Making hard decisions.
That was what Violet had always encouraged her to do.
Aster looked at Raven, who remained silent, her face inscrutable behind her locs. She clearly wasn’t going to get involved.
“We’re going to make this new welcome house our priority, Aster,” Marjorie reassured her, perhaps reading the dismay on Aster’s face. “Thank you for your thorough report. We’ll find a way to help these girls, I promise. It just takes time.”
Time they didn’t have.
“Of course,” Aster said, standing stiffly. “Thank you.” Some part of her wondered if she ought to have apologized for forcing an argument, but she couldn’t bring herself to. Her anger was too strong. It wasn’t Violet she felt betrayed by, but the Ladies. She’d followed them, trusted them, idolized them … but for all the good they had done, they weren’t willing to take this level of risk, and girls were going to suffer for it.
Aster followed Raven back to their bunkroom, stewing in silence. Their other roommates were out, well into their work for the day. Sewing quilts to sell, or tinning tobacco, or some other painstaking task a hundred miles removed from the ultimate goal of freeing girls who were trapped. Aster and Raven would be expected to join in. To carry on as if nothing had happened. Aster kicked off her boots in frustration, then winced as they hit the wall, leaving a mark.
“Sorry,” Aster mumbled to Raven.
“Don’t worry about it,” Raven said. She considered Aster, then unfurrowed her brow, sighing. “Listen, Aster … I should’ve been more help back there. With Priscilla. It’s not in my nature to stick my nose in other folks’ business, but … I agree with you. We have to do something.”
“I don’t blame you. There was no convincing her,” Aster said. She sat down on her bunk and ran a hand over her short hair. “And I understand why she’s so afraid. It took her a long time to build what they have here. She doesn’t want to risk that. But if the Lady Ghosts aren’t willing to help Violet, then I’ll have to do it on my own.”
Raven’s eyes widened. “You’re going back to Northrock alone? That’s suicide.”
“I know. But I can’t just leave her,” Aster said softly. When Aster had first seen Violet, any relief she’d felt had been completely overshadowed by her anger at the possibility that Violet was willingly working for McClennon. But now that Aster knew she wasn’t …
It would’ve been better if she had betrayed us.
Now we’re the ones who betrayed her by leaving her behind.
“There are just some things you wouldn’t understand,” Aster said finally.
“What’s there to understand? McClennon has your friend. You want her back. But I still have to ask, is this girl really worth dying over?”
Aster furrowed her brow. “It’s not just about Violet. It’s about all those girls. The Northrock welcome house can’t open if it doesn’t have a housemistress.”
But, quietly, in the back of her mind, Aster thought to herself: Yes.
“Well, going with your gut has gotten you this far. I don’t reckon it’s wrong now.” Raven brushed her locs out of her face. “So? You want company?”
Aster shook her head. “I appreciate the offer, but I can’t ask you to risk your life, too. But could you do me a favor and cover for me? Just … come up with some story Priscilla will believe when she realizes I’m gone.”
“As long as you come back, Aster,” Raven said, a rare note of earnestness creeping into her voice.
“I promise I will,” Aster reassured her.
She only hoped she was telling the truth.
4
Aster stole away the next morning on horseback. A familiar thrill hummed in her blood as she made her way towards Northrock through the snarl of the undergrowth, dressed in her old denims and a duster jacket, the warmth of the late afternoon sun painting the nape of her neck. Something about being back on the run settled the restlessness in her gut. No more suffocating in fancy clothes and holding her tongue and pretending to be someone she wasn’t. No more waiting for permission to do what needed to be done. If she failed, she would have no one to blame but herself. But at least she could rest easy knowing she’d done everything she could for Violet.
Still, as much as Aster might have disagreed with Priscilla, the last thing she wanted was to blow the Lady Ghosts’ cover—which meant she couldn’t operate as a fortuna of Anthony Wise tonight. Once she got to Northrock, she would put on her dustkerchief, and, until then, she would stay off the road.
Aster ducked as her horse carried her beneath low-hanging branches, cursing when she rode through the clinging silk of a spiderweb. After months with the Ladies, where their guarants had allowed them to work out in the open, it was jarring to have to return to skulking through the woods. The lush green forests of northern Arketta weren’t as treacherous as the wind-torn, dust-choked mountains of the Scab, but it was still tough enough going. Mosquitoes swarmed to the sweat on her skin, and the mud underfoot sucked at her horse’s hooves. There were no vengeants this far north, but there were still coyotes and bears and white-mouth vipers. She wished Zee were there to help her, or any of her old friends. But she was only about a mile outside of Northrock now, and she’d be back in civilization soon.
Not that that will make things any easier, she thought grimly.
Covering her favor once she got to Northrock meant she’d be working within a very limited time frame there—no more than thirty minutes to locate the welcome house and find somewhere nearby to hide where she could scout out the situation. She’d have to figure out a way to break into the building and then escape with Violet, all without drawing attention to themselves. Aster didn’t dare hope the welcome house wouldn’t be guarded at all, but she did hope, given the building was still empty, that it wouldn’t be guarded as heavily as Green Creek. But if it was … well, she had her knife with her, and a revolver, too. She’d trained regularly with firearms in the past several months, and she had gotten much better with a gun since her days on the road. But she still didn’t like using it.
