5. Do Not Touch It
DO NOT TOUCH IT
Aduke was blocking the exit from her flat.
Guinevere considered kicking him. Instead, she knelt and poked his shoulder—the one not providing a perch for the sleeping Artemis.
Her finger sank through the glamour just slightly before touching wool stretched over muscle.
Hard muscle. How did the glamour stay put so perfectly?
He’d been gone before she woke the one night they’d spent together, so she had no idea if the glamour remained despite unconsciousness.
Her father had never slept with his glamour.
Indeed, most transcendents who wore inherited glamours only wore them in company. But not Braxton.
He was sound asleep now and it didn’t even flicker, and his face was peaceful, unlined and youthful.
The glamour likely resembled him to some extent, fashioned by the first duke from his own appearance to capture his youth eternally no matter how much he aged.
The inheritors of the glamour would have inherited, also, a nose or jaw or hairline similar to the original, slightly distorted more and more each generation.
Was the current Braxton much like the man she saw now, much like his long-ago ancestor?
Gorgeous in that golden way she’d come to associate with him—a clean-shaven cheek, high, strong cheekbones, thick golden brows, and thick, bronze lashes fanned across pale skin.
A full mouth. All of it together… almost…
familiar? Well, he was her husband. But…
something in the curve of his bottom lip, the shape of the brows…
As if she’d seen those features in another face.
His eyes opened—deep green threaded with gold—a forest at sunrise, and sleepy like a morning fog, and so achingly familiar, she almost cried.
“What is it?” He jumped to his feet, startling Artemis to wing into the air as he inspected every inch of her flat. His hand wrapped like an iron band around her wrist, tugging her up, positioning her behind him, hiding her from an unseen threat.
“Nothing. It’s nothing.” She shook away his grip. “Your eyes… they reminded me of someone else with green eyes.”
His chest rose with an audible inhalation, and he scrubbed his hands down his face. “Do. Not. Scare me.”
“Noted.” She turned to open the door.
But before she could escape, he caught her. “Where are you going?”
“Out. I have much to do.” She’d been awake and dressed for an hour.
“You may take the bed now, I suppose. Get some sleep.” She pushed away the pinch of guilt.
It was, technically, the queen’s fault he had slept on the floor last night instead of his big, comfortable bed in Mayfair.
But the queen had not been the one to insist on returning to Guin’s flat.
“Don’t need sleep. You’re not going anywhere. Not without me.”
“You are going to be noble about this, aren’t you? Remain by my side day in and day out, even if it means sleeping on the hard floor?”
He tilted his head side to side until his neck popped, then he grinned. “Yes. Let’s go.”
He pushed past her and into the hallway, stopping so suddenly, she slammed into his back. It was warm and… so very solid.
“What’s that?” He pointed at a small white square on the floor.
She pushed him backward and bent to inspect the letter. And it was a letter, her name written in dark purple ink across the front.
His hand appeared, reaching for the paper.
She slapped it away. “Do not touch it.”
He curled his fingers into his palm. “Why?”
She stripped her glove from her hand. Holding it doubled, she picked up the paper, returned to her flat, and dropped both paper and glove into the washbasin.
Braxton’s weight settled warm and steady behind her. “Explain.”
“Poison.” She picked a beam of warm sunlight shining through the window and aimed it into the basin, heated it until it sparked and the paper caught fire.
Braxton didn’t even flinch. He should have.
She’d only ever used her ability to call heat and court light in front of Bran.
As a male transcendent, Braxton should be outraged she could do what she’d just done with ease.
She was not particularly talented or powerful in either skill, could only do the littlest things, but she wasn’t supposed to be able to do them at all. Fascinating.
She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Aren’t you appalled?”
“’Bout what?”
She turned her attention back to the washbasin, the letter was ash, and the glove not far behind. “Take your pick. Poison or… me. I can call heat. Use light.”
“So can the queen. So can that Grant woman. Chester, I mean. Apollo’s wife. That lady marquess, too.”
“Diana.”
“I assume if they can do it, other women can, too. I am, however, more than a little… irked regarding the poison.”
“And I’m more than a little irked about the glove. It’s my last pair.” She tore off the remaining one and tossed it in with its dying companion, watched it spark, flame, and die too. “Well, we should be off. We’ll return later, Arty!”
This time she made it out the door and down the hallway before he caught up, stepping in beside her like their strides had long been locked to the same rhythm.
“My guess is,” he mumbled, “that is not your first poisoned epistle.”
“Oh, hardly.”
