“Men like him are excessively dangerous.” The queen picked through her plate as she spoke. “He had papers drawn, and convinced even Lady Brigitte to the charade.”
The morning Sibylla tried to deliver a breakfast cart to the emperor she’d been shocked to find Harrod there along with Mr Maokin, a mysterious figure, and a stack of papers. Now she began to understand how much the emperor had done to set forth their engagement. While she and Roger were on the trail of a killer, Timur and her grandmother had rewritten history.
“But do be mindful not to stray too far. That… attachment of yours will only entertain him for so long.”
The queen seemed to imply the emperor already knew of her feelings for Roger, past and present. Sibylla had seen them conversing at the ball, up until Roger had the gall to shove the emperor aside. Roger should thank the man for not beheading him then and there. Sibylla shifted in her chair but couldn’t find the strength to argue with the queen.
She flattened her hands on the table. “I promise not to make the same mistakes as Aunt Esther.”
“There’s a difference, Sibylla. Lady Esther fell in love with her Straybound, she wasn’t already in love with him.”
“I’m not. Not anymore.”
The queen’s laugh filled the dining hall. “If you can convince one person of that lie, make it yourself. As for Lady Esther, she’ll be enjoying her stay in Saint Myrtle’s convent soon enough.”
At the enclosed religious order of Saint Myrtle’s, the sisters adhered to strict covenants of extreme poverty and repentance. Lady Esther would soon trudge the fields barefoot in prayer, far from her accustomed lavish balls and breakfast buffets.
“Her sons, meanwhile, will have left the country if they have one complete brain among the three of them.”
Sibylla fidgeted as the queen chewed the tough casing of a black sausage. “And Dr Lundfrigg?”
A sharp smile split the queen’s lips. “Terrible tragedy. Dorinda discovered him just this morning – dead of a poisonous bite. The single needle-tooth of his own syringe, perhaps, but I prefer to think that a viper slithered into his bed and gave him a deathly kiss. It’s more poetic that way, don’t you think?” The casual tone of the queen’s voice elicited a shiver.
Once the queen had cleaned her plate, she rang a bell for the footmen. Sibylla waited until she stood, then followed.
The queen bestowed a significant look. “Take note, dear girl, the emperor isn’t known for his mercy – as I am.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Sibylla curtsied, though her reservations grew. She’d gained an engagement to escape a family that no longer seemed so frightening.
The queen reached across and patted Sibylla’s cheek with soft, papery fingers. “Off you go then. Try to remember, it’s customary to keep one’s Straybound from killing too many their first year, and I don’t mean through surgery, either.”
39
Sibylla crumpled the paper, setting it atop a mound on her desk. Since seeing Roger take the dais at the ball, bullheaded and dashing in red and gold, she’d been producing likenesses of him – his shoulders, the length of his hand, the scruff on his face. Now, she had enough sketch fragments of the man to build a paper replica.
Standing in the center of her bedroom, ink pooled beneath her fingernails as a life-sized image of her Straybound took shape in the air. Unlike the living man, he didn’t look away when she smiled.
“Hello, Dodge.” She doffed an imaginary hat. “Is that a knighthood I see? My apologies, Sir Roger. I had no idea your medical practice was near the palace. How fortunate. I’ve recently suffered a terrible injury. Shall I tell you where it hurts?” She spun to face the window, as if this silent, grinning Roger might tease her for her burning cheeks. She lay a finger on her lips. “Here, and…” Her voice trailed off as her hand moved toward her heart.
The pendant around her neck – the emperor’s betrothal gift – sat heavier on her chest than the locket she’d given that waif, with Roger’s picture inside. This was her future, not doctor’s calls with Roger.
Holes formed in his ink-body first, dissolving outward as she let his image slip away until only his face remained. Yet still, she yearned to kiss the back of his neck until he cracked a smile and scooped her into his arms.
“This will never do.” She leaned close as if to kiss his mouth. Then with a puff, she blew the ink away.
A thump at her door sent her heart racing. As she waited for the last black droplets to diffuse, she cleared her throat so that when she spoke, her voice rang like cold crystal.
