Текст книги "Rook"

Автор книги: Sharon Cameron

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Sophia Bellamy leaned over the rail, looking down at her engagement party with disgust. The ballroom below her glittered with candlelight and wineglasses, alive with people and music and the excited chatter of distant neighbors and her father’s friends. Ribbons, elaborate hair, billowing skirts, and embroidered coats jumbled into a riot of color, every garment she could see copied straight from Wesson’s Guide to Paintings of the Time Before. The Parliament of the Commonwealth did not choose to print the Wesson’s Guide. Because a printing press was a machine, and machines were technology, and because technology clouded minds, weakened the will, and took away the self-reliance of the Ancients—or so their Parliament said—such dangerous items could be used only by a special license. And since the last license for private printing in the Commonwealth had been removed from the Bellamys, taking their sole source of income with it, the Wesson’s Guide was a thoroughly illegal item, leaving the power to cloud minds firmly in the hands of Parliament.

But for a book that no one had ever seen or read, and had certainly never purchased in the undermarkets of Kent, its contents had been well attended to. The copied clothing made the party opulent, decadent, a spectacle of Ancient curled wigs, face paint, and billowing dresses that was also an understated protest of Commonwealth law. It should have thrilled her. The party should have thrilled her. This was a night she was supposed to have longed for all her life, her Banns, the celebration of her engagement to the son of a Parisian businesswoman. He would be down there somewhere, part of the light and music. Sophia stepped back from the rail. For now, the dark and dusty peace of the gallery held more charm.

“You’re not happy, Sophie,” said a voice from just behind her. A low, rich voice, much like her own. Sophia flipped out her fan and turned, giving her brother a raised brow.

“You thought I’d be up here giggling with excitement, Tom?”

He shrugged a shoulder, his walking stick tapping twice as he limped forward to stand beside her. Tom was not her twin but he could have been, had he not been fourteen months older, male, and she painted and bedecked like some sort of sacrifice readied for the marriage altar. His scarlet coat was pressed and perfect, unlike the bones of his leg, which were not going to unwrinkle in any way that would make him a soldier again.

“You look well,” Sophia said. “What have you been doing this week?”

“Nothing as interesting as you.” Tom glanced once around the gallery before he said, “You were late. And how were the explosions? Spear said he thought they went rather well.”

“They were brilliant, thanks to you. And I was only late because Orla thought I had prison lice in my hair.”

“Again? And did you?”

“Not much.” She elbowed him once when he tried to lean away. “Don’t be such a git, Tom. I don’t have any now! And I got there in time for the introductions.”

“Father’s the one being the git. He’s been so worried something would go wrong with your Banns he didn’t even realize you weren’t here. You’ve had a cold, by the way.”

“He’s not worried, he’s afraid,” Sophia said. “He’ll lose the estate without this marriage fee and everybody knows it.”

“Do they?”

“Well, they suspect it, anyway. How could they not? And what’s worse, he suspects that they suspect it.”

They peered over the rail, moving a shared gaze through the crowd to the man that was Bellamy, their father. Bellamy was small and bent, thinning hair tied neatly back, exuding an atmosphere of defeat in his conversation with Mr. Halflife, their county’s member of Parliament—one man who was not dressed according to Wesson’s, Sophia noted. Bellamy was desperate for this party to go well, she knew that, down to the gluttony and the wine and the overexposed bosoms. Then everyone, including Bellamy, could pretend that her engagement, and the money it would bring, was not the last thing standing between him and a debtor’s prison.

“Do you think Father knows that man wants our land?” Sophia asked, eyeing Mr. Halflife. Tom sighed.

“I talked to him about it again while you were gone, about the river and the rumors of a new port, and why Mr. Halflife would have no interest in helping either him or me keep the estate. I told him that taking the printing license was likely Mr. Halflife’s particular way of not helping. But … it’s hard to know what Father understands these days and what he doesn’t.”

