The Midnight Bargain

by C. L. Polk

Ianthe sighed. “Yes. But it’s so awkward. She’s been ‘accidentally’ running into me all over town. I had no idea that she had tender feelings for me.”

  Beatrice blinked. “Why else would she pursue you so?”

  Lord Powles coughed. “Because his family is even richer than mine.”

  “That can’t be. For three years?” Beatrice asked.

  “Oh, she’s adorable, Lavan,” Lord Powles said. “Keep her.”

  Ianthe smiled into his cup.

  Beatrice studied the checkered surface of their luncheon cloth. “Cheese tarts?”

  “I love those,” Powles said. “And Miss Lavan? Don’t think I didn’t notice your concern for the girl. I am moved by your kindness. Crueler women would have kept silent in favor of a good show.”

  Ysbeta shrugged. “I just imagined how I would feel.”

  “Someone as beautiful as you could so easily be uncaring.” Powles covered Ysbeta’s hand with his. “The more I learn about you, the more impressed I become.”

  “Might I have one of those cheese tarts, Beatrice?” Ysbeta slipped her hand out from under Lord Powles’s. “And also. I might have been a bit thoughtless when we were talking, earlier. I regret that now.”

  Beatrice gulped a swallow of wine. She had? Ysbeta had—ah. Lord Powles’s spell-struck love had driven Ysbeta to this generosity, not the passion of Beatrice’s arguments for the grimoire. “We can speak of it later, if you wish.”

  Ianthe eyed his sister. “What do you mean?”

  “I was hasty and unfair to Beatrice this morning,” Ysbeta said. “I wished to apologize for it.”

  Ianthe studied her a moment longer. “Is that all?”

  “That’s all,” Ysbeta said.

  A breeze set the branches overhead to shivering. Soft, pale petals drifted through the air, tumbling and swirling as the wind made them dance. Beatrice’s heart fluttered. Ysbeta was going to let her have the book. Her own freedom depended on Beatrice’s cooperation, and Ysbeta saw that. They would escape the customs meant to ensnare them both.

  If everyone waiting for their mounts wouldn’t crowd together so, the whole process would have gone so much faster. Beatrice fought her way through the milling crowd to accept Marian from the Lavan grooms, who had Ysbeta’s dainty mare and Ianthe’s inevitable glossy black gelding, a gentleman’s preferred ride. Marian shied away from Beatrice’s hand, but soon came back to delicately lip a chunk of carrot from her palm.

  “I’ve got to get her out of this crowd,” Beatrice said. “She’s touchy.”

  She headed for the least crowded area, murmuring nonsense praise to keep Marian listening to her. When she was away, she petted Marian, still soothing with her voice.

  Ianthe and Ysbeta stopped a short distance away as Beatrice stroked every bit of Marian’s hide, inspecting her tack.

  “James did all that,” Ianthe said. “He’s an excellent groom.”

  Beatrice let go of Marian’s white-socked hoof. “I know. I’m mostly just soothing her.”

  :Something’s wrong,: Nadi said.

  :There’s something wrong with Marian?:

  :Don’t jump her. I know you promised, but don’t.:

  A chill shivered its way down Beatrice’s back, but she didn’t let Marian feel it. “No jump today, not for you. We’re going to go home early, you and me. How’s that sound?”

  “You’re not going to jump?” Ysbeta asked. “I was looking forward to watching you.”

  “You’re a show-jumper?” Powles had finally caught up. “She has the lines for it. You could teach her to dance, like Robicheaux’s fancy fillies.”

  Powles also rode a gentleman’s black, and whatever white markings his mount had were disguised by dye. “And Miss Lavan, what a gorgeous specimen. Pure elegance. Did you bring her from Llanandras? She’s the model of your Arshkatan breed.”

  “She’s a champion,” Ysbeta’s mount sidled away from Powles. “Five years old. I trained her from her birth. Beatrice, have you found anything?”

  “Nothing,” Beatrice called, “but I think I should take her home. She’s not used to crowds.”

  “We’ll accompany you,” Ianthe said.

  “Oh no, enjoy the day, please.” Beatrice took hold of the horn and the cantle, and Nadi boosted her jump. She twisted into her seat, hooking her right leg over the top pommel, and planted the ball of her left foot in the stirrup. “Good girl, Marian! Walking.”

  Marian’s skin shivered, but she walked. Beatrice circled her left and right, called a trot, and got Marian used to trusting her control.

  “She seems better,” Ysbeta said. “Perhaps we could just take an easy ride around the track.”

