Servant of the Crown (The Crown of Tremontane Book 1)

by Melissa McShane

  “What look?”

  “The look that says you stopped listening because you don’t like what I’m saying.”

  “I don’t need to hear you defend him.”

  “I’m not defending him. I’m just giving him credit for trying. Far as I can tell, it’s got nothing to do with whatever relationship you have with him now.”

  “We don’t have a relationship.”

  “Everyone’s got relationships, even if they’re the mortal enemy kind.” Doyle drained his mug and wiped his mouth. “All I’m saying is I don’t think he deserves to have his life come to an end just because he wronged you so terribly. He’s part of this theater now, and, Alison? This is your theater, mostly, it’s got your name over the door in lights, and if you tell me to, I’ll send him packing. But I never thought I’d see you that vindictive.”

  Alison set her cup down, shocked. “Is that what you think of me?”

  “I’m saying you might decide to go that route, yes.”

  His words shamed her. Doyle was right. Anthony didn’t deserve her forgiveness, but he didn’t deserve her hatred either. “Give me that bottle, Doyle.” Puzzled, he pulled it out of the drawer and handed it to her. She took a healthy swig from it, shuddered, and handed it back. “I don’t want you to kick him out,” she said. “But I’m not ready to see him. And…he can keep using the box.”

  Doyle nodded. “I’m sorry if I was harsh, Allie.”

  “No, you were right. I was behaving like a spoiled child. Thanks for pointing it out.” Alison wiped the whiskey from her mouth, then unexpectedly belched, making Doyle laugh like a madman. After a moment, Alison joined him, trying to remember the last time she’d laughed so unselfconsciously.

  “All right, I won’t be vindictive,” she said as her laughter wound down, leaving her surprisingly relaxed. “I’m coming back soon, I’ll be on time, I’ll be properly dressed, but I don’t want to find anyone in my box, okay? He can use it when I’m not here.”

  “Will do, boss,” Doyle said. “You want to talk to Flanagan? He’s got things to say to you about the book.”

  She shuddered. “Let the Prince deal with it, if they’re such good friends.” She wondered what had happened to the book she’d bought for Anthony’s Wintersmeet gift and left under her bed in the Dowager’s apartment. Had he ended up buying one for himself? She should retrieve it for the library, probably, but the idea of facing the Dowager again filled her with weariness. They’d said such harsh things to each other, and the Dowager had been so kind to her, and had been so pleased to think Alison might become her daughter—she shied away from that line of thought.

  She left Doyle and stood for a while at the foot of the stairs. Anthony had kept coming to the theater, even after she’d left. He’d made a place for himself here. No, he’d dared to intrude on her place. He should have had the decency to withdraw from everything they’d shared. I’m not going to forgive him, she thought, he deserves to suffer, but she remembered what Doyle said, about how vicious the rumors had been, and she felt a little ashamed at her anger. Anthony hadn’t deserved to suffer at Bishop’s hands. She felt an unexpected flash of compassion for Anthony that she crushed out of existence before it could take root. Maybe he didn’t deserve to suffer like that, maybe she didn’t have to hate him, but he’d hurt her as no one else ever had; he didn’t deserve her compassion and he didn’t deserve her forgiveness. Even so…. You want to hang onto your bitterness, doesn’t matter how much cause you have, you’re still only hurting yourself, Doyle said in her memory. He didn’t understand anything. She wasn’t bitter. She was just protecting herself. She gave the stairs one more long look, then turned and left the theater.

  Chapter Seventeen

  She slept poorly, plagued by nightmares in which carnivorous books pursued her through the halls of Waxwold Manor, and woke late. It was going to be one of those days. She fortified herself with what would probably turn out to be too much coffee and slogged toward the Library at nearly ten o’clock. She’d found another entrance that led directly to the Library and saved her ten minutes of walking from the main doors and down the stairs to the Library level. That it also avoided the east wing was irrelevant.

