Chapter Seventeen
Weeks after Will’s departure, Bludgrave Manor hosts a small dinner in honor of their neighbors: Baron Rencourt, a boulder of a man, making up in height what he lacks in a neck, and George Birtwistle, a frail, thin-faced ambassador from Fell who is known by the staff as the Trademaster. Accompanying them is the Trademaster’s seventeen-year-old daughter, Trudy Birtwistle, whom the staff lovingly calls the Terror from Fell. According to Boris, the Castors’ soft-spoken chauffeur, Lord Bludgrave and George Birtwistle have been conspiring to align themselves through a marriage between Henry and Trudy—a partnership I find rather fitting, considering her nickname.
Throughout the preparations, Mother acts as though she has always been a housekeeper, not captain of a wild, unruly pirate crew, and Lewis does his best to keep up with his duties as replacement butler and personal valet to Lord Bludgrave, running here and there, all while maintaining the required air of superiority. Father and I work as a single unit in the kitchen, heads down, knives sharp, communicating without so much as a word. Sybil stands alone at the sink, more forlorn than usual, while Jack and Albert sit on the floor, shelling pecans.
Elsie insisted on watching Margaret fix Annie’s hair with what she called “the hot irons,” and Charlie—missing his duties as the Lightbringer ’s bosun—chose today to attempt repairing a broken cabinet door in the pantry adjacent to the kitchen, which nearly causes Lewis to fly into hysterics.
“There’s no time!” he cries. “They’ll be arriving any minute now.”
Charlie grumbles a string of curses under his breath, but I don’t hear their bickering over the whistle of the kettle. I’m thankful my duties lie within the realm of chopping carrots. If it wasn’t for the repetitive motion of the knife in my hand, a welcome distraction, I would have nothing to do but think about the voice I heard on the hillside and the offer it made.
Together, we will bring kings and kingdoms to their knees.
I suppress a shudder, because while it worries me that the Guild of Shadows has gotten so bold as to make me an offer, I’m even more terrified of the temptation to accept.
I’m certain I saw the Shifter—certain the Guild of Shadows has spied on me long enough to know my feelings toward the royals, and now they think they can easily sway me to their side with the promise of vengeance. But if I call on the Guild of Shadows for help, I betray Owen. My revenge lies in killing the Sylk—that hasn’t changed. However, once I’ve rid the world of Owen’s murderer, I will set my sights on the prince, and when the time comes to skewer his heart on my blade, I won’t need anyone’s help. Not from a Nightweaver. Especially not from an Underling.
Dinner passes without incident, and Lewis and Charlie gush to Father every overheard compliment to the chef. I find myself enjoying the chaos, as if I were back on the Lightbringer in the heat of battle, and rather than wielding a cutlass, I brandish a chef’s knife. When the boys return with the empty dessert dishes, scraped clean, Father waves me off.
“Take a break,” he says. “You deserve it.”
I don’t argue. My back aches, my shoulders throb, and my hands cramp even as I wipe chocolate trifle on my apron.
By the time I wash up, the Castors and their guests have retired for the evening. Bludgrave Manor is quiet but for Sybil and Elsie scurrying about the chambers like mice, tending the hearths. Rather than venture out into the gardens, I take the opportunity to explore the empty halls, a tenuous salve to my curiosity.
I shuffle through the main hall beneath the stairwell, my hand trailing along the intricately carved wood panels, when I come upon a portrait of Will. It couldn’t have been painted long before I met him, but he wears his League uniform—dull olive green, his black sash ornamented with medals. His unruly black curls have been swept out of his emerald eyes, which seem to flicker with amusement even in illustration.
He’s on the other side of the ocean by now— my ocean. And I’m stuck here, plucking feathers from chickens and mincing garlic for feasts I will never take part in.
The closet door beside me creaks open, slightly ajar. A quiver of movement rustles the contents within. My fingers inch toward the flintlock I’ve strapped to my shin when footsteps on the staircase give me pause, and I turn. But before I can see who is rounding the banister, a hand covers my mouth and I’m yanked into the coat closet.
Henry calls a flame to his fingertip as he closes the door, forcing us into the tight, dimly lit space. Despite my pity for the young noble, I resolved weeks ago to not let him catch me unawares—not again. Pressed against his thigh is the steak knife I keep in my apron at all times, ready to spill blood. He might be able to take me down with a look, but the slightest twitch of my wrist would surely take him with me.
Panic flashes in his eyes as footsteps approach the coat closet. A shadow lingers at the base of the door, and a quiet, girlish voice whispers, “Henry? Henry, darling, where have you gone?” She giggles, and a moment later, her shadow passes, her footsteps faint as she turns at the end of the hall.
With an irritated glance at the blade resting on his thigh, Henry removes his hand from my mouth. I reach for the knob, but he seizes my wrist.
“It’s rude to keep a lady waiting,” I say drily.
He scowls. “Trudy Birtwistle is no lady. She’s a leech.”
“A perfect match.”
He rolls his eyes. “On second thought, just kill me and be done with it.”
“So dramatic,” I tut, sheathing the knife in my apron. “You sound like Jack.”
“Stars forbid.” His expression twists, his mouth puckered in disgust even as he relaxes his grip on my wrist, but when I reach for the knob, he seizes my hand once more. “Promise you won’t tell her where I’m hiding?”