She hoped it wouldn’t come to that tonight.
Aster fought her way through the last stretch of woods before she came to the top of the ridge that overlooked the city below and the farmland beyond. There she stopped, reaching for her satchel and searching through it for her dustkerchief. Aster had long since replaced the old dustkerchief she’d stolen out of Augie’s stable all those months ago: this one she’d made herself, soft black cotton with a silver paisley pattern. She wrapped it around the lower half of her face, sighing into the light fabric. Then she slid her rangeman’s hat over her head. Like the knife at her side, there was something thrilling about slipping into her old routine. Even the danger was almost welcome.
It felt good to be back.
Aster steered the horse out of the woods and onto the main road, where stagecoaches, delivery wagons, and travelers on horseback all jockeyed for room to maneuver. Her skin had already begun to tingle lightly beneath her dustkerchief—the first symptom of covering a favor. That tingling would eventually become burning, and the burning would become pain, and the pain would become unbearable, and the favor would glow so brightly that it shone through the fabric, the cursed ink shining like a brand.
The road grew more crowded as Aster entered the city from the east. The evening sun was sinking in the sky, and Northrock was a city in transition: shops shuttering closed, voltric streetlights flaring to life, workmen walking home in rowdy groups of three and four while the wealthy rode down the cluttered streets in their coaches.
It didn’t take Aster long to disappear into the fray. She tied her horse to a post and continued forward on foot so as to draw less attention to herself. She scratched at the side of her neck as she pushed her way through the crowd. Her gaze landed on a dustblood paperboy standing at the corner.
“THE RECKONER, EVENING EDITION,” he cried out hoarsely. “TWO COPPERS.”
A sudden thought struck her. “I’ll take one,�
�� she said, fishing out the coins hurriedly. Just as she’d suspected, McClennon’s announcement had made the front page. She snapped the paper open and scanned the article. The welcome house address had to be in here somewhere.
Come on, come on—
There.
Aster stuffed the paper in her satchel and took off towards her destination at a quick clip. By now her favor had begun to burn—not enough to be painful, but enough to make it harder for her to focus. A faint red glow would have started up beneath her dustkerchief, too. She didn’t have much time. She turned the corner on the next street and hurried down the block.
And there, silhouetted against the deepening sky, was the welcome house.
There was no mistaking it for another building. Unlike the utilitarian, square buildings that lined most of the streets of Northrock, this was an exercise in excess: a four-story manor home painted purple and cream, with wide bay windows, steep gables, and a wraparound porch. Aster couldn’t tell from where she stood where Violet’s room might be, but just knowing she was so close made the knot in Aster’s chest loosen, just a bit.
She exhaled and began to look around for a way in. The surrounding green space took up a whole city block, a carefully groomed lawn dotted with saplings and topiary shrubs. A maze of scaffolding encased the building, which was clearly still receiving finishing touches. A high diamond-wire fence lined the whole estate. A few curious passersby peered through the chain links, but a pair of raveners guarding the perimeter moved along anyone who lingered too long.
“Dammit,” Aster murmured. She’d expected armed guards, but not raveners. She shouldn’t have been surprised, though, not after the display of strength she’d seen at McClennon’s event. She needed to make herself scarce before they caught wind of her.
Aster ducked down the closest alley. Once she was safely in the dark, hidden behind a row of trash bins, she ripped her dustkerchief off, exhaling with relief. The bricks were cold and damp beneath her, leeching through her denims. The heavy, earthy smell of the garbage made her head spin. But given that the adjacent shops were already closed, it seemed safe to bet no one would be using the alley until morning.
Raveners, Aster thought, leaning back against the building in frustration. How the rip am I supposed to take out a pair of raveners by myself?
Aster wet her lips. A memory flashed across her mind’s eye unbidden: the ravener she’d killed back in the Scab, her knife buried in his chest, his eyes, the color of dried blood, fading to lifelessness. His body was still like that somewhere, perfectly preserved by its black magic, a testament to her first—and only—kill. Aster swallowed thickly. She didn’t regret what she’d done. There hadn’t been any choice.
But she didn’t want to kill again if she didn’t have to.
I’ll just wait for an opening … a distraction, or a lapse in attention, or something. I’ll know it when I see it. It’s still early in the night, Aster told herself.
Still, a worm of doubt had begun to chew its way into the back of her mind. The Lady Ghosts would never find themselves this unprepared for a mission. They were meticulous, methodical, deliberate. They would have waited until they had a watertight plan.
But their way took time Violet didn’t have.
So Aster turned her mind back to her mission and, spotting the fire escape on the side of the building across from her, leapt up to grab the bottom rung of the rusted ladder. Then she climbed up to the third story so she could look out over the welcome house from the safety of the shadows. The pain in her favor slowly subsided as its glow faded from her skin. The last light began to fade from the sky, too, and soon it was blue-black and gauzy with gray clouds. A soft, murmuring rain began to fall over the city—one of those passing summer storms that descended almost every day in this part of Arketta. Aster shivered against the damp and the chill.