“Come in.”
Roger entered the princess’ room with an awkward bow, a tea tray balanced in his hands. Through the windows the gaslamps of Caligo mapped the city like a star chart, waiting for the late winter sunrise. Sibet crossed her arms with the same feigned impatience he remembered from her writing lessons when she would scold him for being late and demand a kiss. He waited, hoping she’d point to her cheek, her neck, even her hand, but she didn’t move. Then his eyes flitted to the table of bloodletting instruments laid out for him, and his stomach dropped.
She stood in the center of the room, her fingernails black with ink, and raised an eyebrow at Roger’s tea tray. “When I said come with my morning tea, I meant you should arrive at the same time, not serve it yourself. Though I suppose the position of a footman would be a handy cover for a Straybound.”
Roger ducked his head. Already he felt like a fool in her presence. “As Straybound I serve your highness in all things.” The archbishop had made him memorize the line. He was glad – he couldn’t think of anything witty to make her laugh. While she made herself comfortable on a chaise lounge, he poured hot water from the silver pot over an infuser of Ibnovan rosehip tea leaves. Roger counted out three sugar cubes into the princess’ cup. He added a splash of cream, then stirred exactly once, enough to break up the sugar yet leave a sweet, clear slurry on the bottom.
“Your highness,” he tried again, placing the cup in her hand. “I reckon I’ve not made my gratefulness clear enough.”
“Gratefulness?” She knitted her brow.
“For the–” Roger waggled his fingers, unable to invoke words for that strange, inky jungle that had shot from her hands. “And, you know.” He clasped his throat and made a face.
His heart pounded as she laughed and raised the teacup to her lips.
“By the Lady,” she spluttered. “You’ve upended the sugar bowl in here.”
“But it’s the way you like it. I still remember.” He quickly took her cup and poured it out over a potted heliotrope.
Sibet shook her head. “I wasn’t permitted sugar at Helmscliff. But thanks to Captain Starkley I developed a taste for chicory.”
At the mention of Harrod, Roger averted his eyes. He had no words to discuss the new prince. “I’ll make you another without sugar,” he said. To change the subject he added, “I brought you something, your highness.” He placed a jar and a silver skewer on the table before her.
She turned the jar and plucked at the plaid fabric covering the lid. “Are these… pickled whelks?”
“From old Sourjam’s on the wharf. The ones with juniper and star anise in the brine.”
“I haven’t tasted whelks in years. And Sourjam’s were always the best.” Her eyes met his with a playful spark. “I would turn the clocks forward before your lessons, just so you’d be tardy and I could send you for them. I kept thinking you’d catch on, and that one day you wouldn’t return.” Her gaze shifted out the window, a sad smile on her lips. “Then again, I suppose that’s exactly how it happened – you didn’t return.”
All this time he thought he’d done her a favor with his disappearing act. What romantic future could she have envisioned for a princess and a servant? Not this. But no alternative happy ending sprung to mind. It was his fault, forgetting she’d believed in those faerie stories all along. He bit his tongue until she took pity on him and broke the suffocating silence.
“But when could you possibly have had t
he time to fetch these whelks? I was told you never left Harrod’s side all night.”
Roger shrugged as casually as his tight new waistcoat allowed. “Adelaide brought ’em, your highness. I sent a constable ’round to Suet Street to coax her here. It only took a basket of hot cross buns. She’s taking her breakfast in the kitchens. The whelks was her idea.” That last bit was a lie. Best to hide his shameful sentiment.
“Be sure to thank her for me.” Sibet twisted the lid open. “I’m glad to hear you aren’t afraid to use your new authority. Is there any word on the girl’s mother?”
Roger nodded. The same constable who had found Ada had also, thanks to a tip from Roger, found certain damning evidence in the cellar at Grausam’s Undertaking and Coffining Services. By now the apprentice would be in a cell in Old Grim. “I’m arranging her funeral tomorrow. A quiet interment with a sealed iron coffin, next door to Sir Bentley Morris.” Though he deplored such measures normally, Celeste deserved an undisturbed eternal rest. “Ada would like you to come, if you can find the time.”