  She turned the corner to the Library corridor and saw someone standing next to the Library door. Gwendolen. Alison’s pace slowed for just a few steps, long enough for Gwendolen to realize Alison was approaching and turn to face her, shoving her hands into her trouser pockets. Alison increased her stride a little and saw Gwendolen twitch as if she didn’t know whether to stand still or run away. She decided to ignore the girl. If Gwendolen wanted something, she would have to work for it.

  “Your ladyship,” Gwendolen said in a small voice, “I….”

  Alison channeled her inner Zara and raised an eyebrow at her. “Yes?” she said, her hand on the door latch.

  Gwendolen ducked her head. “Your ladyship, I….”

  “Please stop repeating yourself. I have work to do.”

  “I want to beg your forgiveness and ask for my apprenticeship back.” She said this all in a rush, as if she’d memorized it, though her emotion seemed genuine and not at all learned by rote.

  “Do you? I was under the impression you didn’t need it.”

  Gwendolen blushed. Funny, she did it as blotchily as Alison did. “Mother said…she wasn’t going to keep finding me apprenticeships…and I have to prove I can stick with something.”

  “Your mother is right, but I fail to see why it’s my duty to provide you with something to which you will stick. It sounds as though you’ve had plenty of apprenticeships already.”

  The blotches turned a darker red. “I lied,” she said, “about this one not being interesting. I love to read. I wanted to work in a library, but the librarians wouldn’t let us do anything but fill the inkwells, and Declan and Trevers took that over. I just don’t like feeling …unimportant. No. I don’t like feeling like a nothing.”

  It was the most honest thing she’d ever heard from Gwendolen. “And talking about how important your mother is makes you feel important?”

  She looked away and nodded. Alison sighed. “That’s a great deal of honesty,” she said, “but it doesn’t explain why I should retain you as an apprentice.”

  “You need at least three if the Library’s actually running—”

  “I can hire others. Others who actually want to be here.”

  “But I want to be here!”

  “So you lied about that too?”

  Gwendolen burst into tears. Alison felt she’d pushed the young woman a bit too far. “Stop crying, Gwendolen,” she said, but gently. “Listen. If you can tell me one reason, one thing you can do as an apprentice that no one else can, I’ll give you back your apprenticeship and I won’t even cancel out your elapsed three years.”

  Gwendolen shuddered and wiped her eyes. “I know where the books went,” she said.

  Alison stared at her. “You what?” she shouted, and Gwendolen cowered, but Alison didn’t care. “You mean you were going to walk out of here and leave me scrambling to find out what that total bastard Bancroft stole and all this time you knew where they were?” She slammed her fist against the door and tried to control herself.

  “No, I don’t know where they are now, but I know where they took them!” Gwendolen exclaimed, still flinching from Alison’s wrath. “I can take you there!”

  Alison made herself calm down, let her breathing return to normal. “Why didn’t you say something before?”

  Gwendolen raised her head and met Alison’s eyes. “Because I was stupid and proud and selfish,” she said, “and I thought it was my secret to keep. And I’m sorry. And I’m here now.”

  Alison closed her eyes. Gwendolen got on her nerves, true, but she’d also stood up to Alison and admitted her mistake. “You’re provisionally accepted back as apprentice,” she told the girl, who didn’t seem to know whether to be happy about “accepted” or worried about “provisionally.” “You will take me to wherever it was
Bancroft and his stooges took the books. You will be polite and humble to me and to your fellow apprentices. You will do everything in your power to convince me you’re useful. After that, we’ll see.”

  “Thank you, milady,” Gwendolen said. “Should we go now?”

  “Where is it?”

  “There’s a sort of pawnshop at the bottom of Southgate, only it’s just for books. I’ve been here since before Bancroft took over and I know he only started going there about a year ago. So he wasn’t stealing the whole two years.”

  “How do you know any of this?”

  Another blotchy blush. “They used to take me along…because I liked being in on the secret. It made me feel….”

  “I get it.” No sense punishing the girl for what was, after all, Bancroft’s crime. “Let’s just forget about all that and be grateful you did go along.” She thought about it. She didn’t know the city well, but she did know Southgate wasn’t the best neighborhood. “I don’t suppose the books are going to get any more lost if we wait an hour. I have some things to take care of, and then we’ll see what we can do.”

