Chapter 26
Snow tumbled down in heavy clumps. It swirled over buildings and through the bare trees and covered the cobblestone walks. In the gray-green light of the moon, it resembled a blanket of ash.
Maeve trudged through it, shivering in her wet costume slippers. Before she lost all feeling in her toes, she pushed inside an empty lecture hall and sank to her knees, her chest heaving with sobs.
She was pathetic—worse than a faucet—but at least she hadn’t come away empty-handed.
Dread swept through her as she took out Claryman’s memory scribing and placed it before her on the cold stone floor. If his account of events was real, she could pay a visit to the authorities tonight.
Maeve felt for her ash satchel. Her fingers grazed bare neck. Her ash was inside her saddlebag, tucked in that dressing room in Alban Hall, along with the rest of her warm clothing. As tempting as it was, she wasn’t foolish enough to read Claryman’s scribing without ash.
Her fingers flexed against the paper.
Did his account of her father’s murder even matter? A normal person might bring this to the constabulary and beg for protection, but she was Maeve Abenthy. Her word was as good as mud. Without the rose journal to bolster the account, the constabulary would assume she wrote everything herself. They’d lock her up while they investigated, and the very person sending the Oxblood letters could lash out and destroy the rose journal. It was the one piece of evidence that connected everything. It even connected her father to Cathriona—and to her murder.
Yes, if her father was murdered over this journal, there was a good chance that Cathriona didn’t kill herself with the Silver Scribing like Tristan believed, especially since her father’s scribing was meant to keep someone safe, not kill them.
There had to be something in that journal that got them both killed—something Maeve wasn’t seeing. If she could get her hands on it, she could investigate.
Tristan would know where it was kept.
Maeve held her bottom lip between her teeth. Tristan deserved to know the truth about the Silver Scribing. They could find the rose journal together and bring it to the constabulary…
An image of Nan’s toes scraping along the floorboards flashed in Maeve’s mind. If Tristan helped her, and the wrong person found out, his toes could be scraping the floor next. But would the Postmaster be cruel enough to hurt his own son?
Yes—yes, he would. Tristan barely made it out of Inverly, after all. His father had to know he was there.
No, she couldn’t involve Tristan. It was too risky. She was on her own from this point forward.
With effort, Maeve forced her numb feet to carry her outside. She still had her room at the boardinghouse in Leyland for a couple more nights. Enough time to think through how to get her hands on that journal.
But she wasn’t going anywhere clothed in veritable underwear.
Shivering from the cold, Maeve made her way to Alban Hall, slipping inside through a different back entrance. Pulling the veil over her face, she ran through a long hall to a high-ceilinged ballroom strung with banners emblazoned with the Post’s pigeon.
Tables were adorned with delicate floral arrangements and faceted crystal decanters that shivered in the soft string music of an orchestra. People in evening wear sipped drinks, while a group of actors stood along a raised dais in the center, blowing puffs of gold dust from their palms.
Maeve started across the floor, then halted.
A small group of Barrow ministers in their decorated scarlet coats stood beside the Postmaster, all deep in conversation. Blocking her path.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, Maeve knew she should hide. But at the sight of Onrich Byrne, her mouth tightened, and her fingers curled into fists. You did it, didn’t you? You murdered my father. Cathriona. You destroyed an entire world so you could have that cold, sterile office all to yourself. If Maeve had a knife, she’d be half inclined to slit his throat and be done with it.
No, killing him was far too kind a punishment for what he deserved. She wanted him to feel as she had for the past seven years: to live in hiding, afraid of his own shadow. She wanted him to feast upon the rats of Stonewater Prison for the rest of his endless, torturous days.
Then a breeze skated across her leg, reminding her of her lack of clothing, the eyes on her.
The other actors were close by. Maeve walked to the dais and leaned against the platform’s edge, hoping to fade in with the group until the Postmaster left.
