by Allison Pang
“But the Chancellor—”
“Has no jurisdiction over Moon Children,” the High Inquestor says. “Don’t worry about it until I come for him tomorrow. You’ve had him moved from the wine cellar?”
“Yes. He’s with . . . her. Too many people sniffing about tonight, and her wing is off-limits to guests.”
“To be sure.” The Inquestor’s voice is soothing, almost seductive, and the dark warning behind the words has my skin growing clammy. “But you do understand why this is such a sensitive issue, do you not?”
“Of course I do, you pompous windbag.” Balthazaar’s shadow is shaking his finger in the other man’s face. “And do you understand that I don’t care? Meridion and their damnable politics can go to the Pits and the Rot take them, too. Until my wife has regained her . . . her health, I don’t want to hear about whatever conspiracies the Inquestors are involved in or so-called rebellions you’re trying to stop.”
The High Inquestor says something I can’t hear, but a shift in the shadows indicates they’re moving again.
“This is bad, Mags. Very bad.” Lucian grips my shoulders tightly, fear lighting up his eyes. “Listen. I’ve got to go warn the Chancellor. If we’ve been compromised . . .”
Panic rushes through me, but I scowl at my own weakness a few seconds later. Ghost is the only important thing right now. “What about your brother? You can’t possibly be leaving this all to me?”
“I have to, Mags.” Despair fills his voice. He leans forward, his lips brushing my forehead before I can react. “I’ll send a carriage for you as soon as I can, but . . .” He hesitates. “Don’t risk yourself if you can’t do it covertly. I don’t want any undue casualties.”
A scowl twists my lips into something ugly. “The way Sparrow was a casualty?”
This time he flinches, but he doesn’t look away. “Yes. Like Sparrow. I will be back for you, Mags. I promise.” He bows, regret on his face, but it doesn’t slow his feet any as he backtracks his steps.
The hallway is all the emptier without his presence, but I straighten my shawl and pull down on my skirts. It’s a nervous motion, I suppose, as though I’m adjusting armor of another kind.
For the first time in several weeks, I am truly alone.
I press my palm against the panel on my chest, willing the hitch-click beating of my heart to calm, even as my fingers brush over the sachet of sleeping powder the young courtesan had given me earlier.
“Right,” I mutter, the beginnings of a rudimentary plan taking form. “Let’s see just what sort of mischief a Moon Child can really do.”
A drop of blood upon a bit of snow,
Crimson wishes that come and go.
The fairest of mirrors reflects only these,
A crown of thorns and a coat made of bees.
CHAPTER 14
Of course, plans or not, wandering about aimlessly will only attract attention, so I do the next best thing and head for the kitchens. It’s easy enough to find—all I have to do is follow the stream of chambermaids and pages, serving lads and butlers, all moving to and fro like fish in a river of soot, sweat, and alcohol.
The key to appearing unobtrusive is to act as though you belong. I’ve been avoiding eyes my entire life so it’s no great trial to grab a tray of glasses from a sideboard and a bottle of brandy. I’m just a whore finding refreshment for my patron, after all.
Most of the servants pay me no mind, too occupied with their own tasks, so I slip away. In the distance comes the swell of laughter; the party is clearly still going strong. Good enough for me, anyway.
Given Balthazaar’s comments about Lady Lydia in the theatre and his reference to Ghost being kept in a specific, off-limits wing of the house, I can only assume I’ll have to go poking about even more.
Eventually I find myself in a parlor with lounges and chairs, a well-stocked brandy chest, an empty fireplace, and an upright piano. A place for highborn ladies to gather, no doubt, freed from their boorish counterparts as their husbands are entertained by bawdy house companions and foul-smelling cigars.
A thin layer of dust indicates the room hasn’t been used for quite some time, but the door on the far side leads to a series of halls that are far more luxurious than the previous. Rows of tapestries and fine wooden doors line the corridor, and there are no crowds of maids and scullery wenches in which to hide.
I turn the corner and pause when I see two guards standing outside a large door. They wear Balthazaar’s livery, so it’s more than obvious that these must be Lady Lydia’s chambers.
