began to argue, but Lucy refused to listen.
“I’ll be all right. I just want to be alone. Blythe will send Janet and her family away and bandage my hands and then I’m going to get into bed. The best that you can do for me is to just, please, get word to Hedrenion tonight.”
They hugged her and departed and she went inside, hiding her hands inside her cloak. She trotted upstairs and went straight to her bedroom. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her cheeks were smeared with dried blood from where she’d wiped away her tears. Her dress was torn and stained with crimson and her eyes were swollen. Her hair was wild, like it had been picked at by a swarm of crows. She looked, in a word, dreadful. And worse, she couldn’t do anything to repair the damage without Blythe’s help. She sighed and rang the bell.
When her maid entered, Lucy was sitting on the bed, her cloak wrapped tightly around herself. She’d wiped away the stains on her face with water from the basin on her washstand. Blythe stopped short, eyeing Lucy’s disarray with surprise. Lucy didn’t wait for her to speak.
“I’m in trouble, Blythe. And I need your help. But before that, I need your word that you won’t say anything about it to anyone. Not even James. If you can’t promise, just go. My mother will take you in and help you find another place.”
The diminutive maid jerked back, her cheeks flushing and her nostrils flaring.
“I never! What kind of woman do ye think I be? Scurryin’ off in times o’trouble. We be family and family donna abandon each other.”
“I need your word.”
“Ye have it. Now, tell me what’s goin’ on.”
Slowly Lucy dropped her cloak. Blythe gasped as she saw the bloodstained rags swaddling Lucy’s hands.
“Mother Chayos! What have ye done?”
Lucy hesitated. How much to tell? “I’ve been tangled by a cipher. A true cipher.”
Her maid blanched and then collected herself. She stirred up the fire and set a copper kettle on to boil. Lucy explained what had happened as the other woman busied herself with removing the makeshift bandages and cleaning away the dried blood.
“Ye ought t’see a healer,” she said, examining the deep cuts.
“Father sent for Cousin Hedrenion. He’s not a healer, but he’ll be able to do something. I want you to send Janet and Rupert and the children to my mother. As soon as you help me with my hands, you and James should go too.”
Blythe sniffed. “I’ll not be agoin’ off and leavin’ ye. James neither. So ye can just forget about that. I’ll see t’Janet and Rupert. Now, what’re ye plannin’ to do about the gentleman—Captain Thorpe?”
“When he gets here, tell him I’m indisposed and send him away.”
“He already be here. In yer sitting room. Been coolin’ his heels a half a glass already.”
Lucy tilted her head back and closed her eyes, breathing slowly. Her heart had begun to race. With fear or something else, she didn’t know. She sighed and sat up. She could send Blythe to say she was sick. She looked down at her hands, covered now in new bandages made from strips of a sheet. Or she could tell him herself. She smiled, that feeling of recklessness rising intoxicatingly inside.
“Help me dress.”
Chapter 12
Marten wandered around the sitting room, picking things up and putting them down again. He was unpardonably early. But he’d been driven to Lucy’s door by the persistent fear that she would change her mind, and the tantalizing promise of winning this bet.
The room was comfortab
le, with thick rugs and cozy furniture. Lucy didn’t seem to like a lot of ornament, and had limited her decorating to a few paintings, several small statues, a blown-glass vase of dried flowers, and a handful of miniatures. The shelves lining the walls were crammed with books. Marten ran his fingers along the spines, reading the titles. Philosophy, art, history, fiction, poetry. Marten pulled a volume down and flipped through it. He read a couple of pages, jerking around in startlement when the door opened.
Lucy was shockingly pale. Her eyes were sunken and she walked jerkily. She wore a severe dark blue dress with a high collar and long sleeves. Her hair was caught loosely behind her head and hung down her back in a brilliant curly fall.
“Captain Thorpe. I had not expected you so soon.”
