Chapter Thirty-Three
Apleasant breeze rustled the perfectly trimmed topiaries of Opulence Mansion.
Alora made for the stairs as the sound washed over her, a strange shushing through clipped leaves, and when it nestled in her chest thereafter, she felt herself thrum as if she were a part of it.
She’d done that somehow—broken whatever barrier Merridon had forged overtop the grounds—but only trepidation greeted her now, not pride.
The Urchin had disappeared, abandoning her without asking if she would require help. Probably off reporting to the surly management and leaving her without hope of assistance. Alora cursed him and all the rest as her stomach continued to beg retreat. She lifted the wagon’s latch, lowering the back.
The new topiary called to her curiosity, covered now by a white sheet, and staked firmly into the ground.
Had Mr. Macaw finished it then? She wondered if it would be revealed tomorrow, at her contract’s end.
She tried to dredge up the excitement such a reveal warranted for someone as kind as Mr. Macaw, and almost succeeded.
She trudged up the stairs, her shoulders curved inward.
Madam Feebledire answered her knocks.
“Back again, are we?”
Alora wanted to scowl and gnash out a scathing ‘obviously’, but she could not. Instead, she forced an almost pretty smile. “The final pieces. If all goes smoothly, I’ll be done a day early. Today might be the last you see of me.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” said Madam Feebledire with a quirk of her lips, but her tone said she was anything but amused.
Alora yearned to pinch the woman’s long nose. “Is Mister Macaw available, perchance? I’ve got quite a lot that requires muscle.”
Madam Feebledire’s lips settled back into their comfortable frown. “I’m afraid Mister Macaw is no longer employed at Opulence Mansion.”
Alora blinked at her, stunned to silence.
She watched as Madam Feebledire removed a small notebook and an equally tiny pencil from her form-fitting vest. Though the woman’s attention seemed diverted by the checklist, Alora could sense her reaction wasn’t entirely missed. Eventually, Alora cleared her throat.
“Did something…” she trailed off, then straightened her shoulders. “I hope under mutual circumstances.”
“Hardly,” said Madam Feebledire, her pencil light and quick. Check, check, check.
Alora’s mouth worked around words she didn’t have the power to say. What could she ask that Madam Feebledire would answer? She glanced over her shoulder to the topiary standing firm beneath the breeze. She could see the vague outline beneath. A human shape.
“That’s finished, at least,” Madam Feebledire said, noticing Alora’s shifted attention. As if Alora must only care that the man completed his work before departing. “As for the unloading of the wagon, I’ll send someone to you. Be patient.”
Alora was left without a chance to respond. The door closed on her open mouth, an inch from her nose. She breathed harshly against it.
Bash had managed to save Mortimer back then, but she doubted he could manage it a second time. Which meant he hadn’t known about Mr. Macaw when he’d come to her, or he’d chosen not to tell her purposefully. But he was the Urchin captain—surely, he must have known?
The idea of the strong and shy Mr. Macaw out there alone at this very moment, wandering lost without even his name to guide him, sent a wave of dizziness through Alora that she couldn’t fight. Her hands came up to the doors, grounding her. She stayed that way until a throat cleared.
The woman beside the wagon was of medium height and broad—a perfect stranger.
She wore her hair tied back in a severe knot, and her arms were corded with muscle beneath her crimson vest. She pushed a dolly ahead of her, and when her eyes met Alora’s they reminded her of the new guard.
Don’t speak to me, warned her expression, and Alora wilted a little more upon seeing it.
The new groundskeeper waited at the back of the wagon as Alora carefully stacked the crates, then pushed off without a backward glance.
Alora remained behind, her hands enclosed over the packaged tapestry.
She felt the whip of the topiary’s sheeting against her skin, a lash with every snap of the fabric.
When she could take it no more, she sent a furious thought out, snapping the tethers between it and the stakes, sending the fabric flying free.
It took three gusts of the breeze to lift it fully, each one revealing a little more than the last. But finally, Alora could see it—all of it—and it was indeed finished, detailed beyond any of the other twenty-four behind.
It depicted a person, as she’d suspected.
Their head was tipped to the sky, one hand pressed to their temple as if in quiet rumination.