I bring a hand to my chest in mock offense. “Now, why would I do something like that? It’s not as if you tried to—what was it? End me with a single look?”
He casts off my hand with an injured air, his lip curling into a snarl. “So be it. Father intends to marry me off to that awful girl.” Hatred flares in his eyes when our gazes meet, and for a moment, I think he may unleash his full fury on me. “Suppose you think I deserve it.”
I withdraw my hand from the knob. “Don’t you have a say in whom you marry?” I ask, remembering the gentle way he cared for Dorothy the night she discovered Mr. and Mrs. Hackney.
He glares at the flame on his fingertip, as if his father were the one to set it alight. “Even if I did, whom I’d choose to be with…” He shakes his head, and his short black curls splay over his tightly knit brows. “It isn’t an option.”
“Where is Dorothy?” I murmur, thinking back to Sybil, alone at the kitchen sink, quietly washing the dishes instead of chatting away with the young maid. Henry doesn’t try to deny his feelings, but rather, he seems relieved at my observation.
His eyes flicker, face drawn with suspicion. “News came late yesterday evening.” He scowls at the fur coat encroaching on his space as if it were alive and breathing down his neck. “Her mother won’t be long now. Dorothy’s gone to care for her until the time comes.”
“Oh,” is all I can think to say. Dorothy never liked me—that much was clear. She warmed up rather quickly to Lewis and little Elsie, but she kept her distance from the rest of us, maintaining her belief that we were seafaring brutes and weren’t to be trusted. After the night the Hackneys were murdered, after what she saw, rumors swept through the staff that Percy’s gang, the Hounds, had something to do with it. But I couldn’t ignore the way Dorothy acted toward me—as if there was a suspicion she just couldn’t put to rest. Still, I’m sorry she’s gone, if only for Henry’s sake.
“If you tell anyone what you think you know—”
“You’ll fry my brain.” I cut him off, turning the knob. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me. As long as you promise to be kind to Margaret.”
“Your sister has nothing to fear from me,” he says quietly, his expression solemn, and I wonder if he, too, is remembering the way Margaret cared for Dorothy that terrible night.
Just then, the flame dissipates. He puts his hand over my mouth once more as two sets of footsteps approach, their shadows passing the coat closet with haste.
“Killian’s already there with the others,” Lord Bludgrave whispers.
“A conservatory…,” a second man muses, his voice deep and dry. “Certainly, the king’s men could easily discover what you’re up to here?”
A conservatory? Surely they don’t mean Will’s conservatory?
Our conservatory?
“Lady Isabelle has taken measures to ensure no one enters that clearing unless invited by myself or Lord Castor,” Lord Bludgrave replies, but he can’t hide the quiver of anxiety in his voice that threatens to contradict him. “And I told you, Lord Rencourt. We have—”
“Yes, yes,” the baron drawls. “This secret weapon I keep hearing about. And when do you think you might consider the Order privy to the identity of this ‘secret weapon’ you’ve got hidden away somewhere?”
“It isn’t my secret to tell.” Lord Bludgrave’s voice draws farther away, and I don’t catch what he says next.
Their footsteps fade, and Henry releases me. Before I can gather my thoughts, he creeps out of the coat closet and slinks down the hall. I tiptoe behind, close at his heels.
“Don’t follow me,” he whispers over his shoulder.
“Fine,” I sigh, raising my voice slightly. “I’ll just go and find Miss Birtwistle and—”
He groans, pausing at the front door to peer around the corner. “Bloody pirates…,” he grumbles. He motions for me to be quick as he sidles through the garden. He halts again at the corner, then darts across the west lawn, taking cover in the rosebushes. When he’s certain the coast is clear, we race up the hill, toward the apple tree tunnel.
I’m lighter on my feet than he is; Henry crunches leaves and snaps twigs with every other step. As we draw near the conservatory, the incoherent buzz of voices within gives us pause. I crouch low, press my ear against the glass.
“… induct pirates into the Order?” Baron Rencourt scoffs. “What’s next? A Shifter?”
“They’re humans, my lord,” Lady Isabelle replies calmly, her voice soft but firm. “I believe the Oberon family would be a strong asset to our faction. Of all the humans dedicated to our cause, they have more reason than any to join this fight.”
Will always spoke of his family being different, fighting against the royals from within—this Order must be at the center of everything. Is that why he saved my family and me from whatever judgment awaited us at the hearing? Why he spared our lives at sea? And what does this Order seek to gain?
Someone clears their throat.
“Well, George,” Lord Bludgrave booms heartily, “out with it.”
“Forgive me, my lord.” His meek voice is almost inaudible through the glass, muffled by the dense foliage. “By increasing trade between Hellion and the Eerie, the king has upset the balance. Those humans content to brave the harsh conditions of a life at sea are no longer satisfied with their lot. The time is now. I agree with Lady Isabelle. If the Order seeks to form an alliance with the pirates, it could help to have a few of them on our side.”
Baron Rencourt snorts. “And how do you propose we—”
A low growl rumbles from somewhere close behind. In the moonlight, I can just make out their bristling fur, their bared teeth, their eyes glowing yellow. I recognize them from the pictures in Elsie’s books.
Wolves.