I move to duck back around the corner, but I’ve already been spotted. All I can do is tip my chin up and march toward them. I hold out the tray with the brandy.
“What’s all this, then? You shouldn’t be here.” One of the guards frowns at me. He’s older with a weary face, but the younger one gives me a slow wink with an appreciative look at the brandy.
“A nightcap for you, courtesy of Lord Balthazaar.” My mouth curves into a smile as I pour them each a glass. “You know, since you’re missing the party and all.”
They hesitate, and I cringe inwardly, not sure what I’ll do if they turn me down. But the older one sighs. “What the hells,” he mutters, swiping the closest glass. He sips it carefully, even as the younger guard reaches for me.
“And are you part of the nightcap, too?” He leans forward as though to steal a kiss, and I smirk at him.
“That all depends on you, my lord.” My eyes drift sideways toward the older guard, but he’s too preoccupied with his drink to pay much attention to his compatriot, even going so far as to relieve me of the tray and bottle to pour himself another glass.
Well and good, then.
I suck in a deep breath when the younger guard pulls me back so he can nuzzle my shoulder. My fingers find the sachet still nestled in my bodice and manage to loosen the drawstring to carefully pour a bit of the powder into my gloved hand.
I tip my head as though to blow him a kiss, and the powder puffs at his face in a soft haze. His eyes widen in confusion, but in moments, they roll back into his head and he slumps into my arms.
“What’s going on?” The older guard nearly drops the tray as I sink to the floor to lay my would-be paramour gently on his side. He kneels down beside me, turning the younger man over for a closer look.
“Ah, perhaps he couldn’t handle his drink,” I murmur, snatching another handful of powder and throwing it at the second guard when he looks over at me. He grunts, tumbling onto me, and I shove him to the side.
My skirts tear as I get up. “Of course.” Though, I suppose I should be happy they’ve lasted as long as they have.
I try the door to the bedchamber but it’s locked, and I rummage through the older guard’s coat, rewarded with a key ring. The largest key, a bit of brass and silver, fits easily.
“In and out,” I breathe as the doorknob turns, and I duck inside, praying Ghost is really here.
Like the parlor, this room is dark with only the dim light of a bedside lamp on a nightstand. As rooms go, it’s plush and comforting, with an intricately carved headboard atop a massive four-poster bed and thick green curtains framing the windows.
It’s not the room that holds my interest so much as the person lying in the bed, chest rising and falling with a labored dissonance. Each gasp is a struggle, but there’s something routine about it. These lungs have fought this battle for an eternity. I cannot help drawing nearer for a closer look, but it can only be Lady Lydia.
A sliver of cold steel presses against my windpipe. “Move and I’ll slice you open.” I freeze, but I know the distinctive timbre of Ghost’s voice well enough by now. Inwardly, I sag with relief.
“Well, that would be a plum shame, given what I’ve had to do to find you,” I retort.
He pauses. “Mags?” His hushed tone is disbelieving.
“Indeed.” My hand is at his wrist, gently shoving the blade away from my skin. Not that I think he’s going to attack me now, but still. Dead’s
dead, accidental skewering or not.
“But you . . . you look like . . .”
“A girl? Aye. Molly’s idea. Good to see I’m so convincing.” I thrust my chin at the knife. “Planning on gutting the guards when they came in?”
“They won’t. They’re too scared of the Rot. I was hoping to snag the Inquestor who comes in to care for her.” His gaze snaps to the form on the bed and back to me. “She’s had a sleeping draught, but she drifts in and out of consciousness.”
I reach out to steady him when he nearly stumbles. He manages a weak smile, and it’s then that I see the bruised cheek and the swollen eye squinting at me from beneath the fall of his hair.
“A few love taps, courtesy of our fine lord’s accommodations. I’ll be all right. It’s my leg I’m worried about.” He grimaces, shifting his weight, and I realize he’s bleeding through his clothes, his filthy trousers soaked to his skin.