  “I don’t—”

  Ysbeta’s eyes begged Beatrice to stay. Beatrice eyed the mounted traffic and nodded. “It might help her to overcome her unease.”

  She guided Marian to the track, the others nearby, and Marian stopped. Beatrice slid her weight back in the saddle as her horse’s head came up, ears swiveling.

  “Marian,” Beatrice said. “It’s all right, you’re all right. Walking.”

  She didn’t lower her head, but she put all four hooves on the track.

  “Good girl!” Beatrice praised, stroking her neck. She turned to regard the rest of her company, twisting to look at them. “She’s too nervy. I’m taking her home.”

  She guided Marian toward the southern gate, but something rushed through the crowd at speed. Beatrice turned her head and caught a distortion in the air, then it resolved into the shape of a mastiff. It barreled toward them, barking viciously.

  Beatrice’s heart leapt into her throat. Marian squealed. Her front hooves shot up as she reared in terror. Beatrice pitched forward, her knees clamped around the pommel. She had to rein Marian in. She had one chance.

  But Marian twisted in midair, landing on her front hooves as she kicked out at the translucent beast. Beatrice’s seat drifted left—and as she tried to get back in the saddle, her foot slid too far home in the stirrup. She unbalanced completely.

  She saw into the next few seconds that ended her life: a headfirst fall to the ground, dragged by the ankle as her terrified horse trampled her.

  :No!:

  She still had a tight grip on the pommel, but she dangled from it, the track and green grass a blur as Marian raced away from the terrible thing that tried to eat her. If she could grab the horn—

  But her stays, her fashionable, tight-laced, rigid stays held her waist immobile. She couldn’t bend against them. Only the pressure of her knees kept her from tumbling to her death. Beatrice tried to use her hips as a hinge. To raise her body and grab the horn.

  Marian ran like hungry spirits nipped her haunches. Beneath her, the saddle slipped an inch. Beatrice couldn’t stop the shriek that tore from her throat. She would go under. Dragged. Trampled. Dead.

  :Stretch out your hand, Beatrice. Do it, do it now!:

  What?

  Beatrice turned her head, and half a length behind her was Ianthe, his mount’s neck stretched out as they went all-out to catch up. Ianthe stretched out his hand, but the shimmering aura of his companion spirit extended past the limit of his fingers, and that sparkle was just in reach.

  Beatrice grabbed it. The spirit slid around her, lifted her in midair, taking her unbalanced weight off Marian’s back. Ianthe rode harder, going neck and neck with the frightened horse, and he caught her rein. He pulled her head to one side, and Nadi, flowing through Beatrice’s protection, flexed its control of chance.

  Marian’s pace faltered. Ianthe called out soothing words. Ianthe’s spirit kept Beatrice cradled in midair, and they all came to a halt.

  Marian’s sides heaved with the effort. Ianthe jumped from the saddle and freed Beatrice’s foot from the stirrup. A hot, sharp bolt shot through her knee, and she hissed in pain. His spirit let her down, gentle and easy, until she stood on solid ground.

  “Where does it hurt?” Ianthe asked.

  “My knee,” Beatrice said. She tested her weight, an
d bolts of bright red pain shot along her leg. “Oh!”

  “Fandari, help her. Try now.”

  With Fandari taking the weight, she could walk a little limping circle as her guts shivered and shook. She hobbled away to the bushes and cast up her luncheon, her limbs cold and shaking.

  She spat out sour bile and gagged at the syrupy scent of cherry blossoms. She’d nearly died. She nearly died an awful, terrifying death. And she put a phantom mastiff next to Danton Maisonette conjuring an illusion of an archer taking aim at the moon at the Assembly Dance—

  Heat seared through her. Every bone, every muscle, every hair on her body was aflame. She turned her head to regard the crowd who had chased her and Ianthe, hanging back just enough to get a look at the show, and saw one fear-pale face staring back at her.

  Ianthe moved to her side, but she waved him off. “You.”

  The word dripped from her mouth with a slow, grinding menace. She walked straight for Danton Maisonette. Her knee flared with every step. She didn’t care.

  Nadi stretched to fill the bounds of her body, taking control. Nadi put her hands up just below her chin, her fists balled tight as rocks, thumbs on the outside. They stalked straight at Danton, who was trying to babble some excuse to Ianthe. He wasn’t even looking at her.

  “Danton Maisonette,” she said. “I demand satisfaction.”

  He looked at her then. “What?”

  :Hex,: Beatrice and Nadi chorused.

