A Tyranny of Petticoats

by Jessica Spotswood

  “Very aware,” Stuart replied. “And you are the best at what you do. That is why I’m here.”

  “Mr. Stuart —”

  Hearing the edge in Klio’s voice, Stuart dipped a hand inside his jacket and pulled out an envelope. “My superior would like to hire you as a means of protection.”

  Klio took the envelope, curiosity winning out over her reservations. “There are others who specialize in that service.”

  “Mr. Cromwell believes you are more suited to the task than a simple guardian,” Stuart said. “If a threat to our player arises, you will be able to recognize it more ably than anyone. Killing a player is forbidden, as you’ve said, but sadly our less honorable peers have proven in the past that they have no qualms about disabling a player.”

  Klio had no doubts that, honor or no, the Coven had done its share of disabling in the past.

  “You’ll find all the details of our proposal in that envelope.” Stuart leaned toward her with an easy smile. “Mr. Cromwell humbly requests a reply by the week’s end.” When Klio failed to respond immediately, he sighed, sitting up. “If the generous compensation doesn’t prove enough, then perhaps I should appeal to your sense of justice.”

  “What do you mean?” Klio asked.

  “Your man.” Stuart nodded toward the front of the cab, to Whitby. “He’s a freedman, is he not?”

  “Of course he is.” Klio bristled. “This is Massachusetts, not Mississippi. And Whitby is not ‘my man,’ he’s a dear friend.”

  When Stuart showed obvious pleasure at having provoked her, Klio regretted her quick words.

  “I would never suggest a lady such as yourself could tolerate the barbarism they so quaintly refer to as the ‘peculiar institution,’” Stuart said. “The Coven forbade slaveholding before the colonists decided to declare their independence, you know.”

  “Yes.” Klio also knew that the Coven’s power had always been concentrated in the North, making its involvement in plantation farming and the slave trade limited from the first. For her own part, Klio found the “peculiar institution” abhorrent, and not simply because of her friendship with Whitby. She did not, however, respond well to Stuart’s attempt to leverage his position by exploiting her moral convictions. She turned the envelope over in her hands. It was weighty for a contract. Perhaps Mr. Cromwell had included part of the promised payment as a show of good faith. She’d be a fool to turn away good money. With the war escalating, the world could easily devolve into chaos.

  “Good.” Stuart gave two smart raps on the roof of the cab, and it slowed to a stop. “Mr. Cromwell looks forward to receiving your reply.”

  “One question before you go, Mr. Stuart,” Klio said as Stuart drew back the curtain.

  “Please.” Stuart’s smile was as icy as the blue of his eyes.

  It took far more than a cool gaze to ruffle Klio. “Who is your player?”

  “That very gentleman who has just enjoyed the privilege of your company, Miss Vesper.” Stuart flashed his teeth. “And he now bids you a good night.”

  The air in Natchez was stifling, an unpleasant contrast to the mild spring weather in Boston. Klio suspected the tense, near-choking atmosphere was as much a result of the stresses of the ongoing war as the lack of a breeze. While the action thus far remained in the East, Klio observed men — many of whom might still be called boys — dressed in Confederate gray, congregating before they went to join their compatriots on the battlefield. Her gaze shifted constantly, her body stiff as she moved with the traffic of pedestrians and carriages alongside the Mississippi. As usual, her garb drew curious gazes. Though her sapphire-blue silk gown and matching short cape fit the style of the moment, her small hat with its veil that fell just past the tip of her nose was custom-made and nothing like the bonnets favored by fashionable ladies. Accustomed to stares, Klio ignored them and walked on at a confident pace. She ran her gloved palm over the silk fabric of her skirt and felt the stiff folded papers tucked inside her pocket.

  The documents had been inside the envelope Hamilton Stuart gave her, along with a contract and an impressive stack of banknotes. But the princely sum did nothing to relieve the sickness Klio had felt when she’d looked over the papers that would allow Whitby to accompany her on the journey; they named Whitby her slave.