“He probably isn’t understanding anything of that conversation at all,” Sophia said. Mr. Halflife’s posh Manchester accent was very thick.

Tom gave her a small smile, and Sophia smiled back, agreeing that the joke was not particularly funny. The more debt that had accrued, the more muddled their father’s thinking had become. The solution should have been easy. If Tom could prove his fitness to inherit, as the laws of self-reliance required, the estate would pass to him and out of their father’s mismanaging hands. All Tom had to do was amass enough money or assets on his own. For generations, Bellamy fathers had been quietly aiding their eldest sons in this, helping them earn the legal right to an inheritance by creating jobs, business opportunities, or even a clandestine windfall of cash. But their father had seemed unable to grasp that Tom was no longer ten years old, or that the time for his help was long overdue. He’d been hurt and confused by Tom’s decision to join the militia, even when it began to produce the badly needed savings.

Sophia looked across the dark gallery. Tom’s injury had put a stop to all that, or very soon would, when the colonel found out Tom’s leg was never going to heal properly. If Tom could not prove his fitness to inherit before the age of twenty-five, then the Bellamy estate would go to Parliament, which would make Mr. Halflife very happy. If Bellamy didn’t pay off his debt in twenty-six days, then he would go to prison with no proven heir, and the estate would go to Parliament. Which would make Mr. Halflife very happy.

“Well, I think the whole thing is unfair,” Sophia said lightly. “If I’m the one earning the money, then I think the land ought to go to me.”

Tom gave her a look of mock offense. “You’re younger than me.”

“Eighteen is not all that different from nearly twenty.”

“My extra months of life imply clear superiority. And in case you’ve forgotten, you are also a daughter.”

Sophia shook her head. “That is irrelevant. Obviously.” She’d meant to go on with the teasing, but she knew Tom had caught the bite beneath her words. The one fact on which Bellamy remained perfectly clear was that he had a daughter old enough to marry a man who would pay for the privilege.

Tom leaned against the railing. “So tell me what you thought of him.”

“Who? My fiancé?” Sophia glanced downward, searching through the rising haze until she found a young Parisian in a coat of gold brocade. He was surrounded by a gaggle of women, their smiles and their fans fluttering like bird wings. She’d thought him remarkably good-looking, even if it was in a very polished, Upper City sort of way. But that was before he’d said anything. “I’ve decided that Monsieur René Hasard will be a very manageable sort of husband.”

“So the introduction went well?”

“I suppose. He went on and on to Father about his tailor and the fashion for Wesson’s in the Sunken City and spoke barely two words to me.”

Tom smiled. “Oh. Now I see. You’re not unhappy, sister. You’re ticked.”

Sophia frowned and forced herself to examine René Hasard. His hair was powdered silver-white, like many in the room, though with him, the contrast of two very blue eyes and the gold brocade was striking. His gaggle of women certainly seemed to think him charming, and he seemed rather comfortable in the knowledge that they did. She saw him kiss the hand of the daughter of an ink-maker from Canterbury, watched him smile as Lauren Rathbone sidled much too close with her smudgy eyes and the blue plastic earrings dangling down to her neck. She was hanging on René Hasard’s every word. And his arm. Sophia felt her painted brows draw together. She detested hair powder.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” said Tom.

“Nothing. Just … I just never thought I would marry, that’s all.”

Tom gave her a sideways glance, deep brown eyes identical to her own. “Then you’re as big a git as Father. I’ll have to let you borrow my stick, I think.” He paused. “To fend off all your lovers.”

Sophia laughed before she whacked Tom once with the fan. Below them, René Hasard made an elaborate gesture and an eruption of feminine squeals and giggles floated up through the candlelight to the gallery shadows. He was smiling with only half his mouth. She couldn’t look at him. She stared instead at the red and white brick arches that ringed the ballroom, then at the “Looking Man,” as she’d always called him, a larger than life, round-bellied bronze statue of some Ancient man gazing upward in a blowing wind, presumably to examine a sky he could never see.