Marten’s stomach curled at the distance in her voice. She went to stand before the fire, her hands clasped behind her back. Her coldness was palpable. She had every appearance of despising him. His mouth went dry. What had happened since last night?
“I apologize for inconveniencing you. I hoped you might be available sooner than planned and did not mind waiting if not. But…you look terrible.”
“Goodness, such flattery. You’ll turn my head.”
“I thought it was to be truth between us.”
Her brows flicked up. “Then I don’t suppose I should expect a wondrous eulogy cataloging the virtues of my face, eyes, lips, or general beauty, should I?”
“I didn’t think you were the sort to want such empty compliments,” he said carefully. He couldn’t gauge her mood.
“Empty, yes,” she murmured.
She stared a moment, as if her mind had fled far away. Marten shifted. Something was terribly off. Something writhed behind her eyes and she held her body tightly, as if she might shatter. Or explode. Suddenly she tipped her head back. Her eyes glittered.
“I am not well. I will be indisposed this evening. You can find your own way out, yes?”
With that, she began to retreat. Instinctively, Marten leaped to intercept her. He couldn’t let her leave. Not when he was so close—
“Just like that? Don’t I deserve some sort of explanation? Or did I disappoint you with too much unvarnished truth?”
She glared a moment, the look in her eyes feral and rabid. He recoiled. She was changed and he didn’t know how or why. He felt as if he were caught in an erratic current and surrounded by knucklebones. Before he could think of anything to say to defuse the moment, she returned to the fire, her back straight, her hands hidden in her full skirts.
“It’s cold, tonight.”
Marten frowned at her abrupt shift. Had she been at the bottle? “It is,” he agreed, following behind her cautiously. “Would you like me to stir the fire?”
“No. It wouldn’t do much good.”
There was an odd inflection in her voice that struck Marten with foreboding.
“You’re in a fey mood.”
“Am I?”
“You don’t seem like yourself.”
“And of course you know me well enough to say so.”
He crossed his arms and leaned back on his heels. This was a chancy tack to take, but at least she was responding. “I think I do.”
“As it happens, I believe you might be right. I don’t think I am myself. I wonder who I am.” This last was said more to herself than to him. Then she caught him off guard, her gaze locking with his. “Who do you think I am?”
It was a test. He could feel it. Everything hinged on his answer. With anyone else he’d have responded flirtatiously. But he’d sabotaged the possibility of deflecting her mood that way. Which left him with…truth. But what truth?
“You look—like a ship caught against a lee shore—between the wind and the rocks. You’re angry. And…”
“And?” she prompted, still shackling him tight with her stare.
He felt like she was peeling away his skin, looking deep inside. His breath hooked in his throat. What did she see? Her expression told him nothing.
“And you look like someone’s cut your stays and left your sails to shred apart in a gale. You look like you’d like to kill him. Like you might, if you’re given the chance.”
He wasn’t sure where the words came from. Something about her reminded him of his own face in the mirror. That haunted look. That sense of being just ahead of certain doom and wanting to strike out at the ones who were pushing him off the plank. He couldn’t put his finger on what made him think that, but as he spoke the words, he knew their truth. Saw the confirmation in the stillness that swept her.
“Well,” she said, “the reality of my day is this.”
She lifted her hands from her skirts. His mouth fell open. They were wrapped in bandages, the white cloth soaked with blood. The wounds had to be horrendous.
“Braken’s cods.” He reached out, but halted in midair. She didn’t seem to require or want comfort.
“I did say I was indisposed.”
“What happened?”
She lowered her arms. “I cut myself on some glass.”
“You—” He swallowed his irritation. “You did a bit more than that, I’d say.”
“I suppose.”
“You aren’t going to tell me what happened, are you?”
She shook her head. “No.”
He looked away, chewing his lips. He wanted to shake the answers out of her. And more, the blood on her hands was making his stomach churn. He wasn’t given to a weak constitution; he’d seen more than his share of injuries onboard his ship. But on her…
“You need to have those looked at. Call a healer.” His uneasiness made it a terse command rather than the tender suggestion of a caring acquaintance.