  Klio understood the necessity of the documents, but despite their artifice she could barely contain her disgust at having to carry them, and from the wrath she caught whenever her eyes met Whitby’s she knew he detested their forced role-playing even more than she did, and understandably. If Klio had had her way, Whitby would never have set foot in any slave state. But Whitby had ignored her pleas that he stay behind, so the ruse was necessary. So long as the Fugitive Slave Act protected them, slave traders could abduct freedmen with impunity.

  Whitby carried her bags up the gangplank while Klio strolled behind. Boston was a city of ships, but Klio had never seen the likes of the Fortuna. Swan-white save for the great red wheel at its stern, the Fortuna looked every bit the debutante awaiting her admirers. Klio appreciated the elegance of the steamboat, but she surveyed its decks with a critical gaze. Ships were designed to hold as many provisions as possible within a confined space. That meant the Fortuna would be full of closets, nooks, and compartments — the sort of spaces that lent themselves as easily to staging an ambush as to storing ropes and life jackets.

  “Welcome aboard, Miss Vesper.” A man in livery greeted Klio when she alighted upon the deck. “Mr. Stuart has asked me to see you to your cabin.”

  “How kind.” Klio spared the man a brief smile. Her attention was on the other passengers.

  The Game’s importance meant it attracted a throng of spectators, and each faction boasted its own entourage. Most of Klio’s shipmates would pose no threat. It was even possible that Hamilton Stuart would be in no danger whatsoever. If all the factions adhered to the rules of the Game, this boat was sacrosanct, neutral ground. But given what was at stake, Klio had to agree with Stuart that his adversaries would exploit any loopholes in the rules to gain an advantage. Something as simple as a charm to draw luck or an amulet to ward off malicious spells could prove a deciding factor.

  Stuart’s man opened the door to Klio’s cabin. The rooms were surprisingly spacious for shipboard quarters. Silk- and velvet-upholstered chairs and settees graced the sitting room, and sumptuous linens and overstuffed pillows decorated the bedroom.

  “Are the rooms to your satisfaction, Miss Vesper?” the valet asked.

  “They are.” Beautiful as the cabin was, Klio doubted she’d spend much time enjoying its luxuries.

  The valet nodded at Whitby. “While your man unpacks your bags, Mr. Stuart has requested your presence in his cabin.”

  “Has he?” Klio’s eyebrow lifted. “Would you be so kind to show me to his cabin?”

  Stuart’s rooms were adjacent to Klio’s cabin. Klio tolerated the ritual of being announced to Stuart and offered an assortment of refreshments, but she had little patience for meaningless niceties. Her life was one of relative solitude, her only companion being Whitby, whose nature was as reclusive as her own.

  Stuart lounged in a high-backed chair. He wore a crisp shirt and a waistcoat of sapphire jacquard, but no jacket. He had one leg thrown over a chair arm as he sipped amber liquid from a crystal tumbler. His dark hair was rumpled and his face wanted a shave.

  “You may leave us, Talbot,” Stuart told his valet with a dismissive wave.

  Klio relaxed a bit, taking the seat opposite him, pleased that Stuart didn’t cling so tightly to convention that he would prolong mindless chatter in the presence of his servant rather than proceed directly to the business at hand. She required no chaperone to preserve her reputation and much preferred dealing with men alone and on her terms.

  “What do you make of the Fortuna?” Stuart asked. “Does she meet your expectations?”

  “I had no expectations, Mr. Stuart,” Klio said.

  Stuart swung his leg down from the chair ar
m so he was sitting rather than sprawling. “Hamilton, please.”

  “If you wish.” Klio felt a tremor of unease with Stuart’s casual air. For a man only hours away from playing a game that would determine the nation’s future, he appeared much too comfortable. His arrogance was evidence, but Klio wondered what schemes he’d set in motion to thwart his opponents.

  He leaned forward, eyeing her. “Are you always this stiff? We’re alone, you know. Keeping up appearances isn’t required.”

  “I’m here on a contract, Mr. — Hamilton,” Klio replied. “This isn’t about appearances.”

  “Yes, the contract.” Stuart sipped his drink. “You’ll accompany me whenever I’m outside my cabin. Once the Game begins, I give you leave to situate yourself wherever you deem the most suitable.”

  “Thank you for your confidence,” Klio said. “Have the other players arrived?”

