Chapter 2
I was many things: sister, daughter, and faux fiancée. I was secretary, swordswoman, and connoisseur of scandalous novels. But I could, in no way, claim to be a mountaineer.
Only a flailing grab for the balcony saved me.
With my foot tangled in my skirts and my woeful climbing skills stretched far beyond their limits, I toppled from the wisteria and clutched at the rail like a drowning sailor.
The wisteria gave a rustle of protest, showering my face with dead leaves, curling seed pods, and plaster dust as I hauled myself onto my balcony.
My landlady, true to her word, had locked me out of the building in protest to my wayward ways.
My home was situated on one of the octagonal courtyards signature to Old Harrow, with apartments to every side and several deep archways leading out to the streets, each barred by ornate gates.
Balconies, like the one I had so gracelessly deposited myself on, marked each of the six stories.
They were decorated by elaborate railings and fine, curling moldings clung about with ivy, climbing roses and thankfully, rampant wisteria.
On a summer day the courtyard was lovely, faced with pastel plasters and blessed with the warm sun on the patterned paving stones. But here on a dark autumn night, dead plants rustling and the only light from the occasional illuminated window, my nerves frayed.
Dawn was nearly upon me, and I needed to be in the shelter of my room before true twilight.
I stood and dusted off my hands, flicked stray bits of hair from my eyes, and removed the wedge that held the balcony door open just enough to let in a small calico cat.
Tiny paws hit the floor and the cat in question came to twine around my legs. Bending, I scooped him up and planted a kiss between his ears. “Hello, Hieronymus. Heavens, you smell of cigars. Climbing in the neighbors’ windows again?”
Hieronymus forced his head into my hand, demanding a scratch.
“Well,” I said, complying and setting him down on the bed. “We will not be here much longer. As soon as Mr. Stoke is paid, you and I will be off to meet Lewis.”
Matters, of course, were not that simple. But I chose to remain focused on the tasks closest to hand. Claim the bounty, add it to the savings stuffed into my mattress, and board a ship. Meet up with Lewis and take on the new identity he had secured as his contribution to our alliance.
Then I would be free. I would still need to keep my collar high, but I would be far from Harrow’s dangers and the Harren Guild’s searching eyes. I would be free to pry the ring off my finger and go my own way, to live, at last, without looking over my shoulder.
The thought of the Guild and my ring made me glance at the dressing table as I unpinned my hat and cast it onto the unmade bed.
There, a framed portrait of Lewis stood amid scattered cosmetics, brushes, and books.
Handsome and mustachioed, his hair neatly parted and combed with his cap under one arm, he stared stoically out of the frame in sepia tones.
A tactful application of paint concealed the pins on his high collar that marked him as a Guild-loaned mage, one of the tithe the Entwined gave to the Lusterless human government in an attempt to keep the peace.
My landlady already had a low opinion of me—she hardly needed the ammunition of a supposed human engaged to an Entwined.
But the reputability of having a fiancé at war had secured my rooms, modest and cluttered though they were.
I left the balcony door open to the cold as I discarded my outer clothes on an overburdened chair, pried off my corset, and sat on the narrow bed in my chemise and drawers.
I curled my bare toes against the draft and quickly shook out my hair, finger-combing it into a plait while I watched my reflection in the mirror. Hieronymus curled up beside me.
Twilight began to seep across the worn wood and oriental carpets of the floor.
It ran up the papered walls and my legs, skimmed the lace hem of my drawers, and passed up my arm to the shoulder.
When it reached my neck, I leaned a little closer to the mirror, turning so that my throat stood out stark and pale in the gloaming.
There, under my skin, dusky threads began to entwine me. They moved like smoke, awakening from the nape of my neck and spreading out, out around my throat and shoulders.
They did not stop there. Unlike Harden’s silver threads, or those of the hanged woman, mine went further—they trickled out from my hairline, smoky trails winding across my temples.
But here, alone in the quiet of my room, there was no one to see but the mirror, a placid cat, and Lewis’s staring portrait.
* * *
I arrived at Mr. Stoke’s office just after noon with a paper-wrapped bundle of pastries, dark circles under my eyes, and a haze of anxious anticipation.
