5 #3
She ducked through the door and up a winding staircase, then emerged into a boiler cupboard at the top.
Through a grille, she spied a corridor that ran between the changing chambers and the private bathing caverns.
The richest beauties of Carintheum flitted between the doors, clad in white silk robes.
Myria settled down to wait, trying not to wonder what the steam workers used that grille for.
Luck was on her side. Just minutes later, five familiar ladies emerged and tittered their way into a bathing cavern. Ten quick steps, and she was in the chamber they’d left. She locked the door and took stock of the room.
It looked like the boudoir of some absent-minded goddess. The place shone with mirrors and golden marble. White lilies lay atop folded towels plush enough to drown in, and soft music played from somewhere out of sight.
A set of polished cedar cabinets covered the far wall. Myria opened them to find the ladies’ clothes and jewels arrayed in aristocratic splendor.
Lovely. You’ll do nicely.
She turned to the other wall, where water poured from a golden sluice. She disrobed and stepped beneath it, smiling as three years’ worth of prison soap came streaming from her hair.
Once she was tolerably clean, she tossed through the shelves for a spare silk robe. Thus attired, she unstoppered the corsca vial and dripped its contents about the drains. An awful stench simmered up at once.
Myria closed the vial and hid it in a vase. Summoning an air of maidenly embarrassment, she rang for the attendant. A maid appeared as fast as a jack from the box.
“Ah. Girl. There’s . . . something of an odor in this room,” she said. The maid curtsied, hands folded, a picture of discreet efficiency.
“I do apologize, ma’am. We’ll find you a new suite at once.”
“And our clothes have taken the scent. We’ll need them laundered and returned within the hour.”
“Of course, ma’am,” the maid promised with that little smile—the smile that said, for the price they’d charge, it would be done.
“I also find my complexion heightened by the steam. Fetch the necessaries. Powders, rose-water and suchlike. On our account.”
“At once, ma’am.”
The maid returned bare moments later with the key to a fresh suite, where she laid out an alchemist’s feast of powders and lotions before the mirror. With that, she vanished like a breath of mist.
There we are, thought Myria, sizing up her takings with a smile. Tools secured. Bath ready. Disguise on the way. Time you set to work.
Half an hour later, a different lady stood before the mirror.
The salts of Xantheus and scented oils of Isra had scoured the taint of jail from her skin.
Some careful brushwork had carved cheekbones from her girlish face, colored her lips and edged her eyes with black.
Her hair was freshly trimmed and dressed into a shimmering golden-dark cascade.
The driver’s gown wasn’t too shabby, either. Myria stroked the lace that hugged an underlayer of sumptuous ivory silk. Seed pearls winked across the bodice. She’d sell that for a pretty sum.
She turned next to the ladies’ belongings. She went straight for the most expensive reticule and fished around inside. The phaeton keys came to her glove, then a reservation card for five rooms at the Imperias Hotel.
Octavia Lucentia, she read. Ah. Old Daddy must be Praetor Lucentius. Same fellow whose dealings with the Office of Imperial Revenue are entirely above reproach, eh?
Myria smiled and clapped a lace fan into her hand. She winked at her reflection, and a lady of leisure winked languorously back. There it was—a transformation that came as much from within as without.
She bundled her old gown into the reticule, then struck out into the bathhouse. Hips swaying, heels clacking, she glided across the glorious marble hall. The attendants bowed her past, and she smiled to all the world.
Myria stepped out into the sunlight of Lumenia Street as if she were walking on clouds. She’d forgotten just how fine it felt to be at large and ankle deep in mischief. She spied Aurelias pacing at the foot of the stairs, his gaze flicking between his book and the bathhouse.
You shan’t be a problem, shall you, sir?
Spinning the phaeton keys around her finger, Myria sashayed down the stairs. She strode straight past Aurelias, and then—she couldn’t resist it—flashed him a dazzling smile. He faltered, then looked back down at his book.
Never disguise anything you mean to get away with.
She reached Miss Lucentia’s phaeton, turned the key and slipped inside. A few eyes followed her, but no one turned a hair. She dressed and acted like she owned the thing, so no one doubted that she did.
As she settled down, the kyrie on the back seat lifted its head from its paws and whined.
“Don’t you worry, little thing. We’ll soon have you sorted,” she murmured, sliding back the roof to let the air in.
The engine woke with a thrilling rumble. Arcanic fuel flashed through the crystal pipes along the dashboard. Myria took a last look in the mirror and marked Aurelias still pacing at his post.
I’ll be back, old boy, she thought with a grin. Just need to rustle up a few lyrin for the plan. And have breakfast. Oh, for a real breakfast . . .
She released the brake lever and sent the phaeton gliding out onto the street.