by C. S. Pacat
The boy was still chained, and alone now, in the watery hold. He was breathing carefully, staying quiet in the dark with his head up, as if, even alone, he was trying not to show he was afraid.
He was still holding the sword, but she saw that he had found some way to lock it into its sheath, the same mechanism that must have restrained it before the crate burst open.
‘You can let go of it,’ she said. His knuckles were white where they gripped the sword. ‘Let it go. Let it go down with the ship.’
After a moment he nodded and threw it, and she watched the gleaming, wavy length of it sink into the water.
Around her, the hold was dripping, the water at chest height and rising. It would not be long now before the rushing water filled every last space of air and dragged the Sealgair under. When she looked at the boy, she could see in his eyes that he knew he had no way out, chained to a drowning ship. He looked back at her with his dark eyes. ‘You shouldn’t have come back here.’
She said, ‘You said to get everyone out.’
She had pushed through the heavy water until she stood facing him. She could feel his desperate hopelessness, despite the wry half smile that he managed through his shallow breathing.
‘You don’t have a key,’ he said.
‘I don’t need a key,’ said Violet.
And she reached into the water and took hold of the chains.
Lion, the Stewards had said. And no one ever realised they were siblings, but Tom was not the only one with strength in his veins. She heaved.
The wood splintered, the iron screamed and came free, and for a moment the boy just stared at her, and they were looking at each other with a kind of wonder, and a recognition as though across a chasm. In the next moment, as she took his weight on her shoulder, the boy – Will, she recalled – collapsed against her, sliding into unconsciousness in her arms.
He was lighter than Tom, and easier to carry, so thin that he seemed underfed, a fragile casing to hold enough strength to try to save a ship. His face was hollowed, cheekbones too sharp, new bruises blossoming under the pale skin. A flash of fierce protectiveness made her determined that she would get him out to safety, no matter how difficult it might be to fight their way to shore.
‘Here!’ called a voice from the stairs. There was another shuddering jolt from the ship, which was listing sideways, so that the whole hold was on a diagonal. ‘This way!’
She made her way towards the voice, pulling gratefully through the water.
Then her stomach swooped and sank as she saw who had called out to her.
His collar was torn and bloodstained, and he was soaking wet, even the tendrils of his hair dripping, so that the bright insignia of his Steward’s star was barely visible. But he was alive and breathing. He had stayed here – or no, she realised, as she looked at his face. He had returned here to fulfil a promise. Just as she had.
‘Take my hand,’ said Justice.
CHAPTER FIVE
‘MISS KENT.’ THE man spoke to Katherine directly, though her guardian aunt and uncle were not yet in earshot, still stepping out of the carriage with her younger sister. ‘I’m afraid that Lord Crenshaw has been delayed. There has been an incident on the docks.’
‘An incident?’ said Katherine. ‘What happened?’
She stood in her best new dress of white sprig muslin as the luggage was being brought down from the carriage. Her aunt’s maid Annabel had spent hours testing different hairstyles on Katherine, before deciding on one that arranged gold ringlets on either side of her face, with a delicate pink ribbon to bring out the fresh blush of her cheeks and the wide blue of her eyes.
‘One of my lord’s ships went down in the Thames.’
‘Went down!’ said Katherine.
Aunt Helen said the words in a shocked voice. ‘Is he all right?’
‘My lord is unhurt. It was a cargo ship. He wasn’t aboard. He sends his regrets that he can’t be here to show you the house.’
The house. Their new house, provided by her fiancé, Simon Creen – Lord Crenshaw. The oldest son of the Earl of Sinclair, Simon was the heir to a title and a fortune. His father owned half of London, it was said. Annabel had later whispered, The expensive half.
‘Not at all. We understand completely,’ said Aunt Helen. ‘Please, show us in.’
Are you sure? Aunt Helen had said to Katherine, taking both her hands and sitting on the small sofa with her, on the day Lord Crenshaw had proposed to her.