The other arm, however, was bent at the elbow, palm out, and below it spilled all manner of objects: books, coin, a heart.
They pooled into nondescript shapes at the base, causing Alora to wish to step closer and discover each one.
The Room of Desire had a token angel, for that is what the figure reminded her of. An angel, a goddess, something otherworldly. It was beautifully crafted; a true work of art. Mr. Macaw had certainly outdone himself in his craftsmanship.
That thought sobered her. She pulled her gaze away. Hefting the package into her hands, she made for the stairs again. This time, she would continue all the way through to Door Twenty-five and finally be done with this entire thing.
***
Alora held the original lamp in her hands, lit for the last time within this room.
It was an ugly thing by Opulence’s standards, a bulky and scratched copper.
It leaked. She hadn’t realized it until now, that it dripped from a crack in the base, oil seeping into the pads of her fingers. She hurriedly wiped them clean.
The project was done, and it was lovely.
The oversized chaise atop an ivory rug. The maple accents of the ottoman, the end tables, and the trim.
No single piece shouted for attention, but together, the room demanded it.
For a visitor to sit and think and dream.
Alora worried for a moment that the tapestry might not fit the space, but it did, somehow, breathing light into a room built in the dark.
If she didn’t have lamp oil all over her fingers, she might lay down and use her final, remaining time in the Room of Desire to imagine a world without Opulence.
How would that be? Just to scrub it from existence?
A slow clap had her spinning on her heels.
“Bravo, Miss Pennigrim. Bravo.”
Alora steadied herself against the presence of Marshall Merridon.
The man was dressed as any other day, though the glow of the lamplight flickered against the gold of his buttons and turned his eyes molten.
His smile dripped charm, pressing upon her until she thought in the back of her head of sinking to the floor.
“Thank you, Master Merridon,” she managed. “It’s finished.”
“And a day early too. Sensational.”
She fought against revealing how his incredulity irked her. Even so, her jaw throbbed. She tracked his perusal of the room as he bent to every piece she’d picked, how he examined the pattern on the walls.
“Your attention to detail is astonishing. Why, this might be my new favorite room.” He stepped over the spot of William’s attack, the one now scrubbed clean of his blood. “Did you always know you possessed such a talent?”
She should be blushing prettily by now, but all Alora could manage were two angry blotches of color in her cheeks. “Not always, but fairly young.”
“Yes. I suppose that is how it often works, isn’t it?”
She didn’t bother with a reply. Instead, she studied him as he studied the tapestry, his posture straight, hands clasped behind his back. It was the only piece he might take issue with, and a part of her did want him to rip it down. Really, it didn’t belong here in Opulence. It was too free.
But he surprised her by saying nothing. Instead, he turned back around, and this time, rather than studying the art, he studied her.
Alora fidgeted under his scrutiny. “If you’re satisfied with things as they are then I’m happy to call this project completed within the specified timeframe. Thank you for this…incomparable opportunity, Master Merridon.”
Marshall Merridon eased once more into his charming smile, and Alora saw it for what it was: a mask.
His smile was the same as hers, honed and perfected, and often entirely without merit.
Alora didn’t understand why she suddenly felt upended into an ice bath.
“You’re quite welcome, Miss Pennigrim, though I should say thank you just the same.
I do have one little change, though, if I may? ”
“By all means.” Alora moved from his way as he walked around the room to step into the hall. He returned a moment later with a crate, smaller than any she’d brought.
The door clicked closed as he worked the lid. “I thought this would be a charming addition. Something to mark the room.”
He motioned her closer, and she took the smallest step forward. A flicker of something entered his gaze and was gone as he bridged the gap between them instead. Alora couldn’t help but peer into the crate as he lifted an intriguing crystal skull free.
She frowned, sure she’d seen it before.
But where had she encountered it? Her memories were blurry, slopping around in her head.
Somewhere dark and uninviting. And something else. Something about eyes…perhaps?
But the only eyes she could conjure were ones of mossy green.
Then where—? It was in that moment of puzzlement that the ruby orbs of the skull ensnared her own.
They swirled, enticing, down there in the depths.
She stepped closer to inspect it better, to find the source of the maelstrom.
Was that a pinprick of fire at the center? She wanted to see.