5 #4
It’d been years since she’d driven, and that one hadn’t been hers either. Still, the knack didn’t leave a girl. Besides, the occasional tipsy swerve was of a piece with how its owner had been driving it before.
Moments later, she was onto the Fifth Highway, where two miles of clear road opened up before her. A smile dashed irresistibly to her face. She pressed the pedal to the ground.
The engine roared, and the phaeton shot out like a deer into the wood.
The wind turned to a warm thunder in her ears as Carintheum ran into a golden blur on either side.
The kyrie scrabbled up onto the dashboard, its forked tongue flicking out to taste the breeze.
An absurd sense of invincibility sent her spirit soaring for the first time in three years.
Like magic, she thought blissfully. To the devious.
All too soon, Myria was drawing the phaeton up the curving driveway of the Imperias Hotel. She parked beneath the portico, scooped up the kyrie and tossed the keys to the porter.
“Hello, my dear. Have one of your chaps return that to Lumenia Street, won’t you?” she asked, blowing him a kiss. “Be sure to leave the back left window open.”
Without waiting for an answer, she swept into the palatial lobby. Marble gleamed, and playbills flashed from the walls, advertising an election rally in three nights’ time.
Evander for Magister-General! read the nearest. Ending Grayside Crime. Restoring Might and Justice to Carintheum.
She forced her eyes away from the familiar face that watched her from beneath the headline. No time to feel the sting. She was on the job. She strode to the desk, kyrie tucked under her arm, and slid one elbow onto the counter. The attendant came upright with a start.
“Good morning, darling. Our reservation,” she drawled, flicking Miss Lucentia’s card out between two fingers. “I’m with dear Octavia’s party.”
“Of course. We have your usual suites reserved,” the man said with a polished smile. “I regret, though, they’re not available until tonight.”
“Oh, yes, it’s a dashed nuisance, but I’ve arrived a little early. Much obliged if you’d find me a place to rest the weary soul. On our account, of course.”
The young man took a quick riffle through the leatherbound daybook.
“Ah . . . yes, miss, the Imperatrix Suite’s free,” he said, reaching under the desk for a key. “I’ll see you to your rooms. Might I fetch you anything?”
“I’d die for a spot of breakfast. Served in my rooms, if you wouldn’t mind. And a maid.”
“Of course, ma’am,” said the attendant, rising in a soft swish of impeccable tailoring. “Do follow me.”
It was delightful, really, how obliging people were when they knew she was there to spend a lot of money. Myria tossed her old gown to the maid, who spirited it away for a wash. Bare moments later, she was ensconced in the Imperatrix Suite with a breakfast fit for the Pantheon laid out before her.
Buttery golden pastries lay in fragrant stacks, and muffins glazed in strawberry sugar twinkled from impractically small plates. Spring fruits bathed in pools of honey, carved into sculptures by some fellow who really shouldn’t have been wasting his talent on melons.
Myria tipped her chair back on two legs and sipped an Isran coffee strong enough to wake the dead. The kyrie chirruped at her elbow, making intermittent pounces at a piece of cured pigeon.
“Well then, you,” she murmured, scratching it behind the ears. “A bit happier now? Yes, you are. Yes, you are! Who’s a sweet little—”
Hadria raised an eyebrow in her mind, and Myria sealed her lips. Even three years dead, the woman had a unique ability to send her back to business.
Fresh coat of paint, tick. Step two, starting capital.
She turned to the kyrie’s collar. The diamonds alone were worth a small fortune. Better yet, those collars were lined with powerful confining charms to keep the creatures from flying off. That could come in handy.
Five minutes later, Myria sat beside the kyrie with a pair of tweezers, working the arcanic wire out from the leather.
When it came free, she flicked the catch and released the collar.
The creature perked up at once, ears pricking and wings ruffling.
She carried it to the balcony. Its tail began to swish like a windmill the moment it tasted the open air.
“That’s better, isn’t it, you funny little thing?” she said, setting it on the marble balustrade. “Right, clear off. Back to Aerin.”
It wriggled free of her hold the moment its paws were on the stone. With a few clumsy wingbeats, it took flight. Myria waved it out of sight, then ran its diamond collar through her fingers.
Time for a trip to the jewelers’, she thought. Sell the goods, then paint yourself a plainer face. Don’t want any of the old crowd recognizing you.
After that, it was time for step three—the recruitment march. Best she hurry, though. She couldn’t leave her poor guard dog waiting forever.
All the same . . .
Myria looked back to the breakfast strewn across the table like a half-conquered empire.
I daresay he’ll survive another hour.