Mr. Stoke had yet to arrive and my footsteps echoed in the wood-panelled foyer. To either side were doors, one leading to my small office and the other to Mr. Stoke’s larger one. Both were dark, with shutters and curtains drawn.
A note was pinned to my door. I plucked it off on my way in and unfolded it as I bit into one of the pastries in a burst of cinnamon and sugar.
I froze. Where I expected to see Mr. Stoke’s bold, blocked handwriting, I instead found a flowing script.
Meet me at the Ciciley House, tomorrow, four o’clock.
Your adoring sister, Pretoria
I bolted into Mr. Stoke’s office and spun, taking in every familiar feature, searching for anything out of place.
I saw disorganized bookshelves and a plain desk stacked with open letters and waiting documents.
The worn old sofa of dark wood and pale green velvet, site of many afternoon naps.
An aged grandfather clock, its steady ticking counterpoint to my rapid breaths.
The shelf, with the safe hidden behind it, appeared undisturbed. Relief washed over me along with a flush of curiosity.
Perhaps I should ensure the box was still there. Perhaps I should examine it, just to be sure. Nothing of value was safe in Pretoria’s vicinity, and if the box was gone, all my plans would collapse.
I had just set down my breakfast and begun to pull off my gloves when the main door clicked and Mr. Stoke’s voice broke the stillness.
“Ottilie? I tried to pick up a hansom at Glaster Square but it’s cordoned off. I haven’t a clue why—have you heard anything? Ottilie? Miss Fleet?”
I plastered a smile on my face and turned as he entered the office, half concealing the note behind my opposite forearm. “Good morning! I bought pastries.”
“And there are still some left?” Mr. Stoke pulled his hat from his head, quirking a brow at me. “A great sacrifice. Making amends?”
“Well, yes. I was late too, if I am honest.” I moved to open the windows and turn up the radiator beneath, forcing myself not to stare at the bookcase.
“Never mind. What of that letter?” Stoke asked as he settled in, shrugging off his coat and sitting down at his desk. He nodded to the paper in my hand—not well hidden, after all. “Anything I should know about?”
“No, no.” I cleared my throat. “My sister was here. Rather, she is coming to town, that is all. I will meet her tomorrow.”
Stoke pulled off his jacket. “Which one? I thought they both married and moved overseas.”
It was not entirely a lie. The Guild had assigned my sisters and I carefully chosen spouses, selected for the propagation of the most powerful Entwined offspring to add to their quiver.
Only Madge had submitted to marrying hers and had, upon her wedding at twenty, thrown herself into her propagational duties.
She had, last I heard, produced four Adept children in eight years.
Considering Entwined rarely conceived more than twice in a lifetime, this was remarkable.
I, meanwhile, had turned my intended not into a husband, but an ally. Captain Lewis Illing and I, despite being thrust together by the Guild we despised, had forged a mutually beneficial alliance. Together, with our combined skills and contacts, we would escape the Guild and go our separate ways.
Pretoria’s actions towards her Guild match, meanwhile, were altogether more complex, and I would do the reader an injustice to unfold the entirely grisly tale at this juncture.
However, let it be said that in the wake of her Separatist lover’s execution, her fiancé had vanished.
She had then faked her own death and thrown herself into a life of crime overseas with a contingent of other Rogue mages.
Officially, Pretoria Rushforth was dead. Unofficially, she was the largest thorn in the Harren Guild’s foot, and many of the Continental Guilds as well.
“Victoria,” I lied to Mr. Stoke, citing her false name. “My sister Victoria. She intended to surprise me, it seems.”
“I see. Oh, I have something for you.” My employer raised a finger in sudden thought and fished a stack of letters from the pocket of his coat. His eyes were abnormally tight today, I realized. But perhaps that was fatigue. “I’ve one of these for you. I saw the postman on my way in. Wait a moment.”
He thumbed through the stack and produced a letter. A coy, but somehow false grin touched his face as he pointed to the top one. “I know this handwriting.”
The sender’s hand was angular and swift, elegant in a windblown way. There was no return address, but it was obviously from Lewis.