She kept her eyes on the statue and away from Tom when she said, “I’ve been thinking this could be an … arrangement. I would keep my rooms, and he would stay in the north wing. He could do as he pleases and so would I. So nothing would change. Not really.”

They both knew everything would change. When she was little, she had wriggled her body into the metal folds of the Looking Man’s coat, hiding from the world. Or Orla. She was half considering trying it again tonight. Tom rubbed a hand across the back of his neck.

“And this ‘arrangement,’ ” he said, “is that what Hasard wants, too?”

“I’ll make sure it’s what he wants. That’s all.”

She stared down into the noisy party, so her brother couldn’t see her thoughts. After she was married and the debt was paid, there might be just enough left to fund a business for Tom. She’d been doing the numbers while Orla did her hair. Men of the Commonwealth were notoriously leery of working with a man who’d made himself dependent, even if it was just on a stick, but Tom was clever. If they could just last long enough to get Tom solvent, then the estate would pass to him and they would be free of her father’s mismanagement. The land would be safe.

Sophia felt her determination solidify. Money was the only thing to set all this right, and she was the one to provide it. She would pay her father’s debt, every last quidden of it, and hand the rest to Tom on her wedding day. He would refuse, of course, but she would make him take it. At sword point, if necessary. Maybe they would fight over it. Maybe Tom would have to kill her before her wedding night. This thought made her smile. She snapped open the fan.

“Time to go be brilliant, I think. Wouldn’t want to disappoint Father’s investor.” She picked up her pouf of white skirts, a faithful copy of Wesson’s page thirty-eight, and moved toward the stairs.

“Come down to the beach tonight, Sophie,” Tom called after her. “You’ve been tight with your sword arm lately. And your parry and thrust could use a bit of work, I think.”

She didn’t answer, just threw him a look from the top of the stairs. Then she was descending, down grooved metal steps so old their middles were slightly shorter than their edges, leaving the comforting dark for the dazzle and noise of her Banns. Her hair was black tonight, piled high and sparkling with jeweled combs, the soft brown curls that were like Tom’s hidden beneath the more vivid locks. The music paused. She smiled at everyone and everything, looking anywhere except at the face above the gold brocade coat that waited for her at the bottom of the staircase.

“Mademoiselle Bellamy,” said René Hasard.

Two words and she understood exactly what game he would play with her. He was going to be the gallant suitor, the sophisticated man of the city that girls like Lauren Rathbone oohed and ahhed over in smuggled Parisian magazines. He would have to play that game by himself. She fixed her gaze on one of the intricately cast silver buttons, the second one down on the gold jacket. He took her hand and kissed it.

“You are radiant tonight,” he said, very Parisian, and very much for the benefit of the crowd around them. “A bright star fallen to the earth.”

She smiled. “Why, you offend me, Monsieur. Isn’t that what the Ancients said about Lucifer?” Parry, Monsieur, she thought. Even the vicar was laughing.

“But unlike the devil,” René replied, “I am certain your beauty reflects your nature.”

She eyed the button in the midst of all that gold brocade. “If you keep trying to flatter me, Monsieur, I will grow brighter still. So bright that your tailor will be disappointed.”

“Disappointed, Mademoiselle?”

“That his most extravagant work should go unnoticed.” And thrust, Sophia thought as a titter went through the delighted crowd. René’s voice was unfazed. And possibly amused.

“To be eclipsed by you, Miss Bellamy, could only be an honor.”

Oh, he was good, she thought. Just as glib and empty-headed and Upper City elite as Lauren Rathbone could have wished for. Sophia took his arm, careful not to disturb the balance of her hair, allowing him to charm her neighbors and her father’s friends as he led her through the congratulations and well-wishes and more than a few looks of envy. She smiled until her face hurt, nodding at the appropriate times, her mind not really on any of it. She was thinking how unfair her brother’s last words had been. She’d thought her parry and thrust were in quite good order.