At sixteen, Katherine had not yet been out in society, but her aunt and uncle had arranged some small visits of the most respectable company, in the hope of improving her prospects. Though she was the daughter of a gentleman, Katherine and her sister were both orphans without a fortune, and Katherine had known for a long time that her family’s future depended on her ability to make a good match. But that her chances as a young girl in reduced circumstances were slim.
A remarkable beauty, were the words Mrs Elliott had said, peering at her through her bifocals. It’s a shame she has no fortune or connections.
Katherine remembered Lord Crenshaw’s first visit as a whirlwind of preparations, pinching her cheeks to give them colour, her aunt assuring her that it was proper to have no jewellery, and Annabel peeking out from beside the window curtain at the arrival of the carriage.
‘It’s very grand,’ Annabel had said. ‘Shiny black wood, with a driver and two footmen dressed in such fine clothes. There’s three black hounds on the carriage door – what a noble family crest – and gilding on the sides.’ Annabel drew in a breath. ‘Now he’s stepping out. Oh, Miss Kent, he has such a handsome look!’
Now as she was escorted to the large, columned doorway of the fine London terrace, Katherine decided she had never been more sure of anything. The terrace was in beautiful proportion with its elegant facade and rows of high, evenly spaced windows. It looked like a house where only the most refined family would live. Behind her, the carriage man gave a flick of his whip and a ‘Hya!’ and the carriage was moving away to the stables behind the house, because it was appropriate that a grand town house like this should keep an equipage.
She turned to the man, who was Mr Prescott, one of Lord Crenshaw’s solicitors. Mr Prescott had a distinguished, lined face and grey hair under his tall hat. She asked him in the doorway, ‘Did Lord Crenshaw ever live here?’
‘Yes, indeed. He stayed here often as a young man. Over summer, of course, he lives at Ruthern with his father. He takes a house on St James’s Square when he is in town.’
Ruthern was the family estate in Derbyshire. Lord Crenshaw had described its rolling green grounds, the southern aspect with its lake, arched walking paths, where you could stroll in summer. Ruthern eclipsed any of Lord Crenshaw’s town houses and housed the priceless artefacts he brought back from around the world. She found herself imagining its ivy-mantled walls and its corbelled bell turret, and how it must feel to walk around an estate knowing it was your own.
‘So he did live here,’ said Katherine, almost to herself.
The solicitor smiled. ‘He has had it redone for you. It was far too masculine to suit a young lady.’
Stepping into the wide hall with its marble floors, Katherine loved it immediately. She could see the morning room with a delicate frieze and pretty cornices, the perfect place to sip a little breakfast of hot chocolate. The drawing room opposite had a beautiful classical fireplace with fluted sides, and she glimpsed a Broadwood piano, surely installed so she might sit and play after dinner. The staircase rose to a second floor, where her bedroom would be, and she already knew it would be charming, with delicate silks framing the windows and bed.
‘I liked our old house,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Elizabeth!’ said Aunt.
Katherine looked down. At ten years old, Elizabeth was a pale girl with flat, dun-coloured hair and very dark, strong eyebrows.
‘We’re going to be very happy here,’ Katherine told her younger sister, touching her hair. She spared a thought
for their cozy home in Hertfordshire with its comfortable furniture and old-fashioned wood panelling. But Lord Crenshaw’s house surpassed it in every way.
The night of the proposal, she had stayed up in bed with Elizabeth talking about the future that had opened up for her – for all of them. ‘We’ll be married at St George’s Hanover Square. I’d have it happen at once but Aunt Helen says we must wait until I turn seventeen. After that we’ll live at Ruthern, but we’ll come up to London for the Season. He’ll keep a house for Aunt and Uncle, and you may stay with them or with us as you wish. Though I hope you would choose us! You’ll have a governess, one you like, and he’s going to settle a dowry on you, so your chances of a good match will be higher too. Oh, Elizabeth! Did you ever think we’d be this happy?’
Elizabeth had frowned at her with her stern monobrow and said, ‘I don’t want to marry an old man.’
‘You’ll be rich enough to marry whoever you want,’ Katherine had said, hugging her sister affectionately.
‘I apologise for our youngest,’ Aunt now said to Mr Prescott. ‘The house is extraordinary.’