My heart lightened as I accepted it. “Thank you.”
“No matter. Best that those letters come here, away from your landlady’s prying eyes.” Mr. Stoke scratched at one cheek. “How is your Lewis, by the way?”
I paused, a little startled at the inquiry. Mr. Stoke’s definition of a private life was exceedingly broad, and he rarely inquired about my fiancé beyond logistics surrounding the artifact we had located for Lord Stillwell.
“He does his duty, writes his poetry and never sleeps. Same as always.”
“Is his poetry any good?”
“He’s Bronze, sir. I should hope so.”
“So long as he does not use his abilities to woo you.”
“He would never do that,” I assured my employer.
Bronze Entwined, with the ability to imbue written words with uncannily visceral images and emotion, were often considered manipulative by humans.
But as I said, Lewis would never manipulate me in such a way—not simply because such manipulation was beneath him, but because he had no apparent desire to woo me.
A frown ghosted onto my lips and I decided to change the subject.
“Sir, the box we retrieved last night, is it in the safe? Or did you take it home with you?”
“In the safe,” he said distractedly. His attention had been caught by another letter, but I could not read its typewritten face before he slipped it into a drawer. “Did you ring Lord Stillwell’s?”
“I will now,” I replied, glancing at the bookshelves. “May I examine the box? I saw it so briefly and I confess… I am curious.”
“As am I, Ottilie, as am I. But satisfying our curiosity would be inappropriate,” Mr. Stoke said, giving me a distracted but genuine, rueful smile. “The pay will be high enough to console us, I’m sure.”
“Of course,” I relented, unable to resist giving the bookcase one last, nervous glance. “I will make the call now.”
* * *
By the time the afternoon began to wane, my stomach was as empty as the pastry box and my head so full I thought it might rupture.
I scrawled in ledgers with uncommon industry, posted payments and bills, and, desperate for more distraction, reorganized files in the dusty cabinet, dating all the way back to Stoke’s retirement from the Heddon Street Constabulary.
But my concentration was fickle, my mind flickering between Pretoria, the artifact, and my impending departure.
Lewis’s letter sat next to my typewriter, waiting to be read in privacy this evening.
I did not intend to leave, however, until Lord Stillwell’s man had come to retrieve the artifact and I had been paid.
Just the thought of the money made my pulse race. It would be enough. Finally, enough. There would be new identities for Lewis and I, and with them, new lives. There would be no more coalsmoke in my lungs or watching my kin hang from lampposts.
I would need to buy Hieronymus a travelling basket. I scribbled a note to myself to that effect and shoved it into my pocket.
I had quite forgotten about it again when, at six o’clock, Mr. Stoke poked his head into my office. “Ottilie, why don’t you go home early today?”
“Stillwell’s man will be here soon,” I reminded him.
“Yes, but you needn’t stay. I’ve asked enough of you over the last few days and you are clearly preoccupied.”
“I would like to be here. I can take notes,” I tried. I need my money.
“If there are notes to be taken, I’m sure I’ll manage,” Stoke said with amusement. “I should accustom myself to it, after all. You won’t be with me forever.”
For one petrified moment, I thought he knew. I thought he had figured out I intended to slip away, abandoning him without a word.
“Sir…”
“Go home,” Mr. Stoke urged me, more gently this time. “I’ll see the artifact delivered safely. Also, you should know, I’ve decided to take a holiday. I’ll leave tomorrow and leave your pay in the safe. And I will ring your boarding house when I’m back in the city.”
I parted my lips to protest, but something in his eyes, something in his expression—there one second, gone the next—gave me pause.
“Is everything all right?” I asked.
“Of course.” Mr. Stoke laughed, a sound genuine enough to make the muscles in my shoulders relax. He spoke faster now, as if he had found his stride. “I doubt I’ll be back before the end of next week. After that, I’ve a few letters from potential clients we can peruse and see what we think.”
We. Anything I might say in reply was suddenly lost in a resurgence of guilt.
Rubbing at the corner of one tired eye, I finally nodded. “All right. Good evening, sir.”
“Good evening, Ottilie.”