Sophia danced twice with René, circumventing any possibility of being charmed by staring only at his second jacket button. His movements were lithe across the dance floor, her request to go and find cooler air their only conversation. Now she sat on a cushioned window seat in one of the bricked arches, taking refuge behind a row of potted ferns, fanning madly as the tottering heeled shoes of the Ancients went clacking across the floor tiles, keeping time with the drums. She wished she could throw open the window behind her, let the sea wind blow away the smoke and sheets of music, muss the shining curls and the hair ribbons, drive out the smell of perfume with fresh brine. But she couldn’t. Not without ruining the Bellamy show. And the window was probably stuck, anyway.

The sudden plop of a body onto the seat broke her reverie. She turned to find Mrs. Rathbone beside her, the woman’s sharp, wrinkled face glistening in the candlelight. Mrs. Rathbone seemed to have combined several pages of the Wesson’s Guide at once, choosing one of the straight, white, one-shouldered styles worn in the pictures by both women and men, pairing it with a heavily embroidered corset and random sprays of flowers and lace. A dusting of hair powder drifted down onto her shoulders. Sophia resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose.

“There you are!” said Mrs. Rathbone. “What are you doing hiding back here? Why aren’t you dancing with your young man? He is a fetching thing, I must say. Quite a catch!”

Sophia started to say what she thought, then opted for discretion.

“Well!” Mrs. Rathbone said, dabbing at her forehead. “I’m certain I would never have been so sour at my Banns. When I was your age I could dance all night, among other things. I’ve just done a turn with your future partner, if you can believe it. Why don’t you go dance with Spear, then, poor boy, and console him?”

Sophia forced her smile. Usually she liked Mrs. Rathbone, but she was not in the mood for her tonight. “Don’t you think the room is rather hot?”

“I think it’s rather fascinating. I suppose you’ve heard about the Bonnards?”

“The Bonnards?”

“Yes, the Bonnards! Everyone is talking about it. The execution was not carried out!” Mrs. Rathbone leaned closer. “They were rescued. The entire family.”

“Were they?”

“Spirited right out of the prison. By him. Or that’s what everyone is saying, anyway.”

Sophia twisted a large ring set with a pale white stone around her forefinger. “ ‘Him,’ Mrs. Rathbone?”

“Really, Sophia! You might get away with that act with the others, but I’d advise you not to sport with my intelligence. I’m talking about ‘him,’ of course. Le Corbeau Rouge, as the Parisians say. The merciful spirit. The Red Rook!”

Sophia smiled. “Now you’re talking about a myth.”

“Myth, my arse,” stated Mrs. Rathbone. “Someone is unlocking the doors of the Sunken City’s prison holes and I doubt very much that it’s Premier Allemande, my dear. They say there wasn’t a head left to cut off. Rooms bursting full of rook feathers! But listen …”

She breathed so close that Sophia could make a guess at the color of her wine.

“… if the Bonnards have escaped then they will be trying to put their feet on Commonwealth soil just as soon as may be, isn’t that so? And here you are, my dear … right across the Channel Sea.” She whispered this last part, tapping Sophia’s arm with each word, as if the location of Bellamy House was a diplomatic secret.

Sophia looked at her carefully. “Mrs. Rathbone, are you suggesting that fugitive members of the ousted Parisian government have escaped both prison and death just to attend my Banns?” She was beginning to enjoy this conversation.

“Well, I shouldn’t think so,” the woman replied seriously. “They wouldn’t have a thing to wear, now would they? But why, then, do you think that he is here?”

“Who, Mrs. Rathbone?”

“Him! Well, not ‘him,’ of course, not the ‘him’ of the first time …”

Sophia fanned her face. Just how much wine had Mrs. Rathbone consumed?

“I mean him! In the blue coat, chatting with your partner to be.”