“I’d be glad to, though my presence isn’t generally considered comforting.”
Another awkward silence. Both he and Sibet were stalling. She must be as anxious about devotionals as he. He tried to remember the archbishop’s advice for initiating the ceremony. Sinking to his knees before her chair, he worked his fingers through the knot of his cravat and bared his neck. If only he could tear off his waistcoat and shirt as well, let her tousle him on the downy covers of her bed. A shiver passed over him.
“I… I can’t remember what I’m to say, your highness.”
Sibet tilted back in her chair, clutching the jar to her chest. “Don’t you want one of these first?” She skewered a whelk and held up the dripping glob. “We should each have one. To fortify us for… for the ordeal. I remember how much you liked them.”
Roger’s first impulse was to make up some excuse about needing to fast before choking down three jiggers of her blood. But whelks no longer seemed so disgusting by comparison. Before, he’d eaten them to impress her and because she might reward him with a kiss. Now he had to stop himself from moving toward her out of habit.
“They’re not mine to eat.”
“Oh.” She shrugged, popped the whelk in her mouth, and set the jar aside. “Well then, let’s get this over with. I think I remember how to start.” She slit her thumb with her ceremonial dagger and, after letting a bead of blood well to the surface, smeared the sign of the Blood Line on Roger’s forehead. Her fingers trailed for a moment over his tattoo. He sucked in his breath as another tremor passed through him. Closing his eyes, he kissed the bloody tip of her outstretched thumb, meant to seal the bond or some such nonsense. He longed for her mouth. But even her thumb was better than nothing.
“As Straybound I serve your highness in all things,” he recited.
She grimaced, though he couldn’t tell whether she disapproved of his words or the object in her hand. She pushed a small, brass box – a scarificator – toward him, then hitched her skirts to expose her calf. A look of vulnerability flitted over her features before she seemed to harden herself against feeling anything at all. He hadn’t given much thought to her end of the Straybound bargain until now. Seeing Sibet offer her body like some church wafer, it finally sunk in that she would have to suffer this ordeal every day. For him.
Roger wiped blood from the cupping glass used to complete his first proper devotional. Sibet recovered on the faded green chaise lounge, one bared leg elevated on an ottoman, and a blood-tinged wet towel wrapped around her calf. The scarificator had been simple enough to operate, but its six blades had cut too deep and Roger found the application of the cup more messy and awkward than expected. A simple fleam and basin would have been less painful, but she had seemed determined to follow the strictures set out for her. The scarificator, with its cocked-trigger mechanism, could be used by a surgical novice, and Sibet insisted she learn to use it herself.
“Are you all right? Not lightheaded?” Roger rinsed the tools in an ornamental basin and lay them on the bedside table to dry. The blood sat heavy and sour in his stomach, but a tingling warmth had begun to seep through him. Dorinda was wrong. He could never crave this, not unless he turned into something monstrous like her.
Sibet massaged her temples. “I hate you seeing me like this.”
“Nothing I haven’t seen before.” His pulse quickened as he watched her from the corner of his eye. Hopefully she hadn’t noticed how his gaze lingered on the smooth line of her shin. “Besides, I’m a professional.”
“At least you’re finally dressed like one. Thank the Merciful Mother for Butterwick’s Emporium for Gentlemen, and the palace steward for getting them to open their doors in the middle of the night.” Sibet handed him the towel and applied a folded square of linen to her calf, pulling up her stocking to hold it in place. “It seems he got your measurements right.”
Roger ran a hand over his new waistcoat in black and burgundy brocade. His neck chafed under a high starched collar, held in place by a silken cravat. He’d never been so well-dressed in his life. A week ago he’d have given his eyeteeth for such quality threads. Now that he understood their price, he’d have traded them for his old bloodstained shirts in a breath.
“But I’m no proper surgeon, your highness. Even if you wave your magical hands and make it so, I haven’t the training.”
