Chapter Eleven After
FELL DROPPED THE charade of a dutiful officer as soon as the carriage rattled through the gates of the governor’s mansion. It felt like watching an octopus change his skin to suit a reef.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” Cat bit out, seething.
Fell laughed. “Quite the performance, Lady Rose. I forgot how well you dance with the right partner.”
The right partner. Cat scoffed and glared out the window, watching Archenport roll past. Fell’s jab was twofold, meant to sting. She did her best not to think on it.
Even so, she remembered swirling silk and her steps across checkered tile, tracing the patterns of a country dance learned across the ocean.
Fell’s arm under hers. And then Valerian’s too, his tempest eyes turned gold by the candles of a ballroom.
It pained her, the weight of so much memory.
Sometimes it felt like being pressed to death, crushed between two unyielding stones.
Satisfied with her silence, Fell relaxed back into his seat.
“I’ll have my pick of vessels,” he said. “Fear not; even without the Scorpion, you’ll be safe in whatever waters—”
“Do not pretend to care for my well-being, Fell,” Cat muttered, still pressed against the window.
The carriage was already far down the city hill, fast approaching her townhouse. Her hand closed on the handle of the door, eager to push it open. She intended to step out as quickly as she could and leave Fell performing for his favorite audience—himself.
“Oh, I’ve long stopped worrying about that,” he answered coldly. “It is my neck on the line as much as yours.”
Cat tried to bite her tongue but failed.
“Then leave me be. Save your own skin. We both know you excel in that endeavor!” she snapped, whirling to face him.
Desperation laced her words, as much as she hated it. Her eyes widened and she clasped her hands, playing the part of a beggar.
“Let me do this alone,” she murmured.
Let me go.
Fell held her gaze long enough to light a little candle of hope. Then snuffed it out just as quickly.
“And lose the best chance we have of ending this now?” He shook his head. “Contrary to what you might think, Cat, I have no desire to spend the rest of my days rooting half-dead pirates out of the Lyrian Sea.”
“Of course,” Cat drawled back at him, reading Jasper Fell as she would a book. “It is always so easy to see your intentions. After all, you are not a terribly complicated man.”
His eyes narrowed, two bolts of silver flame.
“You will always choose yourself first,” Cat said, “and follow the selfish course.”
“A trait we share, Lady Rose,” he replied without hesitation.
There was no use denying it. In the scheme of things, Cat was simple too.
“True.” Her voice sharpened, an admission as much as a warning. “True indeed.”
The carriage turned, rolling onto Keystone Street, and Cat leaned with the motion.
“The King is coming, and you will be his champion,” she added. It was not an accusation but a matter of fact. “Who knows, he might even give you a lordship, if you deliver the sea. And I’m sure Osprin thinks the same.”
She tipped her head, watching Fell. Already he basked in the prospect of such a future, his silver eyes going foggy.
Teeth bared, Cat shot forwards to loom over him. Fell did not flinch, leaving them nose to nose in the small space.
“I suppose you’ll drag Captain Kane in front of the King yourself. But will you have the stomach to do the deed?”
The flecks of blue in Fell’s gray gaze seemed to dance. Beneath them, the carriage halted, but Cat kept her balance, one hand braced on the low ceiling, the other pressed flat against the panel beside Fell’s head, fencing him in.
Against the collar of the imperial uniform, his neck turned a bright shade of red.
“Cat,” he said in a low tone, his voice thickening.
As with all things Jasper Fell, Cat knew that voice too. She had heard it many times, all of them desperate and wanting.
One side of her mouth lifted in a sneer. His eyes followed the curve of her lips.
“I remember your face when they tore Morovant limb from limb.” She did not miss the jump of a vein in Fell’s throat, nor the uncomfortable way he shifted. Like a worm squirming on a hook. “I thought sailors didn’t get seasick, but you looked quite green.”
Fell was silent, still staring, still looking her over inch by inch.
Cat was accustomed to his observations and knew better than to feel shame before Jasper Fell.
He’d seen much and more of her. But still she felt a flush, her cheeks warm in the close space, suddenly aware of the short distance between them, and her disheveled state.
For once, she hoped to see pity in him. Pity enough to loosen the chains that bound them both. Pity enough to end this torment.
Then the footman pulled open the carriage door, spilling hot Lyrian sun through the interior.
Cat did not recoil, holding her ground.
Beneath her, Fell raised his scarred eyebrow, and his gaze turned shrewd.