Sophia followed the woman’s gaze, through trousers and skirts and false hair, dragging her eyes to where the gold jacket now stood beside a Sunken City blue. She had been avoiding looking at René’s part of the room, a weakness she now paid for with shock. Just beyond her fiancé’s shoulder was a face she had never expected to see in her home, on her land, or even on her side of the Channel Sea. A face she associated with misery and blood, so incongruent in the celebratory surroundings that its presence left her stunned.

The face belonged to LeBlanc.

“Allemande’s Ministre of Security, is he not?” Mrs. Rathbone was saying while Sophia stared. “Now there’s a man what’s seen a head or two roll.”

“Yes, he has,” Sophia replied, not bothering to sugar her revulsion. She studied LeBlanc in his plain coat as he listened to René talking about she knew not what. LeBlanc was much shorter than her fiancé, an odd streak of white running through the sleek, dark hair. Spear Hammond stood with them, towering over both men like a tall blond statue, an empty plate in one hand, his furrowed brow the only betrayal of what had to be a considerable amount of alarm. LeBlanc was in Bellamy House.

“What does he think he’s doing here?” Sophia said, more to herself than the lady beside her.

Mrs. Rathbone turned on the window seat. “You’re not sporting with my intelligence after all, I see. You seem to have lost all your own! Your young man’s grandmother …”

“He is not my young man.”

“I apologize,” said Mrs. Rathbone. “I thought I was attending your Banns. Your … person, his grandmother was a LeBlanc. They are second cousins once removed, or some such. Haven’t you even looked at the pedigree of the family? What are you thinking of?”

Sophia shook her head, watching Spear’s blue eyes widen slightly at whatever René was saying.

“But the question is, of course,” Mrs. Rathbone continued in a confidential whisper, “why has Allemande’s right-hand man come to his father’s aunt’s grandson’s engagement party?” When Sophia did not give the required answer, Mrs. Rathbone supplied it. “I mean the Bonnards, of course! The coast! LeBlanc must believe they’ve landed nearby. He must think that he is nearby.”

Sophia turned to Mrs. Rathbone. “Who do you mean?” she asked innocently.

“I mean the Red Rook, of course! He could be here right now, even as we speak. Wouldn’t that be delicious?”

Sophia looked away, just lifting one bare shoulder, causing Mrs. Rathbone to huff once as she got to her feet. “I think you need a long moon’s sleep, Miss Bellamy. Being engaged seems to have addled your wits. Good night.”

“You, too, Mrs. Rathbone. Do come to dinner,” Sophia replied absently. As soon as the lady had flounced away she stood and adjusted her bodice, pulled so tight that anything extra was in danger of being squeezed out, her forehead drawn to almost the same degree of tension. Then the fan snapped back open and she was gliding across the Ancient tiles of the ballroom. By the time she reached the three men her face was serene.

“René, there you are!” Sophia said, gazing at the second button. She held out a cheek for him to kiss. He obliged, but not before she’d caught a hint of a smile in one corner of his mouth. He seemed to think he had scored a point. He was wrong. Spear looked away, because of the kiss or because she was voluntarily approaching the snake that had slithered into her home, Sophia did not know. She stepped away from the hand René had left on her bare back and stood a little closer to Spear. Then she turned to LeBlanc.

“Monsieur LeBlanc, isn’t it? I understand you are a Hasard relation.”

“I have been remiss!” René said. “Please accept my apologies, my love. This is my father’s second cousin, Albert LeBlanc. And this, Cousin, is my fiancée, Miss Bellamy.”

“Enchantée,” said LeBlanc, his long smile curling. She watched two pale, almost colorless eyes look her up and down as her hand was kissed, noting the man’s meticulously manicured nails. She had half expected to see them bloodstained.

