Chapter Eight
EIGHT
Smog hung thick in the air as Vesper stood outside the Globe, her fingers numb with cold.
She tapped the heels of her worn black boots against the cobblestone to keep warm, then glanced up the street for what felt like the hundredth time.
The collective smoke from the neighborhood’s coal stoves meant she could see little more than a block away, but it was still obvious that the road was empty.
Nine o’clock, she reminded herself. He said nine o’clock. He’ll be here.
The coach wasn’t due to arrive for three more minutes. To distract herself, she went over her to-do list for the week ahead.
She’d submitted her story on Francis Gladwell’s doomed exhibition in time to make this morning’s edition, but she still had plenty of other pending assignments.
An article on the city’s upcoming council elections was due by midweek, and she needed to review her draft of a piece she was working on for the Basalton Laborers’ Union by Friday.
Vesper yawned, continuing to add to her mental list. She had to sweep the lobby at some point in the day, then wipe down the desks in the newsroom.
Cleaning the office was her way of making up for the fact that Tom had never charged her for rent.
She thought about early this morning, when she’d gone into her editor’s office to empty his rubbish bin before he came in.
There’d been a stack of at least a half-dozen bills piled high on his desk, and most of them had had FINAL NOTICE printed at the top in stern red ink.
Vesper grimaced. Each one of those notices had been like a tiny blade in her side, a needling reminder of exactly what was at stake if the Globe didn’t get the money it needed by December first. If they couldn’t pay their rent and bills …
She shook her head, not letting herself even consider that possibility.
This plan—her plan—would work. She’d figure out who’d killed Francis Gladwell, and then she’d get the money they needed from Maximilian Kite.
The Globe would pay off its debts, and then they’d be okay.
They had to be okay.
Vesper’s head snapped to the right at the sound of approaching hooves.
An elegant blue-and-gold coach pulled by a team of black horses had just materialized from the smog, and was now thundering toward her.
She retreated several steps from the curb as they drew near, but the glossy mounts came to a prompt stop before her.
A footman wearing a dark blue double-breasted coat and top hat stepped down from a small platform at the coach’s rear.
Vesper noted the ornate golden K embroidered on his uniform.
“Miss Evans.” The footman bowed. “Good morning.”
Vesper hesitated. Should she bow too, or curtsy? She had no idea. She’d never had cause to speak to a footman before—she’d never even been in a coach. That had always been a luxury far beyond her means. She settled for an awkward half wave. “Uh … good morning.”
“We’ve been sent to fetch you on behalf of Mr. Kite.” The footman opened one of the coach’s doors, then offered a white-gloved hand. “If you please?”
On behalf of Mr. Kite. Of course the sorcerer couldn’t be bothered to come himself. Vesper accepted the footman’s hand and ducked into the coach. At once, the brisk air outside gave way. She looked over her shoulder at the footman in confusion. “Is it warmer in here?”
“That’s Mr. Kite’s doing, miss,” he explained. “He’s enchanted the coach for your comfort.”
Vesper considered this as she took her seat and the footman closed the door.
She’d known sorcerers could use their power to do any number of things to make their lives easier and more comfortable, but she’d never experienced it firsthand.
She breathed in and detected a scent that reminded her of freshly baked cinnamon rolls.
Was that some kind of sorcery too? Her gaze lifted to survey the coach’s interior.
Its walls were lined with a deep blue tufted upholstery, and its windows were bordered by intricate stained glass depictions of tiny white and gray birds with ruby-red eyes.
Vesper peered forward, watching a group of children playing outside as the coach began rolling down the street.
With a pang, she thought of her own childhood, of nights sharing a small bed with her younger sister Ethel.
They’d had no sorcery to warm them, only each other.
Vesper blinked hard, turning the memories of her sister off like a tap.
There was no use thinking about what-ifs from her childhood anymore, the what-could-have-beens if her family had been one of the lucky ones.
The past was the past, and she’d learned long ago that it was safest to leave it there.
As the beautiful coach picked up speed and Basalton’s streets began to blur, Vesper hoped that’s where it would stay.
By the time the coach came to a stop some twenty minutes later, Vesper had grown quite warm.
She accepted the footman’s gloved hand as he helped her out of the coach, then took in her new surroundings. A beat passed in which she waited for the usual stink of horse manure, rotting waste, and coal dust. Instead, she smelled crisp, clean autumn air.