“Yet. You haven’t the proper training yet. I have something for you.” Sibet pulled a bound stack of papers from under the settee. “I had this prepared. It’s a copy of the exam required for your bachelor’s in surgery. It is unmarked, but I believe you’ll find shelves of medical texts in my old tutor’s classroom, which you may access with this key. You sit for your exams a week from today, both written and practical. You’ve already proved yourself capable. I still don’t know how you talked your way into the surgery, but I understand Harrod made it through the night without catching fever. They’re saying taking his arm is what saved him.”
In fact, it hadn’t been difficult. The surgeon summoned to perform the amputation had gladly deferred to Roger – perhaps because last year he’d paid Roger to complete his amputation practicum on one of Dr Eldridge’s stiffs, and gotten perfect marks.
But Roger wouldn’t tell the princess this. He bowed. “I won’t disappoint your highness.”
“You do have a certain history, Dodge.” Her voice took on an icy edge. “I’m not sure I want you calling me your highness. In fact, I’d prefer you address me as Sibylla when we’re alone.”
“It’s not my place, your highness.”
“But neither of us has ever enjoyed such formalities. A trait we still have in common, no?”
“Plenty of bad blood has passed between us since those days.”
“And plenty more shall pass yet. But I do like to think we’ve arrived at some understanding. It’s not my design to torture you. We’ve both had enough heartache these last few years. I should have forgiven you then, when things weren’t so… this.”
“If I know anything about wounds, your highness, it’s that they scar, even as they heal.” Roger wanted to explain further that he’d only done what was necessary to get by, but the words in his head sounded futile now. He clamped his jaw shut and looked on in silence as she stirred her tea, her spoon clinking on porcelain.
She took a sip. “If you insist on using titles, then I won’t stop you.”
Their eyes met, the glance of two songbirds in separate cages.
Her gaze exhumed yearnings he’d long ago buried. Tried to, anyway. “Your highness, I heard that a Stray… that a man such as I were meant for one particular use, but I gather you have something else in mind?” Since he was no steely-eyed killer, Dorinda had implied Sibet might use him as a lover. So he hoped, yet he couldn’t bring himself to ask. Let Sibet tell him herself.
“A particular use? Do you mean assassination, or laundry?” She pinched the handle of her teacup in thought.
“I neve
r minded wringing out your petticoats,” he admitted. As she shifted in her seat, he glimpsed her white stocking. His fingers brushed her skirt. “Or unbuttoning your boots if your highness prefers.”
Her eyes lingered on him for an excruciating moment before she firmly set the teacup aside. “You might offer your felicitations.” Her back straightened with each word she spoke.
Roger didn’t see anything to celebrate yet, and so settled on delivering a safe retort. “That a new gown, your highness? It makes your arms look long. In a nice way.”
“On my engagement.”
Engagement? Roger opened his mouth, then closed it again. His heart split in a gory mess of confusion. “Not… not to Harrod?” That made as much sense as anything.
Sibet raised a troubled eyebrow. “Harrod really is my brother. That wasn’t some pretense, and we royals don’t marry our siblings, half as they may be.” Was she mocking him? He pretended to adjust a cufflink so she wouldn’t see his distress. “I suppose you missed the announcement. And what with Harrod being named prince, then shot… ha, I suppose that’s one way to stop gossip about me – give them something else to talk about.”
Roger wet his lips. He couldn’t process everything at once – devotionals, newfound princes, secret Straybound lovers – or had he only imagined that last one? “Apologies, your highness. I’m not feeling my sharpest. Go on. The announcement?”
“I’m betrothed to the Emperor of Khalishka.” Sibylla thumbed the pendant hanging at her neck. “Sorry, I thought you knew. I saw the pair of you chumming it up and just assumed–”
“I were chumming it up with an Emperor of Khalishka?” Roger stood, stricken, and tried to think of the ball, but Harrod’s blood tinged his memories. “There were that lady physician, and that sword-swinging bearded bloke who got the shove he deserved–” He bit his lip. All became clear. “Bloody hell.”
“Have you considered what this means?”
“That I’ll be murdered in my sleep, your highness.” That settled it. He hadn’t slept all night, and his vision had started to cloud and tremble. He would never sleep again.
The Resurrectionist of Caligo Page 37