“And you have both been introduced to Mr. Hammond?” Sophia asked. She gave Spear’s empty plate a significant glance. “You’ve forgotten to save me some cake, I see.” Spear’s face vacillated somewhere between amusement and anxiety as she turned to smile at the others. “Mr. Hammond is a very old and dear friend of the Bellamys.”

“By which Miss Sophia means that her brother and I have been taking care of her since her days of tree climbing and scraped knees,” Spear said.

“Scraped knees, you say?” said René, examining the contents of his glass. “How interesting. And tell me, when was the last time you had to bind her up, Monsieur?”

Sophia said quickly, “I understand you live in the Sunken City, Monsieur LeBlanc.”

“I am the Ministre of Security in the Cité de Lumière. The City of Light. That is its new name, Miss Bellamy.”

“A new name or an Ancient one, Monsieur?”

“An Ancient name that is becoming new again.” LeBlanc’s voice was oily slick, so soft Sophia had to lean forward to hear his next question. “Do you study the Time Before, Miss Bellamy?”

She shook her head. “Oh, no. My brother is the scholar.”

“That is good. Technology and the Great Death are not amusing subjects for a young lady. Does your brother seek the lost London?”

“Don’t they all?” Sophia kept her smile in place, trying to puzzle out whether LeBlanc thought young ladies should study only what was amusing. “But do let me thank you for coming, Monsieur LeBlanc. I am so flattered that you would come all this way for my Banns.”

“I only wish that were so, Mademoiselle. I am here on the business of Allemande.”

“Tedious business,” René commented, gaze wandering the room. Spear looked down at him askance.

“And what sort of business is that, Monsieur?” Sophia asked. “I hope it is more diplomatic than your usual tasks as Ministre of Security.”

LeBlanc’s smile was indulgent, as if she were an adorably curious child. “I am sure you would not wish to spend the entire evening learning about politics.”

“Oh, it would take the entire evening, would it?”

“Your pretty head is much better suited to your party, Mademoiselle.”

Sophia felt her brows go up, lips parting to say something sharp, and then René cried out, “My love! They play McCartney!”

Three heads turned to the powdered one.

“You must come and dance with me, Miss Bellamy! It is too good an opportunity to miss, yes?” He offered a hand.

“No, thank you.” Sophia looked back to LeBlanc, politeness restored. “And do you believe your business will keep you here until …”

“More wine, my love?” asked René.

“No. Thank you. How long did you say you would be here, Monsieur …”

“Cake?” René inquired.

“No. Please go on, Monsieur LeBlanc.”

LeBlanc was just drawing breath when René said, “Sugared plums?”

Sophia turned. “Yes. I would love nothing more than a sugared plum. Why don’t you go and get one for me?”

Half a grin was in the corner of René’s mouth, over eyes that were an exceptionally deep blue, a blue that was the hottest part of the fire. She wasn’t supposed to be looking at him. His grin widened when Spear said quickly, “I’ll get it, Sophie.”

LeBlanc’s eyes roved between the three of them, his smile predatory. He said, “And now I am sorry to say I must go. My ‘tedious’ business, as my cousin says, takes me back to my city this very night.” He bowed again over Sophia’s hand, though his gaze was now on René. “Ne sois pas stupide. Je pense que tu dois garder un oeil attentif sur cette fille,” he said softly. “My congratulations to you, Miss Bellamy. Long may you rise above the city.”

Sophia exchanged a look with Spear as Monsieur LeBlanc walked away, threading his way through the increasingly intoxicated crowd. Probably LeBlanc did not know that both she and Spear had spent most of their childhood summers in the Sunken City, spoke fluent Parisian, and were therefore perfectly aware of the advice he had just given René: to stop being a fool, and keep a close eye on the girl.

Sophia fanned her hot face. And what exactly had LeBlanc meant by that? Was he advising René to keep an eye on her as a fiancée? Or something more? She fanned harder, heart hammering against the tight bodice.