  The streets of Southgate were narrow enough that the word “warren” came to Alison’s mind—narrow, and overhung by the jutting upper stories of buildings that leaned together a little, making unexpected turns and cul-de-sacs the carriage driver seemed, fortunately, well familiar with. Passersby paid no more attention to their black, unmarked carriage than they did to any of the other traffic that thronged the streets. Most of the pedestrians seemed huddled in on themselves as if it were midwinter and not early spring; it did not seem as if Southgate noticed the passing of days. When Alison saw the pawnshop, with its upper windows boarded over and a tread missing from the steps, she wished she’d brought someone big and well-muscled to back her up. It looked exactly the kind of place where people were robbed and murdered on a regular basis. But Bancroft had come here often, and nothing had ever happened to him, such a pity. Well, she’d decided to try the nice way first. She could always come back with a squad of palace guards later if she had to. There must be some procedure for requisitioning a squad, yes?

  Chimes rang as she pushed the door open, Gwendolen trailing in her wake. Gwendolen was right; it wasn’t exactly a pawnshop, more a used book store, and it was packed to the rafters with books. Shelves groaned under the weight of tomes piled any which way, though none lay on the floor, Alison was glad to see, because the floor was dirty. Alison took a deep breath and smelled old paper and timeworn leather. She sighed, contented. Lack of organization aside, this was how the Royal Library ought to have looked, and smelled. The shelves formed a little maze she navigated, sometimes turning sideways to slide through narrow spaces between shelves. She wished she were here for pleasure, because there were a number of titles she wanted to look more closely at, but she resolutely kept her eyes focused on her goal, which was a wooden counter with a cracked glass top, also piled high with books. A bell stood on the counter. She rang it. Gwendolen stayed close behind as if trying to hide behind her skirts, which was absurd because Gwendolen was at least two inches taller than Alison was and Alison was wearing trousers.

  “I’m coming,” said an age-cracked voice. Alison waited. After a moment, a squat, white-haired woman came out of a back room, dusting her hands off on her skirt.

  “You have something to sell?” she asked, eyeing the parcel under Alison’s arm.

  “Not exactly,” Alison replied. She unwrapped the book and laid it on the counter—Simpkins’ Travels in the Rockwild, not too valuable, but worth at least a little money. “What would you give me for this?”

  The woman picked it up, felt the spine, riffled the pages. “Five staves,” she said in that creaky voice.

  “Interesting,” Alison said, taking the book back. “I don’t suppose this changes the value at all?” She flipped the book open from the rear and showed the woman the Library seal. The woman swallowed hard, but her face remained impassive.

  “That supposed to mean something to me?” she said.

  “I know you’ve seen it before, Mistress—I beg your pardon, we haven’t been introduced. You are…?”

  “Thelma Inkpen,” said the woman, peering suspiciously at Alison.

  “What a perfectly appropriate name! Mistress Inkpen, I am Alison Quinn, Countess of Waxwold and Royal Librarian.” The woman blanched. “And I believe you can help me. I have this feeling, and tell me if I’m wrong, you’ve seen this—” she tapped the seal with her index finger—“before. And before you decide whether or not to lie to me, I want to assure you that you haven’t committed a crime.” This was a lie. Witting or no, Mistress Inkpen was an accessory to theft, and Alison was certain she was a witting accomplice. But Bancroft was in jail, and Alison wanted those books back more than she wanted Mistress Inkpen punished.

  “I mean, really, Mistress Inkpen, you can’t be expected to check the provenance of every book that comes across your counter,” she continued. “It’s not your fault you were taken advantage of by the previous Royal Librarian. Really, you’re the victim here.” Enough buttering up her victim. “So, with all that in mind, Mistress Inkpen, have you purchased any books with this seal stamped inside the back cover?”

  Mistress Inkpen wrestled with herself, then nodded. “Not many,” she insisted.

  “That’s just fine, Mistress Inkpen. Now here is the important thing, Mistress—do you currently have any books with this seal in your shop?”

