Chapter 22
The Opera House stewards paid Pretoria and I no mind as we merged with the crowd at intermission. We passed through wafts of pipe and cigarette smoke, snagged tall glasses of a vaguely green sparkling wine, and faced one another.
Pretoria clinked her glass against mine, the rich, deep blue of her gown shimmering beneath a layer of gossamer and a fur wrap—twin to my own—which, conveniently, concealed her throat. She looked lovely, as always, but thanks to the tactful application of cosmetics, not quite herself.
The same was true of me. The differences were subtle, but persuasive. I doubted Lord Stillwell would recognize either of us in passing, given the passage of time and the bustle of the crowd.
“To the hunt,” she murmured, and I felt a quiet thrill. I might disagree with much of my sister’s choices in life, but there was an addictive quality to moments like these—when we were united, resolute, competent.
Together, I felt, there was little we could not do.
“The hunt,” I agreed, raising my glass and sipping. The wine was sweet, tasting distantly of fennel and anise and ginger. I immediately glanced back to the refreshment table, wishing I had taken two for myself. Coffee may have been the better choice, given my fatigue, but my nerves were taut.
Pretoria sipped at her glass, raised her brows in approval, and sashayed away.
I went in the opposite direction, meandering through the laughter and chatter. Bedecked though I was, I still drew little attention in such a crowd. There were gowns finer, faces lovelier, but drawing attention was not my purpose.
I surreptitiously studied the older men in the room, searching for Lord Stillwell or, at least, another council lord. I was discreet, but several returned my gaze, some with curiosity, others disregard, and one with invitation. None of them were my quarry.
I left the reception hall and passed through two grand, square-columned doors into the opera hall proper. Ladies and gentlemen intermingled among the rows of red velvet chairs under the gaslights, and I tugged my wrap a little higher.
A burst of male laughter drew my eyes upwards. I turned, looking towards the central gallery.
Once, Empress Alessandra had occupied that gilded box, encircled by her sons and daughters and consorts. Now, General Baffin lounged in her throne-like chair, surrounded by drifts of cigar-smoke and a dozen officials.
My glance was brief, but it was long enough. His gaze snagged on me, casual and assessing, and my stomach dropped. Would he, somehow, recognize what I was?
Relief and unease made my blood light as he looked away. I moved out of the balcony’s line of sight, debating whether to check in with Pretoria, when the occupants of another box caught my eye.
Madge and several other Guild Adepts, all familiar to some degree, sat in a box nearly as fine as the Grand General’s. Several Guild soldiers, uniformed and armed with sabers and pistols, stood to attention at the gallery’s curtained door.
Evidently my escape had not impacted Madge’s social calendar. My icy sister was here, and I was one glance away from being seen.
Fortuitously, I felt a presence at my back. I turned, one hand already reaching out to drag Pretoria to safety.
Mr. Wake’s arm slipped around my waist. He leaned down to murmur in my ear in a facade of intimacy, “Come with me quietly.”
“I would rather not.”
“You missed our meeting.”
“I am following a lead.”
His grip tightened, hard enough to make me flinch. The orchestra began to play a tremulous melody, instrument after instrument joining in to a rising chorus. Intermission was over, and within moments Mr. Wake and I were surrounded by merry patrons hurrying back to their seats.
I jerked in his grip, but the confusion had failed to distract him. He prodded me against the tide and into the mouth of a staircase.
Wake led me around the bottom of the stairs to the upper boxes and downwards instead. The light shifted, shadows taking over. My threads prickled, though not enough to show, I hoped.
I brushed at that power. Memories swept over me, transferred by the painful grasp of his hands.
I glimpsed his recent passage through the crowd, his watching the window of Pretoria’s hotel room from the shadows across the street, and following the pair of us back from my apartments.
Seeing us leave again, and enter the Opera House.
“Clearly my disguise was not as good as I hoped,” I observed.
Mr. Wake snorted and pushed me against the wall. I kept my shawl tight.
“You are Entwined?” he asked, still grasping my arm. “I saw the papers. Ottilie Rushforth, alias Fleet, was arrested for murdering her employer. A prison cell to the opera in two days?”
“Guild privileges. You are very brave, accosting me in sight of their box,” I said coolly.
Wake’s grip twitched. “No one would notice us in that crowd, not even a Silver.”
“You are adorably naive.”
He ignored me, continuing, “Besides, you are not a Guild mage, you are a Rogue, and I have done you a favor by whisking you away. Your handler is looking for you. You can thank me by telling me where the fuck the artifact is.”
“I see we have resorted to foul language now,” I commented, buying my scrambling mind precious seconds. Given how he had followed Pretoria and I from my apartments, he must have mistaken her for my Guild handler.
He moved closer, crowding me into the wall.
I frowned up at him. “Brute intimidation? Really.”
“Enough. Fleet. Rushforth. You, allegedly, killed Mr. Stoke. Oh, and I spoke to the professor. I know the artifact is connected to the Entwined, so it’s no stretch to realize you would have an interest in it.
Perhaps that is why you are in an opera house instead of a Glass Coffin.
Have you given it to the Guild? Buying forgiveness for your reprobate ways? ”
The chill that prickled down my exposed arms had nothing to do with the cool wallpaper, with its patterns of waves and birds on the wing. I felt myself on a precipice, a point of decision that might save or condemn me.
As Pretoria had said, a thug like Wake was the least of our concerns, even if he had proved himself capable of following us. But he was also the most efficient route to Lord Stillwell, and potentially, finding out where Perry had gone.
It was time to take another chance.
“I want to speak to Stillwell. In person,” I said flatly. “Then I will tell you where I hid the artifact.”
He stared me down for a long moment, clearly debating whether to believe me. “You did take it?”
“Of course I took it,” I scoffed, as if my supposed crime was the most natural thing in the world. “But I have not handed it over to the Guild, not before I have proper assurances, which are being negotiated.”
“At the opera?”
“Why not at the opera?”
“Fucking Guild,” he said, disgusted. His grip slipped down to my hand where he grasped my fingers—rough, and slightly sweaty. “Follow me.”
We emerged from the stairwell to find the performance back underway.
On the stage, a woman sang in Kessan, reminding the watchers of her woes and setting the tone for the second act.
I could not resist glancing towards the Guild balcony.
Only Madge’s face was distinguishable, her bold features set in a slice of gaslight.
A steward quietly opened the doors for us. The music hushed as its sturdy, carved wooden face closed once more and Wake and I proceeded across the lobby hand in hand. My palms were sweating, and I resisted the urge to pull away.
I looked for Pretoria among the tidying stewards and spattering of patrons, but did not see her.
A few people lingered outside the doors as we exited onto the street, mostly a group of young men. I kept my face down in the play of light and shadow, forced my gaze ahead, keeping pace into the night.