  “The wolves and goblins are here. The sidhe are expected within the hour. But the necromancers and vampires won’t board until after sunset . . . for obvious reasons.”

  Klio nodded. “Are there any particular animosities between the Coven and the other factions that I should know about?”

  Stuart’s lips curled in amusement. “What an interesting question.”

  Klio bristled, lifting her chin. “Mr. Stuart —”

  “Hamilton.”

  “Hamilton.” The man was setting Klio’s teeth on edge. “You hired me because you may be in danger. It would be helpful if you identified potential threats.”

  “Identifying threats is supposed to be your job, Klio.” Stuart swirled the liquid in his glass, watching it flash amber when it caught the light.

  “Very well.” Klio stood up. “If that’s all you have to tell me, I’ll be off to begin doing my job.”

  “Sit down, Miss Vesper.” Any hint of mirth in Stuart’s tone had vanished. He finished his drink in one swallow and set the glass aside.

  Klio didn’t balk. He clearly expected her to cower at the first sign of his disapproval. Klio cowered for no one. She expected him to erupt into some sort of tyrannical tantrum, but instead he began to laugh. “I don’t frighten you at all, do I?” He shook his head, smiling. “How refreshing.”

  He gestured to the sofa. “Please, Miss Vesper, it wasn’t my intent to offend you. I only wish to know a bit more about you. Your reputation is . . . unrivaled. Yet all of my information about you has been secondhand.”

  Klio returned to her seat but remained wary. “What would you like to know?”

  “A great deal.” Stuart’s brow furrowed. “But I don’t expect you to indulge all of my curiosities.” When Klio didn’t take to his teasing comment, he rested his elbows on his knees and steepled his fingers. “Let me show you my good will by answering your question. The Coven and the sidhe have been on good terms for the last three centuries. The goblins are brutes and they hate the Coven, but they despise secret plots and assassination and have only disdain for human wars. They’re a savage lot, but they couldn’t care less about who wins the Game. If the goblins want me, or anyone for that matter, dead, they’d prefer to attack at high noon and stick heads on pikes for all to see. If it wasn’t against the Old Laws, they wouldn’t bother showing up at the Game.”

  “I understand.” Of all the factions, Klio viewed the goblins as the least threatening — if only in this particular venue. They wouldn’t break the rules of the Game, and they would spit at the suggestion of loopholes.

  “The necromancers are not unlike the goblins,” Stuart continued. “They’ll have bodies enough from the carnage while it’s being waged.”

  “So the vampires and the wolves.” Klio had already arrived at that conclusion before she boarded the ship, but she appreciated Stuart’s confirmation.

  “The vampires have ties with Southern planters that go back to the first colonial settlements,” Stuart said. “And the wolves haven’t made it known whether they support the Union or the Confederacy. The stubborn beasts refuse to ally or confer with any other faction. Since they made their support of the British known before all the other factions declared for the Americans in the War of Independence, they’ve gotten it into their furry heads that the rest of us colluded against them. If they win the Game this time, we won’t know on whose behalf we’re fighting until they deign to tell us.”

  Taking Klio’s passive expression for approval, Stuart said, “And now it’s your turn. Your face is veiled, but I would have you reveal yourself — figuratively speaking, of course. Who are you, Miss Vesper? What tales have you to tell? I imagine them to be extraordinary.”

  “I’m certain you have ways of finding out almost anything about me,” Klio replied.

  He shrugged. “Yes, but I’d prefer to hear what you have to say about yourself. For instance, the Coven believed your kind no longer existed. Too many generations of intermarriage with mortals. It’s gone that way for most creatures outside the factions.”

  “The bloodline has been diluted,” Klio said. “But on rare occasions the old traits manifest. Some choose to keep those qualities hidden, but my grandmother encouraged me to embrace my heritage. She knew that it would require a life of isolation, but I agreed with her. I preferred to leave my home rather than suppress my powers.”

  “Your man — the djinn.” Stuart rubbed at the stubble on his chin absentmindedly. “Is it the same for him?”