‘You must of course meet the staff,’ said Mr Prescott. ‘Lord Crenshaw has made every arrangement.’
There were a lot more staff than Katherine had been expecting. There was a housekeeper, a butler and footmen for the main house; a cook and kitchen staff for the kitchens; a groomsman, driver and stablehands in the mews; and curtsying maids of different types that Katherine didn’t follow.
Her aunt greeted each of them, asking a series of questions pertaining to the running of the household. Katherine was delighted to learn that she was to have her own lady’s maid, Mrs Dupont. Mrs Dupont was a young woman with dark hair in an elegant style perfect for a lady’s maid in a household of means. With the name Dupont she might be French, thought Katherine with excitement, having heard a French lady’s maid was the truest sign of refinement. Mrs Dupont had no French accent but she immediately endeared herself to Katherine by saying:
‘Oh, you’re even more beautiful than they said, Miss Kent! The new styles will look so well on you.’
Katherine was very pleased by that, imagining the dresses that she would have. ‘You had heard me described?’
‘Lord Crenshaw speaks of you often, with the highest praise.’
Of course, Katherine knew Lord Crenshaw thought well of her; she had seen it even in their first meeting, his eyes on her, heavy and assessing. At thirty-seven, he was old enough to be her father, but there was no sign of grey in his hair, which he wore natural in a classical style, the same dark brown as his eyes. And her aunt’s maid Annabel had assured her that he cut a very fine figure for a man of older years. Katherine could imagine him on horseback, or surveying his grand estate, or commanding his household of servants.
Lady Crenshaw. That idea was still new, and never failed to come with a little thrill. She would attend balls and house parties, and host elegant gatherings, and there would be new dresses every season.
She was just thinking that she might be able to wear a little more jewellery now that she was a young lady engaged, when Mrs Dupont gestured to nearby stairs. ‘Upstairs, your room is—’ The motion caused her dress sleeve to shift a little.
‘What happened to your wrist?’ said Katherine.
Mrs Dupont quickly pulled her sleeve down. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Kent. I didn’t mean for you to see that.’
Katherine couldn’t help staring. On Mrs Dupont’s wrist there had been a burn mark in the shape of an S. Katherine forced her eyes away, feeling oddly unsettled. Mrs Dupont couldn’t help it if she had a blemish on her wrist, and it was wrong to feel queasy about it. But it wasn’t the burn itself that disturbed her, Katherine thought. It was something about the S …
‘How did the ship sink?’ Elizabeth’s voice.
Mr Prescott turned towards the young voice, and so did Aunt and Uncle. Katherine was opening her mouth to hush Elizabeth again when her aunt said, slowly:
‘It is strange for a ship to sink in the river, isn’t it?’
The servants looked at her and then looked at each other. Mr Prescott didn’t answer at once, but he looked troubled, as if there was something he was reluctant to say. Katherine’s attention caught and held. They knew something. All of them knew something she didn’t.
‘What is it?’
‘There are rumours that there was foul play,’ Mr Prescott said after a moment, as if this were a trifle. ‘Or an attack by one of his rivals. Lord Crenshaw has men looking for a boy he believes is responsible.’
‘A boy?’ said Katherine.
‘Yes, but not to worry,’ said Mr Prescott. ‘We’ll find him soon enough.’
CHAPTER SIX
COMING TO SLOWLY, Will forced himself not to stir. He could feel the prickle of mattress straw beneath him, his nose full of its smell: cut hay left sitting in the field too long; the musk of all the other bodies that had lain on the mattress without airing; stale beer. An inn room, maybe. And he could hear voices—
‘I’ve never seen anything like that before.’ A girl’s voice.
‘No one has.’ Quietly. ‘I did not know that anyone could sheathe the Corrupted Blade. But whatever the boy did, it appeared to exact a price.’
Will kept very still. They’re talking about the sword. They’re talking about that sword on the ship. Simulating sleep, he carefully catalogued what he could of himself and his surroundings. He wasn’t chained up. The bruising and cuts from the beatings throbbed, and his hair was still damp, but the chilling cold from the river was gone. He recognised the voices. A man and a girl.