“I advise you pack light,” he said. Again, he glanced at her rumpled dress, this time with haughty disdain. “Gods only know what manner of ship I might commandeer. You may not be afforded a cabin.”
Cat rolled her eyes. Whatever hope she had for Jasper Fell’s mercy burned away. There would be no release, not from him. Quickly, she alighted from the carriage. Over her shoulder, she blew a poisonous kiss.
“I’d sleep in the bilge if it meant getting away from you,” she called.
Fell did not bother to descend. He glared after her, his mouth torn between a snarl and a smile.
“That can be arranged!”
* * *
ONLY WHEN THE door was safely shut behind her, the sanctuary of the townhome welcoming Cat with open arms, did she slump. Or at least she tried to. Ms. Moseley caught her before she could collapse entirely, a weeping Derry on her heels.
“We went to the fort. They said you were . . .” Derry snuffled, red-faced, her eyes swollen from crying.
“It doesn’t matter what they said,” Moseley said, her stern manner somehow comforting. Cat could not help but lean into her grasp. “She is home now. I told you our mistress would sort it out.”
Much as she wanted to let Moseley take a little bit of the burden, Cat forced herself to stand. She tried not to remember what it felt like to sit in a cell, with nothing but ghosts to keep her company.
“I’m fine, Derry,” she said, even as her knees trembled.
Moseley dropped her hand but did not leave Cat’s side. “See, nothing to fuss over,” she said sharply. “Now go prepare a bath, she’ll need it after a night in the cells.”
While Derry bobbed a curtsy and hurried away, Cat shot Moseley a grateful look. Derry was a kind girl but emotional, prone to hysterics. And while the situation certainly called for hysteria, it would not aid matters at all.
Moseley pushed Cat along, away from the front door and into the small parlor.
Gleaming glass windows looked out on Keystone Street, and light spilled across the intricate Anticlean carpet, worked in green and gold thread.
Oil paintings, porcelain vases, silk-edged curtains.
Her fine things would suit a Meridian lord, though they were acquired through less-than-lordly means.
Years ago, Cat had wanted her house on Keystone to look like a little bit of Meridia, like a corner of the country estate she never truly had.
Now as she sat, surveying the fine wallpaper and woven rugs, the useless hearth and lacquered paneling, she hated it all.
They were the trappings of the Empire, the stamp of a king far across the ocean.
Far across the ocean for now, she thought sharply. Already the clock ticked in her mind, counting down the days until the sovereign himself would arrive.
She started as a glass was pressed into her hand, two fingers of dark-brown liquor sloshing in the crystal. Not rum but good whisky, judging by the biting smell.
“Put it back and set yourself right,” Moseley commanded, standing over Cat like a wolf over her pup.
“You would make quite the nursemaid,” Cat replied, taking a steady gulp. She drained the glass slowly, but without stopping.
The whisky burned a sweet line down her throat and pooled in her belly. The warmth of it anchored her a little, holding her steady against the waves of fear and anger crashing in every direction.
“I doubt I’ll have time to bathe properly,” Cat muttered, casting a rueful glance at the door. As much as she wanted to scrub off all remnants of the fort, the cells, and the governor’s deadly bargain, there were more pressing things to address.
Moseley raised a thin eyebrow. “No time to bathe? This is very unlike you.”
At any other time, Cat would have laughed. Instead, she turned to look out the window, the street beyond warped by the thick glass. Captain Fell’s carriage was long gone.
“Have Derry lay out some clothes for me,” she murmured.
The maid’s brow disappeared into her hairline.
Cat sighed. “For travel.”
When Moseley collapsed into the seat next to Cat, she looked her age for once.
The sun glinted in her gray hair and cut across her worn face, filled with wrinkles hard-earned by a life of work beneath the tropical sun.
She ran a hand over her scalp, smoothing back a few silver strands.
Meticulous as Moseley was with the townhome and the estate before it, she was always disheveled herself.
“Is it finally time, then?” the old woman whispered, her pale eyes wavering around the room. Then she grimaced. “I don’t know if you have anything warm enough for the crossing.”
In spite of herself, Cat laughed.
“I’m not going back to the Empire,” she said. “I’m not leaving.”
Moseley’s expression tightened, her lips pursing. “I see Jasper Fell’s hand in this.”
Sighing, Cat wished for another glass of whisky.
“Indeed, his hands are all over my predicament,” she admitted. “But he is also the reason I’m still alive and not strung up in Hargrove Square.”
She could not help but feel some begrudging loyalty to Fell, even now. It was a difficult habit to break, after all they had seen.