  “Yes.” Klio ground her teeth at Stuart’s description of Whitby as “her man” for the second time despite having corrected him. She and Whitby had been drawn to each other because of their shared histories. Both of them were relics of days past, abandoned by family. Forsaken by the world.

  “Was it difficult to find your way?” Stuart asked. Something flickered in his gaze. Klio wouldn’t have named it sympathy. “Sixteen is young for someone to have already established the professional repute you possess.”

  “Every life faces its trials at some point,” Klio said, keeping her expression passive. “Mine came earlier than most, but I have thrived nonetheless.”

  Klio’s powers had manifested in the twelfth year of her life, the same night her belly cramped and she woke with blood on her underclothes. Coming of age hadn’t been the beginning of a transformation from girl to woman. It had marked the moment at which she would no longer be part of the family she’d known but would walk in a different world. Apart. And, until she met Whitby, alone.

  Stuart’s gaze shifted to Klio’s arms, sheathed from fingertip to elbow by silk gloves. “May I see them?”

  “I’m a professional, Hamilton.” Klio smoothed her skirt before folding her hands on her lap. “Not a performer.”

  “That’s a shame.” He sighed.

  Klio smiled for the first time since she’d arrived in Stuart’s cabin. “You’re the only person I know who has longed to see what my gloves keep hidden.”

  “But those who’ve had the privilege to see —” Stuart’s eyes were alight with eagerness. “Do they find your secret to be marvelous?”

  “I don’t know, Hamilton. They’re all dead.”

  Whitby had gone by the time Klio returned to her cabin.

  Klio stood in the middle of her sitting room, feeling a twinge of disappointment. Though he played the role of servant, Whitby was much more of a partner. He scouted and strategized with her before she entered the field of combat. While she fulfilled a contract, he acted as her eyes and ears around the perimeter of any kill site. Ever alert, Whitby secured the locations in which Klio did her work. Should she get into trouble, he would come to her aid. If Whitby had deemed it necessary to begin his surveillance of the steamboat immediately, Klio didn’t doubt his judgment, but she would have taken comfort in conversation with her closest friend before the work of the night began. Selfishly, she’d also hoped to steal a few moments of laughter at the expense of the snobbish Mr. Stuart. Klio and Whitby had little regard for the archaic customs and exclusivity of the factions. Mr. Stuart was the embodiment of all those traits they found intolerable,
but that shared dislike could have offered a much-needed reprieve ahead of what would be a span of tense hours as the night grew long.

  Despite the taciturn nature Whitby presented to the outside world, to Klio he was confidant, adviser, and irreplaceable man-at-arms . . . so to speak. Although clients contracted for Klio’s services, she split payment evenly with Whitby. Like his djinn ancestors, Whitby commanded magics that could mold the perceptions and actions of those around him. He could more than hold his own in a fight. But the Fortuna was a far different arena from those in which they usually battled. If Whitby came by information Klio needed, he would find her. She needn’t waste her time worrying about anything else.

  Klio changed her clothes and went back to Stuart’s quarters. Talbot opened the door, and upon entering, Klio found her client freshly shaved and boasting a head of neatly combed hair. He shrugged on his jacket.

  “I trust all is well, Miss Vesper?”

  Klio nodded.

  He smiled, casting an appreciative gaze upon her form. Like Stuart, Klio had taken the time to shed her traveling garb for clothes more suitable for the night’s event. Her gown was emerald satin, but its shade bore a depth that gave the fabric a mottled effect whenever she moved — a quality emphasized by her skirts’ fullness, which spread around her like the broad leaves of an exotic plant. The gown’s low-cut bodice had a dusting of lace that shimmered the white and silver of moonstone, and while her neck and shoulders were bare, Klio’s arms remained sheathed in black silk from elbows to fingertips. A veil of the same lace at her bodice kept her eyes from view.

  “You make me regret that you accompany me for business tonight,” Stuart said. “I’d much prefer an evening of pleasure with you at my side.”

  “Think on the pleasure of living rather than falling prey to your opponents,” Klio replied.

  With a snicker, Stuart offered Klio his arm. “I would be pained at your rebuff, Miss Vesper. But instead I’ll take comfort in how difficult it is to lead you astray when your path is set.”