But then doors across the ballroom opened and more people streamed in, forcing the Postmaster and the ministers nearer.
Mere feet away.
Maeve tucked her chin to her chest so her veil slid forward, gathering in front of her face.
“I can’t believe I allowed you to hire all these musicians,” Onrich said to someone. “We wouldn’t stand for it inside the Post.”
“A little music is good for the spirits, Onrich,” said a minister. “You deserve it after that wonderful surprise of the sepiagraph exhibit of the restoration work. This year’s exhibition will be the best yet.”
The Postmaster nodded. “I think the people of Barrow are finally coming around to trust us when we say that we’re working toward repairing the Written Doors.”
“And hopefully by next year’s exhibition, we can announce that your son here has taken up the task himself.”
Maeve stiffened.
“I wouldn’t go quite that far,” a sharp voice retorted.
She tilted her head and could make out Tristan standing off to the side, not five paces from her. He was dressed in a fine tailcoat and an elegant burgundy waistcoat with burgundy gloves to match. A sleek crow feather was tucked into the band across his silk hat.
He was, without a doubt, the most dashing man in the room. Maeve could barely believe her eyes; there was nothing unbuttoned or askew on him, save for the swath of unkempt dark hair that stuck out from his hat.
He was far too close.
Her heart thrummed inside her chest, but there was nowhere to hide.
Clapping broke out as a man on the dais began singing, the others joining.
Her mouth went bone dry.
She had thought they were actors, but no, they were the singers . One of them nudged Maeve’s shoulder with her toe. Twice. Did they think she was a singer as well? Surely not.
Her worst fears were answered when another singer gripped her hand, heaving her up onto the dais. They all began clapping and undulating their bodies, and Maeve wanted to die right there. She nearly did, but with the Postmaster nearby, she forced her arms above her head and moved her hips from side to side like the other singers, pointing her toes, prancing across the platform like a naked chicken in a Midspring parade.
Tristan wasn’t paying attention, but others were. Then the woman beside Maeve hit a high note, and the entire ballroom looked over.
At her.
Tristan turned as well. Maeve felt his eyes travel up her legs, over the curve of her waist. For a delusional moment, she thought he might not look any farther up— prayed that he wouldn’t—but then his gaze caught hers from beneath the veil.
He tensed, his eyes darkening.
She dropped, and scurried backward through the singers, then halted at a godforsaken refreshment table blocking the back of the dais.
A few people noticed her crouched and pointed, whispering.
The Postmaster started to turn. Before he could notice her, Tristan grabbed his father’s shoulder and said something into his ear. The Postmaster nodded, then stalked toward a door on the opposite side of the ballroom, away from the dais.
Tristan—he had helped her.
He started toward her, but she didn’t want to talk to him now. Especially now.
She scrambled to the floor, then pushed through the crowd, around to the back side of the ballroom and into an adjoining chamber with several smaller doors. What was this place? Some hellish maze? She picked a door in the center, then found herself in a room stacked with vases and tables. A slant of moonlight spilled from a window near the ceiling. A closet.
Her fingers fumbled over the door handle, but there was no interior lock.
The handle turned, and Tristan stormed in, shutting the door behind him.
Maeve backed away until her legs hit a table, but he didn’t come toward her. He unbuttoned his jacket and tossed it at her head. “Cover yourself.”
Shame flooded her.
“It’s a wonder you still care about my modesty after ogling me on that dais,” she snapped, shrugging the jacket over her shoulders.
“Every single lewdster in that ballroom was ogling you on the dais.” His eyes darted to her wrist. “How are you in Barrow?”
“I used a traveling scribing. Obviously.”
“And how in the worlds did you learn it?”
His sharp tone made her teeth clench. “From Molly Blackcaster’s ghost. Bring her an offering of biscuits and mushed peas from the mess hall, and she’ll do whatever you ask.”
He wasn’t amused.
“Fine,” Maeve said. “I got one to work my first week at the Post.”
