Chapter 27 Zaria
ZARIA
THERE WAS HEAT AGAINST HER FACE.
Zaria squinted, then opened her eyes little by little as she tried to make sense of her surroundings. Cold ground. Paneled walls. She was lying on the floor of the workshop, head tilted to the side as she waited for it to stop spinning.
The warmth on her face disappeared, replaced by a lightly stinging tap. Zaria scowled, turning her head, and looked right into the bone-white face of Kane Durante.
“Are you slapping me awake?”
At least he had the grace to look abashed. “That wasn’t a slap. I mean—I didn’t know what else to do.”
Though he’d quickly rearranged his expression, Zaria hadn’t missed the flash of real, unmitigated concern there.
She studied him more closely. He wore a white shirt unbuttoned at the throat, his hair slick as always.
His face was a mess, though: Vicious bruising shadowed one cheek, and the skin around his left eyebrow had split.
His upper lip was slightly swollen, and the shadows beneath his eyes seemed to have multiplied since she had seen him last. He looked as exhausted as she felt.
Nausea hit her like a gut punch, and she reeled away, retching. Kane recoiled, but nothing came up.
Stupid. Embarrassing. Zaria wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Can I help you with something?”
“You look like hell.”
“You’re one to talk. What happened to your face? Finally piss off the wrong person?”
The look he gave her was odd. “Don’t worry about me. Is this because of the work you’ve been doing?”
“I’m not worried. And yes, as a matter of fact.” Zaria gestured to the table, attempting at the same time to push herself to her feet. Kane reached out as if to help her, but then his arm snapped back to his side. Smart. “There’s a reason not many people practice alchemology.”
“You said it requires sacrifice.”
“It does.”
“And what exactly are you sacrificing?” he asked, watching as she finally managed to stand.
It had been easier not to think of Kane when she wasn’t looking at him. Embarrassment flooded her like poison. She could remember how he felt against her, how he tasted, and it made her palms sweaty.
“Currently? My patience.”
“Hmm.” Kane turned away, pacing a slow semicircle around the worktable. For someone who must have arrived to find her unresponsive on the ground, he was relatively unruffled. He came to a halt, forefinger trailing over the tools she’d abandoned, and said, “Have you finished?”
Zaria pressed her dry lips together. “Yes, actually.”
“And you didn’t think to come and get me?”
“I was unconscious.”
“Right.” He smiled, but the shape of it was grim. “You cut it close, the grand opening being tomorrow and all.”
It felt like a jab, and Zaria bristled. Thank goodness Kane couldn’t keep his mouth shut, so she was forced to remember all the reasons she disliked him.
It didn’t matter how lovely and dangerous he looked in white, or how one side of his mouth creased whenever he grinned.
It was a facade. A mask he used to trick people into doing what he wanted.
Zaria could only hope the confidence he stowed behind it would be his downfall.
“No matter,” he said smoothly. “Let’s drop it off, then, shall we?”
“Drop what off?”
Kane arched a brow. “Your handy inventions. Unless you’d planned to carry all this into the Exhibition in broad daylight.”
Zaria hadn’t planned anything of the sort.
She hadn’t truly thought about it. How were they going to get all this into the Crystal Palace?
Aleuite explosives were small, but they weren’t exactly inconspicuous, contained in fist-size vials as they were—and that wasn’t even considering the other items.
“I suppose you have a plan for that,” she said.
“I told you before that I do.”
“Are you finally going to tell me what it is?”
Kane splayed his fingers on the surface of the worktable, considering them rather than looking at her. “You’ll find out shortly. Now, do you have the key?”
Slightly apprehensive, Zaria handed him the final version of the parautoptic key.
Kane’s face tightened as he turned it over.
She knew why: It looked distressingly ordinary.
The handle was a little wider than most, designed to accommodate the primateria, but otherwise it could have been any old key.
“It should self-adjust to fit the parautoptic lock,” she told Kane, whose frown deepened.
“Should?”