  More struggling, then Mistress Inkpen said, “I don’t think I should lose out just because I was took advantage of by that smug git.”

  “I agree. In fact, I think you should be recompensed for any books with this seal that you can dig up for me.” But not by as much as you might want.

  The old woman scowled, then said, “Wait here.” She went into the back room and returned after several minutes with four small volumes balanced on an outsized folio and set them none too carefully on the desk. She brushed past Alison into the store itself. Alison eagerly flipped open each cover. Five seals. A set of Marusel’s Vondark Legacy, volumes one through three and volume seven, and an illuminated encyclopedia of Tremontanan birds with the illustrations hand-tipped. Mistress Inkpen returned with another stack of books and set them next to the first pile. “That’s it,” she said.

  “You’ve sold all the rest?” Alison exclaimed.

  “This is a bookshop, milady Countess,” the woman said smugly. “I buy books. I sell them again.”

  “Do you know who buys your books?”

  Mistress Inkpen drew herself up to her full four-foot-ten height. “I got customer privacy to worry about,” she said. “Can’t tell you those things or I’d have no custom.”

  Alison controlled herself. “I respect that, Mistress Inkpen,” she said. “But I would really like those books. Here’s what I’d like you to do. I’d like you to put the word out that the Royal Library will pay for any books with that seal on them, no questions asked. And if you receive any more, the same deal applies to you.”

  “Don’t know that you’ll get many takers,” the woman said. “Collectors don’t like getting rid of what’s theirs.”

  “Oh, I think it’s worth a try, don’t you, Mistress Inkpen?” Alison leaned over as if to share a confidence. “And I think you should definitely try, because if I don’t see results, do you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to come back with a squad of guards and a letter from the Queen herself that says I get to take your records and do whatever I like with them. But that would be so taxing and I think it would put a strain on our new friendship, don’t you?”

  Mistress Inkpen looked scared and angry at the same time. “You can’t hold me responsible for what other people do.”

  “Oh, Mistress Inkpen, I just think you know your clients so much better than I do. I think you know best how to explain to them that those books really are better off back in the Library. I think you don’t want your customers knowing their privacy might be violated. That would be a shame.” She pat
ted the old woman’s hand. “Would you mind setting these aside for me? I’ll return this afternoon and pay you for them—oh, and for any others you might have acquired in the meantime? Thank you so much for your help, Mistress Inkpen, it’s been a delight. And I’m sure I’ll return on my own time in the future. You have a lovely store.”

  She sailed out, clasping her hands in front of her to conceal their shaking. What had she just done? Threatened an old woman with confiscation of her property and terrified her into demanding the return of books that almost certainly were owned by people who didn’t want to give them up? Yes, she had. And, nerves aside, she didn’t feel one bit guilty about it.

  “I think that’s everything, Zara,” Alison told the Queen, who’d listened to her report in silence. “It’s going to take a lot of labor, and I haven’t decided what to do about the missing catalog. Baxter and Edwin have probably gone to ground in the Scholia, and though stealing the catalog was just adding insult to injury, I’m sure the Masters won’t give it back.”

  “And I wouldn’t demean myself by asking for it,” Zara said. “From what you’ve said, it seems it was nearly worthless anyway.”

  “But better than nothing. I’m ashamed to say I’ve put off dealing with it.”

  “Plenty of other things to deal with first.” Zara ticked off items on the list Alison had made for her. “Talk to Physical Facilities to get the windows cleaned and the floor and walls scrubbed. Personnel can give you laborers for the heavy lifting, but you’ll have to hire scribes and readers yourself. Talk to Finance about your budget. I’m afraid it’s rather straitened thanks to Bancroft’s thefts, but there should be something there. Have you reclaimed any of the lost books?”

  “More than I’d hoped.” People, servants mostly, had showed up in a steady trickle since Alison had threatened Mistress Inkpen and were sent away with payments calculated by the Royal Librarian, who was not inclined to be generous, but decided a slightly-better-than-fair rate might ensure that the trickle kept flowing.