Perfect.
At least the rain would make it harder for the raveners to see and hear her when the time came.
Aster sighed impatiently, restlessness riling under her skin as she settled into her reconnaissance. The raveners’ patrol had a definite pattern, but they showed no signs of breaking it, and Aster had been waiting here for at least forty minutes now. Maybe she’d have to—
Then, suddenly, two more raveners approached the welcome house from the street.
Aster ducked lower instinctively. She could tell they were raveners from the massive steeds they rode—hellhorses, just as cursed and dangerous as their riders. The raveners dismounted and led their horses to the gates of the fence, which one of the raveners on the inside opened with a scraping sound. His partner joined him a moment later.
The mournful melody of the clock tower rang out then. The top of the hour. Nine o’clock.
A shift change, Aster realized.
This was her chance.
She clambered down the fire escape as fast as she could without making too much noise. She had to climb that fence before the new shift started patrolling. Once her feet hit the ground, she paused to tie the dustkerchief around her face once again, then took off at a run. The clock tower began to toll in the distance.
BONG … BONG … BONG … BONG …
She made her way around to the back of the house, opposite the entrance where the raveners were talking. This street was quieter, but there were still a few scattered people walking down the sidewalk, huddled under their umbrellas. Aster didn’t have time to worry about them. She began scaling the fence without slowing down. The cold, wet metal bit into the palms of her hands and clinked with every stab of her boots.
Quiet, Aster pleaded.
BONG … BONG …
“Hey! Damn kids—” someone swore, spotting her.
Keep going, Aster ordered herself. They weren’t going to do anything about her.
She hoped.
Because it was too late to turn back now.
BONG … BONG … BONG … The clock went silent just as Aster swung up over the top of the fence and jumped to the ground on the other side. She grunted as she landed, rolling the way Zee had taught her. The damp grass muffled the sound of her impact.
But the raveners would be coming around the back any second now.
From here Aster could see a single lit window on the second floor, yellow-orange light emanating dimly through the gauze of the sheers. Aster could reach it if she climbed the scaffolding. That was Violet’s room, it had to be—no one else had moved in yet, according to McClennon.
Aster ran forward before she could second-guess herself. The scaffolding proved much more difficult to climb than the fence. To reach the wooden platform that surrounded the second story, Aster had to balance on the thin, slippery X of the metal bars supporting it and inch her way to the top. She wasn’t at all confident they would hold her. Move too fast, and the whole structure would come crashing down.
Move too slow, and one of the raveners would spot her.
Aster gripped the cold, wet metal as she worked her way up. The beam beneath her feet shuddered with every step she took. Aster could just make out the sound of one of the raveners approaching, his stride strong and purposeful.
Shit.
She reached the wooden platform. Hoisted herself up with an involuntary grunt, rolled over onto her back, and crawled into the shadows just as the approaching ravener rounded the corner. There she waited, frozen, silent, as the ravener walked towards her.
Don’t look up, don’t look up, Aster pleaded.
A normal guard would have a lantern. A ravener didn’t need one. They saw clearly in the dark, like the predators they were. Aster could just make out the shape of him in the streetlight as he stalked along the inner perimeter of the fence, scanning back and forth between the darkened property and the half-lit street.
Don’t look up …
It wasn’t until he rounded the next bend that Aster let out her breath.
“Okay,” she whispered to herself, standing carefully. If these raveners followed the same pattern as the last pair, she h
ad only a moment to move before his partner showed up. Aster crept over to the lit window, half hunched over to keep her balance. Then she crouched out of sight and peered over the sill.
Aster’s heart leapt in her chest, and she let out a breath that was half laugh, half sigh of relief.
There, thank the dead, was Violet.
She was dressed in a voluminous, bloodred floor-length dress with a wide skirt and puffy sleeves—the kind of elegant affair befitting a housemistress. Violet paced around a bed that was equally magnificent, her face drawn in clear distress.
Aster reached for the window, then paused. If she startled Violet into shouting, it would bring the raveners down on them both. It would be better to wait to sneak in until Violet went into her washroom. She would probably be getting ready for bed soon. Violet had always liked her beauty sleep.
But Aster couldn’t wait too long. The longer she was up here, the more likely the raveners were to spot her anyway.
Aster weighed the risks, chewing on the inside of her cheek. The night air was cool around her, but she was sweating beneath her duster jacket.
Then, just as Aster was about to give up and break in, she peered over the windowsill again and saw Violet striding towards the washroom. A moment later, Violet closed the door behind her.
Aster moved quickly. She had spent years fantasizing about breaking out of a welcome house—never had she imagined she’d be trying to break into one.
Only for you, Violet, Aster thought bitterly.
She carefully slid the window open. Unlike the forty-year-old windows at Green Creek, this one opened without a sound. The metal of the windowsill bit into her palms as she climbed through the small gap, closing the window back behind her so the raveners wouldn’t notice.
Then she turned to face the master bedroom, looking, desperately, for a place to hide.
The Sisters of Reckoning Page 4