I kneel down for a closer look. He’s bound it with a makeshift bandage—what looks to be part of his shirt. It’s not the worst wound I’ve ever seen, but it will need a bonewitch for sure. “Can you climb with it?”
“Probably not,” he admits, gritting his teeth when I give it a careful poke. “I’ll not be dancing the rooftops with this tonight. Walking out of here will be challenge enough. But that’s assuming I can get out of the chains first. I’m a bit limited in how far I can go.”
“Chains?” My gaze follows where his finger points. His ankles are chained loosely together and bound to an iron ring on the fireplace. I snatch the key ring from where I dropped it, trying each one until the tumbler gives way. “There we are.”
He rubs at the spots on his ankles where the manacles were. “Thanks.”
“Hmpf.” I lean my ear against the door. There’s no sound from the guards, but we need to move quickly. Someone’s going to discover them, even if they don’t wake up soon. I shuffle out of my shawl and remove my skirt so I’m only in my corset and shift.
“What are you doing?” he hisses. “I mean, you’re pretty and all, but I’m not shagging you here.”
“Tempting, but I had escape pegged as a slightly higher priority.” I hold the skirt up to his waist. He’s a fair bit taller than I am, but that can’t be helped. “Here, put these on.”
He immediately does as I say, awkwardly sliding on the skirts and the shawl. “This isn’t going to fool anyone.”
“Not if they slip a hand up your arse, no.” I pull off the wig and toss it on his head. My natural hair sticks out in a ruffled mess, but hopefully no one will pay attention to a couple of drunk party guests in various states of disarray. “Now hold still.” An open bottle of wine rests on the nightstand next to a small bowl. I take a long pull myself before deliberately spilling some down the front of Ghost’s shirt. He clutches the shawl awkwardly, and I bite my lip against a burble of laughter at his ridiculous expression.
“I’m going to get you for this,” he mutters, but the corner of his mouth twitches all the same. He sucks down a few swallows of wine himself and sighs. “That Balthazaar is a tricky son of a bitch.”
“Tell me about it,” a slurring voice says from the bed.
My attention swivels toward Lydia. She’s a frail thing, and on first glance, I might have only taken her for an invalid, brought down by some common sickness. The coughing fever, perhaps. But the telltale signs of the Rot are there, etched in a complexion that’s a little too mottled in some places and too bloodless in others. A bit of her hair pokes from beneath a lace bonnet, but it’s wispy stuff, nearly nonexistent. The dry lips and sallow, wrinkled jowls hang from her face, as if she might shed her skin entirely.
And yet her eyes open to reveal jaundiced orbs, the iris a dull heliotrope in color. But there is nothing faded or lost in the way they narrow when they see me gaping at her.
She coughs, but it’s more of a brittle laugh. “If you’re here to do something useful, you might do it now. Kill me, if you like. Smother me with a pillow.”
I frown at her. “You want to die?”
Another hacking laugh. “Do you think this is living? I’m already dead. Balthazaar just can’t seem to accept that, the tiresome old prick.” Her lips tremble into a sneer. “So proud, those Meridians, to try to find the key to immortality. They found it, all right. Too bad about the living death part, eh?” Spittle flies from Lady Lydia’s mouth, and she raises a gnarled hand. “Vanity and arrogance, my lass. This is what comes of it.”
“I don’t understand . . . I thought it was virus.” I frown at her. This is the first I’ve heard anything about immortality. I glance at Ghost, but he shakes his head.
“Breeding Moon Children doesn’t work,” she says, ignoring me, her words a muttered ramble. “Tell that man . . . tell him to stop . . . Their blood doesn’t work . . .” Her voice drops to a dull slur until I can no longer understand her at all. My head reels with the implications of the words I did catch, even as the door rattles behind us.
“Time to go!” Ghost snatches my hand, and we limp-run past the bed and out a set of doors onto a garden patio. It’s a large indoor courtyard full of leafy trees beneath a great glass roof, and the scent of growing things hits me full in the face. It’s like a dream of damp soil and soft grass, and for a terrible moment I have the urge to strip and roll upon it.
“So . . . alive.” I can’t help the longing sigh from escaping when I reach out to brush the bark with my fingers.