“It wasn’t as though I had anything to test it on. You said yourself the only locks of its kind are displayed in the Exhibition.”
He dragged his index finger along the key’s metal bits, counting them. When he had ascertained there were fifteen, he said, “It better work.”
Zaria straightened, suddenly defensive, though she had the same reservations. Her heart thrummed unsteadily. “How about thank you?”
“Thank you,” Kane snapped. “Now help me gather this up.”
He was worried, Zaria realized as she obliged. Worried something would go wrong and that Fletcher’s life would be in jeopardy. He didn’t want to dwell on the prospect of failure or allow for a margin of error.
That was all very well. She felt the same.
It was imperative that they succeeded.
To Zaria’s confusion, Kane’s plan involved leading her to the warehouse where they’d stashed the pianoforte.
“What are we doing here?” she demanded as he beckoned her inside, the heavy door giving a plaintive creak.
Kane moved as if he’d forgotten her presence: swiftly, a little too quietly, though he didn’t seem to be trying for stealth.
He ignored her question, leading her over to the instrument.
At some point he must have covered it with a sheet, which he removed now with a flourish.
Zaria stared at him in confusion. “Are you going to play?”
Kane’s grin was a wry, crooked sort of thing. “No.”
Before she could ask, he forced the top of the pianoforte open, revealing the inner workings. Then he set the bag he’d been carrying inside.
“Now you,” he said.
Zaria continued to stare. It must have begun to rain, because the pattering of drops against the tin roof abruptly drowned out her thoughts.
“Go ahead.” Kane gestured into the pianoforte, indicating that she should copy him, and all at once, the pieces clicked into place.
“Oh my God,” Zaria said. “You’re Trojan horsing.”
“That’s not a verb.”
“But you are, aren’t you?” She walked around to the other side of the instrument, shaking her head in disbelief. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t fathom how Kane planned to use a pianoforte to make everything they needed for the theft more accessible.
His upper lip curled. “If you insist, then yes. I am Trojan horsing. But don’t worry, they’re expecting it.”
“Expecting what? And who is expecting it?”
“The Royal Commission.”
Zaria couldn’t abide his relaxed stance. The way he spoke in riddles and looked at the pianoforte instead of making eye contact. She was sure he’d already stopped thinking about the kiss—doubtless he believed he had her right where he wanted her.
Her cheeks burned at the prospect, but she kept her mouth shut. Let Kane think whatever he wanted. Let him imagine her capable of truly falling for him. Let him underestimate her.
“The Royal Commission,” she echoed, not comprehending. “What do they have to do with anything?”
Kane buttoned his jacket farther up his neck, flipping the collar to hide his tattoo. “They’re expecting J. S. Garrett’s contribution to the Broadwood Kane was taking up too much space in her head. Hell, he was taking up too much space in her life.
It seemed like no time at all before he was back, accompanied by two well-dressed older men Zaria didn’t recognize. Both glanced around the warehouse as if perturbed, taking in the high-beamed ceiling and wide expanse of unused space.
“It’s in here?” one of the men said, brightening as he caught sight of Zaria and the pianoforte. “Ah! This must be your wife.”
“Yes,” Kane said, shrugging at Zaria behind the first man’s back as the second one trailed a finger over the ivory keys. She shook her head in disbelief. “Anyway, what do you think, Mister Quincy?”
Quincy withdrew his hand. “Beautiful. Excellent craftsmanship, at least to my untrained eye. If it’s what you say it is—”
“It is. I told Mister Roberts all about it.”
The first man—Roberts, presumably—nodded. “The pianoforte Chopin practiced on before his last concert at Guildhall, nearly three years ago now. I’m sure it will make a fine addition to the Broadwood & Sons display. Of course, I’m not an expert.”
Zaria tried not to react. They’d stolen this pianoforte from a recently deceased widow, and Kane was trying to say it had been played by Chopin? He was bold—she’d give him that. Bold, but possibly mad.
“I assume you brought one?” Kane said smoothly. “An expert, that is.”