“How many.”
Down the stairs and out the door. He stopped to speak to Mr. Grant, who still looked fresh as he had yesterday, though he showed no signs of having left.
“Guard the building,” Braxton ordered. “Can you get other Shadows?”
Grant nodded. “Already on their way.”
“I want one at each entrance and another at her door at all times.”
Guin didn’t wait to see if Grant agreed. She sailed down the street.
Braxton, of course, caught up easily. “How many letters?”
“Lost track. Oh, do stop growling and glowering, and see if you can keep up.”
He did keep up, all the way to Bond Street where she bought five new pairs of very expensive gloves.
“The duke, of course, will pay,” she said before grinning brightly up at him. “I do not feel like using my allowance.”
He opened an account with the shop, then she dragged him westward.
Once he realized where they were going, he said, “We should stay at the Mayfair mansion. It’s safer.”
“I don’t see how.” She did but hated to admit it.
“Whoever is trying to kill you knows where you live. They won’t expect you to suddenly move to Mayfair and live with a duke.”
She quickened her pace. “I’ll live where I please.”
“The queen tasked me with keeping you alive and—”
“Your voice changes sometimes… Did you know that?”
“Fuck.”
“Really?” She stopped, her skirts swinging about her legs. “Your changing voice displeases you that much?”
Oh, she wished she could see beyond the placid glamour. Something told her he was steaming with rage. Good. If she could irritate him enough, he might be safe from her.
“Where are we going?” he asked, upper crust, well-educated British tones firmly in place.
“Bloomsbury.”
After several seconds, he said, “Lady Fordham?”
“You are clever, aren’t you? How did you know I’m acquainted with her?”
“Because I’m acquainted with you.”
“And I thought we were strangers. Well, at least now you can spy on me knowing your nefarious activities are sanctioned by the state.”
“There is that.”
They arrived at Bloomsbury without the sort of event she usually ran into—daggers and pistols and coaches waiting to take her who knew where. She rang the bell of her friend’s terrace and a dog bellowed beyond the door.
“That’s Merlin,” Guin said. “He’s a dear beast, but we’ll leave covered in hair.”
The door swung open and a red-faced butler waved them inside. A giant dog laid on the floor behind him, huffing.
“Quick,” the butler said, “Before the dog makes a run for it. He’ll come back, of course, but not until he’s run several laps around the square and the constable’s come knocking on our door. Doesn’t do for a family of our standing.”
Guin chuckled. “Doesn’t do at all, Briggs”
“The Royal Alchemist lives here! And the Marchioness!” He didn’t have to specify which one.
Diana Grant had become known, simply, as The Marchioness in every circle of London.
“Besides that, her ladyship gets awful worried when the beast escapes, and if she’s worried, the alchemist is… ” Briggs shivered. “Right scary.”
“Where is she?”
“Where else?”
“The library. Many thanks, Briggs!” Guin set off toward the back of the house, Bran close on her heels. A door at the end of the corridor was open, and Guin sailed in.
The Marchioness sat on the floor in a puddle of her own skirts. The skirts were wrinkled, even where they fell over her large, round belly, and her rich brown coiffure was slightly tilted, definitely mussed.
“Your husband is nearby?” Guin asked when Diana looked up from one of the books spread out around her.
“He just left for his forge.” Diana pushed to her feet, smoothing her skirts. “How did you know?”
Guin smoothed her friend’s hair back with a smile. “He left evidence behind.”
Diana’s cheeks rushed pink. “Should I call for tea?” She glanced at Braxton, waiting patiently.
“You wish to be introduced, I take it.”
“If you please.”
“This is the Duke of Braxton.”
Braxton bowed and said, “An honor to meet you, my lady.”
“You’re the fellow who champions for fair potion laws,” Diana said.
“Not that it does any good. I am outnumbered in the House of Lords.”
Diana waved to a group of seats nearby. “Please, sit.”
Braxton nudged Guin toward a chair then took up sentry at the door. “I’ll remain standing, thank you.”
Guin’s heart stopped for a long moment, and when it started back up it was tangled into knots. Bran always stood at doors. Well… he used to.
“Are you unwell?” Diana asked, helping Guin to a seat.
“I’m fine, I just… sometimes I miss Bran. I should be the one asking about your health.”
“I’m perfectly fine! Not that Temple agrees. This little one should have already made her debut, but she’s being stubborn.” Diana tugged a bell pull in the corner and joined Guin. “But you… you lost much, and it has still not been long enough to grieve it all.”