‘Who – who is he?’ The girl, sounding a little hushed.
‘I only know that Simon wants him, and he’s hurt.’
‘He just fainted. I didn’t hit him or anything.’ The girl, a bit defensively. ‘When he wakes up—’
‘He’s awake,’ said Justice.
Will opened his eyes at that, to find Justice’s steady gaze was on him. His jet-black hair framed a face of startling nobility. Will remembered him from the ship, the shearing power of his broadsword as he ploughed through rising water. He had cut through the men on that ship like hope.
‘Now we must decide what we do,’ said Justice.
Justice was wearing a long brown cloak that covered his strange garments, but he still wore a sword. Will could see it distorting the shape of his cloak. Justice looked even more incongruous in a grimy room with cracked plaster walls than he had on the ship, like heroic statuary in an unexpected setting.
Behind him, the girl – Violet – slouched, boyishly handsome, with a fierce, scowling look. It was Violet who had come back for him. Will remembered that clearly. Her impossible strength felt like a secret that had passed between them: the connection they had shared in their joint experience of the extraordinary.
But the way they were both looking at him was new – wary, as though he were something dangerous and they didn’t know what he might do. It sent him right back to that night at Bowhill. The attack, his mother’s desperate words to him as she died, being hunted by those men every waking moment since and not knowing why. Not knowing why anyone would try to kill him – only seeing that look as the knife drove towards him—
Will pushed himself up on the bed, ignoring the blanching pain, the dizzy spin of the floor. ‘I need to leave.’
The door was to his right. It was the only way out. The windows were all closed, each black-lacquered shutter locked with a heavy wooden latch. The thick plaster walls muffled most of the sound, but he could hear murmurs drifting up from beneath the wooden floor. This was almost certainly the upstairs room of an inn – his heart started to pound with the old fear.
The first rule, hard learned, was to stay away from inns, because the roads and public houses were watched.
‘It’s all right. We made it off the ship,’ said Violet. ‘You’re safe.’
‘None of us are safe,’ said Justice.
He was coming forward – it was all Will could
do not to flinch. Justice came so close he felt the air stir as Justice’s brown cloak swirled and settled. His eyes on Will were searching, tracking over the marks and bruises on his hands and face, then looking into his eyes.
‘But I think you know that better than any of us,’ said Justice quietly. ‘Don’t you?’
Will felt exposed. He felt seen, as he had not since he started running. These two, they knew Simon wanted him. They might know more … might know the answer to the question that gnawed at him. Why? Why did he kill my mother? Why is he after me?
After all, they were part of it: part of the world of the mirror, the medallion and the terrifying burst of black flame. Justice’s physical feats on the ship had not been natural. He had thrown a young man from one end of the ship’s hold to the other, as impossibly strong as Violet, who had wrenched chains apart.
Either one of them was strong enough to tear him in half. But what scared Will was not their strength, but the idea of what they might know about him.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ He kept his voice steady.
‘Here,’ said Justice, instead of answering. ‘Drink this.’
Justice unhooked a thin silver chain that hung from his waist where a monk might wear a rosary. It was a single piece of white chalcedony, set at the end of a chain, and it was worn smooth like a beach pebble.
‘It’s a relic of my Order,’ said Justice. ‘It helps those who are hurt.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Will, but Justice was taking the battered tin cup from the table along with a pitcher of water. Dangling the chain, Justice poured the water so that it ran down the chain over the stone, into the tin cup.
‘They say that after the Battle of Oridhes, our founder used this stone to tend the wounded. Their number was so great that its jagged edges were worn smooth by the water – as happens with every use, and perhaps its power diminishes as well. Yet it is still a marvel to those who know nothing of the old world.’
When the water hit the stone, it sparked and glittered like the clearest spring water gleaming with new sunlight. Will felt the same prickling that he’d had when he’d looked into the mirror. A marvel, Justice had called it. Justice handed him the cup, with the stone at the bottom and the silver chain hanging over the side, and Will found himself taking it, even though he had meant to turn it aside. The glints from the stone reflected up onto his face like sunlight.