That caught him off guard. “You’re adept at the traveling scribing?”
“Good gracious, no! At playing knucklenook.”
He gave an exasperated sigh, then stared at her in a way that made her feel as if her skirt were slitted to her chin. “Where in seven hells did you disappear to for two whole weeks?”
“Tristan—”
“Where?”
“The south. Visiting a dear sister.”
“Ah, yes, the infamous sister with the raging case of gout, whom Nan told me about at length. I knew the moment I heard that sorry story that it was a lie.” His jaw flexed, expression fiery. Dangerous. “Are you even capable of telling the truth?”
She winced as the words sliced right through her stony exterior like a hot knife through wax, needling until she couldn’t stand the feeling anymore. “Very well. If you must know, I used the last of my money to rent a room at a stinking boardinghouse, waiting for tonight. Then I came here looking for answers about my letter-writer.”
His eyes shot wide. “And?”
He expected her to tell him all about it? Her mind went blank because she didn’t want him involved. It was a mistake to mention anything.
“I—I learned that I still have a bit of work to do before I find them,” she said with what she hoped was a convincing shrug, then debated tearing around him and making a run for it, but an idea struck her. “This is admittedly strange.” She picked at a loose thread on his jacket. “But as I was walking through the reception, I thought I saw a few bookcases filled with journals. It made me think of that journal Cathriona used and how dangerous it might be. Is there any chance the journal could have left the Post?”
His eyes hardened. A shadow chased over his features, and she felt awful—truly awful—for bringing it up, but she had to know.
“I believe the journal is still in my father’s office.”
Maeve tried very hard to keep her composure. “Your father’s office?”
“He’s the one who confiscated it.”
Of course he was. And unless he’d already destroyed it, that rose journal was likely still inside his office, waiting.
She had to somehow steal it.
Her stomach twisted at the thought, and she gripped her belly.
“Are you all right?” Tristan rushed forward and took her hand, then jolted. “You’re colder than an ice cube.” Was she? “Come with me.”
She tried to pull her hand away, but he wouldn’t have it. He dragged her from the closet and into a nearby room—a small, sweltering library, where a fire crackled in a small hearth, tossing firelight against the pristine spines of hundreds of linguistics books.
“Warm yourself,” he ordered, dropping her before the fire.
Maeve considered running, but even she wasn’t foolish enough to run when she could barely feel her feet.
She sank to her knees, letting blessed heat soak into her freezing limbs. Tristan didn’t utter a word. He was probably waiting for her to explain herself and this sorry situation.
As if she could.
For a brief moment, she considered telling him part of it—enough to ease his mind and perhaps help her get inside his father’s office—then immediately dismissed the idea. She couldn’t tell him anything that might put him at risk. She had to somehow get her clothes and find her way to Leyland on her own.
It took several long minutes, however, before all the feeling returned to her appendages, then another handful where she stared at the flames, pretending to still be cold to save herself from having to face Tristan.
He was silent through it all, but she felt him behind her like a second fire licking at her spine. When she could no longer delay the inevitable, she shrugged off his jacket and turned, bracing for a fight.
He blocked the only exit.
“This reunion has been nice and all, but I really must go.” She motioned to the door at his back, afraid of her heart if she stepped any closer.
“You’d leave again, just like that?”
Of course she would leave. Leaving was the grand design of her life. The sun set, the sky was gray, and Maeve left.
“Please let me go.”
“Funny, I don’t particularly feel like it at the moment.” He leaned a shoulder against the door and draped a lazy wrist over the handle. “I looked for you in the most ridiculous places, you realize? I even found myself inside a pantry stocked wall to wall with canned legumes. Then a week went by, and I thought you’d fled for good. And now you expect me to simply scoot aside because you asked nicely?”
“I could be mean about it if you want.”