“My cousin,” René stated, “takes himself too seriously in some matters, and not seriously enough in others. He dwells constantly on his duties, when the duty he should really be considering is a conversation with his stylist …”

Sophia looked away, so she would not make the mistake of meeting René Hasard’s eyes again. She saw Tom standing not far away at the edge of the room, his gaze on LeBlanc’s back as he whispered discreetly to Cartier. Cartier worked the Bellamy stables; he also worked for the Rook, and, she assumed, was about to be following LeBlanc. She let her glance pass over them, and then to the silver button, only then recalling that René had been talking to her.

“Do you not agree, my love?”

She had no idea what he was asking her to agree to. Was he aware that she was aware of LeBlanc’s advice? Unknown. But if not, then she did not intend to enlighten him. Or let him keep any sort of eye on her. Sophia released her fan from its death grip and smiled.

“I’ve just remembered something I need to say to Father …”

“Do you want me to come with you, Sophie?” Spear’s brows were drawn down again, causing one slight wrinkle in his forehead. He thought she shouldn’t go alone, not with LeBlanc in the house.

“No need. But actually, would you do me a favor? Would you just ask Tom to check on those packages from yesterday? I wanted to be sure they were put away properly.” Spear nodded as she turned toward the gold brocade.

“Gifts,” she said to the button. “They’ve been arriving all week. Father’s friends are so very generous. I’ll see you later, Spear.”

She turned away before either of them could speak, anger propelling her through the crowd, helping her push a path through the people that stood about watching the dancers. She felt invaded, violated. Contaminated by something vile, something she should have never had to experience inside Bellamy House. And she needed to understand just how much danger she was really in. She had her gaze riveted on the approaching back stairs when she felt a hand on her arm.

“You are leaving, Sophia?”

The lined face of Bellamy, her father, looked up at her, full of concern. Bellamy had been sitting at one of the little tables set up along the walls, eating cake with Mr. Halflife and Sheriff Burn. They both nodded at her, a little grim. Sheriff Burn was probably worried he would soon have to arrest the man he was having pudding with; Mr. Halflife was probably worried that the coming wedding would prevent the arrest.

She looked back at her father. Surely he knew what sort of family he was chaining her to. Allies of a government that had legalized mass murder in the Sunken City. That had taken the very real injustices of locked gates, and poverty, and the fear that a return of technology would steal livelihoods and starve children, taken them and used them, whipping the Lower City into a mob of frenzied hate against the Upper. Execute the rich, seize their assets, disenfranchise their religion, use terror to control the people and create new laws to justify their actions. That was Allemande’s so-called revolution. And this was the family she was being sold to, blood relatives of the man that had sentenced people she loved to die beneath the Razor. And all because her father could not face reality or balance his own bank account. But Bellamy looked so uncertain, so miserable and guilt-ridden as he searched her face, that all at once her temper left her. Without it she was empty, bereft.

“Of course I’m not leaving, Father,” she said. “The party is beautiful, and everything is going so well.” She squeezed his hand, offering him a brief, false smile that she knew would make him feel better, seeing it tentatively returned before she moved away. She waited until Bellamy was distracted by the vicar, then made a dash up the back stairs.

She hurried through the gallery, clicking heels unheard in the din of music and reveling, past the Looking Man, up again, and then she was welcoming the quiet of a deserted corridor. Around she wound, through doors, past corners, and up more stairwells, some of them wood, some of them Ancient concrete, until she was in the long hallway of the north wing.

The hall was silent, a single candle left to illuminate the age-blackened paneling. Sophia took the taper from its sconce, poufy skirt rustling over the threadbare carpet, and quietly approached a door set back in its own columned recess. She stood still, listening. The Banns downstairs had everyone occupied, but René might have brought a manservant with him. He seemed the sort that would think himself incapable of carrying his own luggage. When she heard nothing but her own breath struggling against the restricting bodice, she reached up into the piled hair on her head, removed a silver key, and put it to the lock. She slipped inside René Hasard’s door without the first creak of a hinge.