They appeared to be on a commercial street, though this one was far prettier than any she’d ever seen before.
The white-painted brick buildings on either side of the road were uniform and well-kept; several shopfronts were decorated with pumpkins, hay bales, and scarecrows.
It reminded Vesper of an idyllic autumn landscape painting. She turned to the footman.
“Where are we?”
“We’ve gone north, miss,” he replied. “This is Stonehaven.”
Stonehaven. It was no wonder Vesper didn’t recognize this place.
She’d never had a reason to visit Basalton’s wealthiest neighborhood.
Even the cheapest items for sale in these shops would cost her several weeks’ pay.
She took another deep breath of fresh air and wondered if that was a consequence of sorcery too.
“Miss Evans?”
Vesper turned. A young woman had just stepped out of one of the shops behind her.
She had light brown skin, and dark wavy hair pulled into a low bun.
Vesper noted that her lilac dress was perfectly tailored and—from what little she knew about fashion—quite modern.
Her eyes went to the black-and-white painted sign above the shop’s door.
It read: MODISTE. She frowned. When Maximilian had told her that a coach would be sent to pick her up this morning, she’d assumed it would take her to some meeting place where they might begin work on their investigation.
Why on earth had she been brought to a dressmaker’s shop in one of Basalton’s most upper-crust neighborhoods?
“I’m here to escort you inside,” the young woman continued. “Please, follow me.” She headed back into the shop. Vesper hesitated, then obliged.
The shop’s front parlor was small, furnished with a counter and cash register on the left, and several upholstered chairs that made up a sitting room on the right. On one of them sat Maximilian Kite. He was eating a cinnamon roll, and took his time finishing the pastry off before looking up.
“Miss Evans.” The sorcerer tipped his head in greeting. “Good morning.”
“Good morning.” Vesper looked around. “Do you mind telling me what we’re doing here? I thought we were beginning our investigation today.”
“We are.” Maximilian wiped his hands with a handkerchief, then stood.
“But there’s a pressing matter of business we’ll need to address first. Your work for me is going to require you to mingle and interact with various members of high society while you conduct your investigation.
To do that, you’ll need to look like you belong in high society.
” He gave her a meaningful once-over. “I’m afraid your current attire won’t do. ”
Something clicked in Vesper’s mind. “You want me to buy a new dress?”
“More than that, I’m afraid,” said Maximilian. “You’ll need an entirely new wardrobe. You’re going to be playing a role, so you’ll need appropriate costumes. Naturally, I will cover the associated costs.”
Vesper blinked. Her clothes certainly weren’t the finest—in fact, a great deal of them were secondhand—but this seemed extreme. “And what made you think I’d agree to this?”
Maximilian arched a brow. “You work for me now, remember? Of course, if you’d prefer to go back to the Globe, I’ll have Bexley take you at once. Just say the word, Miss Evans. The choice is yours.”
Vesper muttered something under her breath.
“I’m pleased to hear you’ll be cooperating.” Maximilian looked smug. “Bisan will take you upstairs for your fitting.”
“This way, miss.” The modiste gestured, and Vesper followed her up a set of stairs to a smaller fitting room with a round white pedestal in its center, a freestanding rack of day dresses, and several more piled high on a hassock. Bisan held up a gray-and-white day dress with pleats in its front.
“I have some dresses like this that could be tailored slightly to fit you,” she said. “For the custom pieces, I just need to know what fabrics you like. I can do silk, satin, wool, or velvet. What’s your normal preference?”
Heat rose in Vesper’s cheeks. She stared at the toes of her scuffed boots, and was suddenly self-conscious. The white blouse and green skirt she was wearing were some of the best clothes she had. Here, they felt like rags.
“I don’t have a preference,” she murmured.
The modiste frowned. “Sorry, miss?”
Vesper kept her eyes on the floor. “I’ve never been to a modiste, and I’ve never had a dress made. I get my clothes from thrift shops. It’s … it’s what I can afford.”
For several seconds, neither of them spoke. When the silence became unbearable, Vesper looked up. She’d expected to see pity in the young woman’s eyes, maybe secondhand embarrassment. Instead, Bisan’s smile was kind.