His chin slanted, tipping a dark lock of hair across his spectacles as he stared at her lips for a prolonged moment. “I don’t know why, but for some unfathomable reason, after everything you’ve put me through, I want…” he started, then huffed a humorless laugh. “I’m certain that if I finish that sentence, you’ll disappear into thin air.”
She shivered.
He ran his hands against his mouth and came toward her in a flash, halting so near that she could feel heat rising from him. Her fingers curled inward, pressing tight against her palms to keep from accidentally brushing him.
He slid the veil from her face. “You’ve been weeping.”
“From sheer delight at seeing you.”
She attempted to skate around him, but he snatched her right hand and pressed his thumb over her sleeve, against her pulse. Directly above her traveling scribing.
Panic swamped her. She tried to pull her hand away. “Don’t look at it.”
He held firm. “Stop your squirming. I’m not going to peek, even though I’m extremely tempted at the moment. I want you to tell me your first name right now.”
“So you can hunt me down as soon as I leave?”
“So I can write to you.”
That took her aback. “You wish to send me letters?”
It sounded preposterous, but his expression remained serious.
Dear god, he was serious.
“Why not?” he asked. “I know you’re going to disappear again, whether I like it or not, and it’s been a long time since I’ve been able to be candid with someone else, and I don’t want to lose that. I want to write to you. It doesn’t have to be anything monumental, and only when I’m feeling a burst of inspiration that can’t be sated by drowning myself in wine or another tedious book. And if you’re inclined, you can write me back about how terribly you miss my brocade vests.” He shrugged. “Or not.”
He truly thought her a fool.
“Once you have my name, what’s to stop you from hunting me down?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Yes, hunting you down is certainly enticing, but I swear to you now that I’ll never use your name to track you. Without your permission, of course. I’ll always post the letters I send.”
“But how can I ever know that for certain?”
“You can’t. You simply trust.”
He must have sampled a few too many drinks from the refreshment table if he expected her to trust him enough to hand over her name. Her!
He released her wrist and took her hand, skating his thumb along her palm. The touch sent tremors racing beneath her skin. “I know that whatever happened to you makes it nearly impossible to trust completely, but I don’t believe you can trust someone all at once anyhow. I think trust is built in small increments, like the words of a scribing, piece by piece, until you know someone fully. I’m probably a massive wagtail for thinking this, but I believe that you could begin to trust me.”
The earnestness in his tone had her considering it.
Before Maeve came to the Post, trust was a word so far removed from her vocabulary that it almost sounded foreign, but things had changed. She was loath to admit it, but she did trust Tristan. Probably more than she’d trusted anyone since Inverly.
But that trust would mean nothing if he discovered who her father was—
And things had shifted in the last hour. Dramatically. Her father was innocent, and she now had a memory scribing to prove it. If Tristan discovered her last name, it might not matter as much. It might not matter at all.
Sending her letters wouldn’t hurt him or put him at any greater risk so long as he didn’t tell another soul, and there was nothing to stop her from believing he wouldn’t.
Yes, he would keep her letters a secret, wouldn’t he? Just as he’d kept her a secret. She trusted that.
She never thought anyone would want to send her a letter, but now that she knew he did, she imagined herself opening one. Reading it, then tucking it at her hip.
The thought grew until she wanted it more than she was afraid of it. She was badly damaged and afraid of everything, but perhaps—perhaps she could be brave enough to give him this small piece of her.
Her first name. A single word.
“You promise to never use my name to track me?”
His eye flashed. “Never.”
“Swear it.”
“Very well. I swear it upon all the rabid mice in the worlds.”
She choked on a laugh while her tongue turned to liquid between her teeth. If she spoke her name, that was it. She couldn’t take it back. She would never be this same person again.
It was good, then, that she didn’t want to be.
“It’s Maeve.”
His eyebrows drew together. “Maeve?” he repeated, slowly, as if tasting the word. “Of course you’re Maeve,” he said again, this time with wonder in his eyes. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you too.”