“We’re going to be less alive if we stay here,” Ghost points out. We duck through a thick cluster of bushes and head toward a set of doors on the far side. “We’ve got a little time while they gather their courage to follow us, so let’s not waste it. For such well-armed fellows, they are rather cowardly.”
“You don’t think Lydia will tell them where we’ve gone?”
“I doubt she cares about anything but death,” he says bluntly. “And frankly, neither would I if I were in that state.”
“Ghost . . . The others you were captured with—”
“They had us in cells down below. Injected us with what must have been the Rot. The others fell ill very quickly, and the Inquestors took them. I’m not sure what he was going to do with me when it was clear I was still healthy.” A grimace tightens his mouth.
“You’re going to have to go to the Chancellor. You and your brother. Surely now you have proof as to what they’re doing.” I swallow. “Do you think she meant it? Breeding us . . . as a cure?”
“I don’t know. It’s the first I’ve heard of it. But we can discuss it later. Assuming we can get out of here in one piece.” He winces as he attempts to put weight on the bad leg. “Let’s find the way out. And go slow.”
I throw his arm over my shoulder and clasp him about the waist so he can prop his weight on me. “Just keep your head down and let me do the talking.”
“Aye.” He catches my chin in his free hand and presses his mouth on mine for an instant. He tastes of blood. “For luck.”
I kiss him back hard, letting the moment sweep past us in a wave of longing. This time his fingers trail over my jaw to cup the back of my head. My hold on him grows tighter, the realization that I’ve found him finally sinking into a fierce relief. The desperate ache that’s been clenching my stomach this whole time finally loosens, replaced with a slightly hysterical optimism. If we somehow play our cards right, we might just pull this whole ridiculous charade off.
He retreats first and cocks his head toward the door. I grit my teeth and quietly crack it open to peer into the hallway. Everything still appears quiet.
And yet . . .
The laughter coming from the ballroom is strained. Definitely time to leave. “Come on,” I whisper, and together the two of us limp toward the kitchens. A serving girl stares at us and nearly drops her platter, but I give her a drunken smile.
“My sister imbibed a wee bit too much, aye? We needs us a drop o’ fresh air to strengthen her spirits up for another round.”
Ghost makes a coughing sound in a rough
falsetto, as though he’s going to puke his guts up right there in the hallway.
“Th-that way, mum.” The girl points down another corridor and flees in the opposite direction.
“At least she didn’t scream.” Ghost grunts when his bad leg brushes against mine.
“Small favors,” I say. “Moon’s blood, man. What have you been eating that you’re so damn heavy?” He shifts so I’m not under the brunt of so much weight, and we turn the way the serving girl indicated.
This time we do get a few odd looks, but most of the servants are still too busy to pay us much mind as we slink into the kitchens. But then we’re chased outside by a monstrously large cook, her face ruddy from the fire and her hands coated in flour. Not before Ghost manages to pocket a couple of biscuits from a tray, though.
“I haven’t eaten in two days.” He shoves one into my hands as we catch our breath, leaning against the brick wall enclosing the rear entrance to the estate. “Now what? We’re not going to be able to hide out here for long, and we’re too far from Market Square to hire a carriage.”
“With any luck those guards will be too embarrassed to report that one girl managed to best them.” I tear into a piece of the biscuit without really thinking about it. “And Lucian said he’d come back for me, but I don’t think we’ll have time to wait for that.”
“Lucian is here?” He blinks, relief on his face.
“Mmm. Well, he was last I saw. For all I know Martika will be the one leaving as she arrived.”
He looks away. “There’s a reason for the deceit. So much rides on our ability to hide . . .”
“One day you’re going to run out of excuses.” I press a finger to his lips. “Hush now. Explanations later.”
He swallows the last of his biscuit and gives me a bemused smile. “Quite the little commander, Mags.”
“Come on,” I say finally. A broken garden hoe lies beside the door, obviously meant for disposal. I snap off the bent blade and hand the rest to Ghost to aid him. If things take a turn for the worse, maybe he can beat someone with it.