“No. It’s not a good idea at the moment.”
“Why?” The urge to shake her was growing stronger.
“Let’s just say that I can’t afford it and leave it at that.”
He did not think she meant money. “Your hands will be ruined.”
She looked at them again. “I won’t have to write that report,” she murmured. “Alistair will be put out.”
“You’re coming with me,” he said suddenly. He yanked the bellpull sharply. The maid sprang into the room as if she’d been listening on the other side of the door.
“Get more bandages. And Miss Trenton’s cloak. Send for a hack.”
The maid vanished before Lucy could call her back.
“I cannot go out,” she said. “Where are we going?”
“You showed me one of your secrets. I’m going to show you one of mine. And you’re coming if I have to toss you over my shoulder.”
He took the bandages from the maid and rewrapped Lucy’s hands himself. She trembled with pain, her cheeks gray beneath her tan. He tried to be gentle, but couldn’t help swearing a blue streak when he’d unwound the drenched dressings and saw the damage. The flesh gaped, exposing bone and severed tendons. It looked like she’d been juggling a dozen very sharp swords—badly. He didn’t bother pressing her for explanations; she wasn’t going to answer.
When he’d rewrapped her hands, he draped her cloak about her shoulders and fastened it, pulling up her hood. Wordlessly, he pushed her out the door, following her down the stairs and into the waiting hack. He called out the address to the driver and stepped in, settling closely beside her. When he realized she was shaking, he put his arm around her.
“You’ve lost a fair amount of blood. It’s making you feel cold.”
“It is.”
She sounded amused. Marten’s annoyance flared.
“One day you’ll tell me what’s going on, won’t you?”
“One day, yes.”
But again that thread of amusement knotted around her voice, as if she knew a joke he did not. Marten scowled.
“Where are we going?”
It was his turn to be evasive. “You’ll see. You’ll have to walk some. We can’t go directly there.”
“That’s probably better,” she said cryptically.
“By the gods,
I could use a drink,” he muttered, running his fingers through his hair. This night had been supposed to get him out of trouble. But he had an unpleasant feeling that he was sinking into a quagmire that had no bottom. He should have walked away. Left her and her bloody hands and suffered the consequences. But the memory of Edgar’s voice haunted him: Be sure, Marten. You will certainly be donning an iron collar if you lose. I will not save you. And his own adamant, Yes. He had to win this bet.
The hack dropped them in the Riddles, the old part of the city that lay between Cranford and Tideswell. Part of the original settlement of Sylmont, it was constructed haphazardly, with narrow streets that wound about like tangled string and ended nowhere. The founders hadn’t realized that no one would follow them over the black waters of the Inland Sea. They hadn’t realized that no one could. So they’d built the town to defeat an invading army. As today it still defeated tax assessors, surveyors, and bill collectors. The crown ignored the place. It was too expensive and offered too little return for the effort.
The Riddles sprawled like a bloated corpse. It was governed by gangs and those who set themselves up as monarchs over a postage stamp of land, and those who cared to hire one of the private regulator companies to protect their interests. Edgar was one. He ran an expensive and fashionable bagnio in the Riddles, well-known in Sylmont and even across the Inland Sea. Here the wealthy came to take baths, eat and drink delicacies from every corner of the world, and have a bit of sexual sport—no appetite was too exotic for Edgar’s customers. And when they were tired of that, they could indulge in an expansive menu of gambling—the true lure of the bagnio.
People could lose themselves in the Riddles, accidentally and on purpose. One of those people was the man Marten had come to find for the second time that day. Keros.
He lifted Lucy down from the hack and paid the driver.
“D’ya want I should wait?”
“No. We’ll find our own way.”
“Suit yerself.” The hack shook his reins and snapped his whip. The mules clopped away.
Lucy stood beside Marten, her shoulders hunched as she huddled into herself. Her shaking was becoming more pronounced.
The Cipher Page 14