  Power rippled through her. She never missed a beat. She and Nadi stepped into the swing, lending the full force of her weight and the spirit’s potence behind the straight, fast blow that she aimed six inches past his jaw. Nadi flexed its power with hers.

  Fist met face. His jaw shifted sideways. Something caved in under the battering ram of her knuckles. Blood arced out of Danton’s mouth. His head swung with the force of Beatrice’s right cross. He staggered and fell to the dirt, his eyes wide with shock and pain.

  Beatrice stood over him, her hands raised to hit him again. Her knuckles ached. Her chest heaved in deep breaths, rage and triumph rushing through her body. Danton spit out a tooth and cradled his jaw in one hand. The crowd, set afire by amazement, watched avidly as she stepped back to give him room, her fists still raised.

  “Get up,” she said. “Get up and face me, Danton Maisonette. You just tried to kill me. I demand satisfaction. Will you fetch your pistols?”

  CHAPTER XVI

  Danton Maisonette apologized on the spot. He scrambled to get on his knees to beg her pardon, his punched-out tooth cradled in one hand. He pleaded overwhelming passion. He begged her forgiveness.

  Beatrice wished the spineless little worm had the gumption to get on his feet and accept the thrashing he deserved. Her balled-up fists itched to swing again. She’d meet him on the greensward at dawn and shoot him right between the eyes. She’d—

  She backed away from rage. She had to get herself under control. :Nadi. Stop.:

  :I will kill him,: Nadi snarled, and its fury stoked a fire in her belly. :He tried to kill you. He hurt you. He deserves—:

  :I know. But we don’t kill, Nadi. Killing is wrong. We will use the law.:

  She put her fists down. “You’ll speak to my father,” she said. “You will go to him and confess what you did, and you will accept his justice. In court, I expect.”

  “I saw the whole thing,” Ysbeta declared. “I will be your witness, Miss Clayborn.”

  “And I,” Ianthe said.

  “And I,” Lord Powles said. “You are finished, Maisonette. You have earned my ill regard forever. Get out of here.”

  Ianthe took Beatrice by the shoulders and looked her in the eye. “Are you all right?”

  “My hand hurts,” Beatrice said. She glanced at Maisonette, skulking off. “I’d pay a hundred crowns for the chance to hit him again.”

  “That blow was one for the ages,” Ianthe said. “You were magnificent. You—”

  He folded her into his arms, holding her tight. “You could have died. I nearly lost you. I don’t know what I would have done if you had—”

  He pressed his lips to her forehead. “Beatrice.”

  Everyone heard him use her forename. Everyone saw the familiar embrace, the ardent kiss. Every soul in Bendleton would hear of Ianthe’s actions by teatime.

  “Let’s get you home.” He swept her off her feet, carrying her in his arms.

  Beatrice tried to wiggle out of his grip. “I can walk, if you’ll assist me.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Ianthe said. “The landau isn’t far. I’ll speak to your father. You need a physician.”

  Onlookers followed them to the landau and down the short ride to Triumph Street. “Send for Dr. Kirford,” Ianthe said to his driver. “No other. She’s a bonemend. I won’t accept anyone else in her stead. Bring her back here as soon as you can.”

  The driver set off as soon as Beatrice had been lifted out of the carriage, and Ianthe carried her into the house, much to her mortification. He eyed the stairs, even moved toward them, but the footman stood in his way and he remembered himself. Beatrice watched over the footman’s shoulder as Ianthe knocked on Father’s office door, but lost sight of him as the footman carried her upstairs.

  The doctor arrived less than an hour later, dressed in layers of sturdy gray linen that matched the sandy whiteness of her hair. Her face was wrinkled all over, but her knotty hands were gentle as she touched Beatrice’s swollen knee.

  Beatrice winced as she moved to give the doctor room. “You’re a bonemend? I’ve never met a woman bonemend.”

  She opened a satchel and took out a blank fabric doll and a packet of needles. “I was an herbalist all through my marriage,” Dr. Kirford said. “Once my warded years were done, it made sense to follow medicine.”

  She sewed in light brown eyes and red silk yarn for hair, pausing to pluck a single strand from Beatrice’s head, threading a fine silver needle with it and sewing it into the doll.

  “Is that to make it linked to me?”

  “That’s the magic. It’ll take the pain from you while Geret and I mend you.” She lifted the blankets over Beatrice’s propped-up knee, and even her touch felt like healing, warm and full of comfort, even through the pain.

  “How did you learn magic?”

  “Like any other working man, though later in life than they. I apprenticed myself to a master bonemend. I’m glad they sent for me,” Dr. Kirford said. “You would have needed to use a cane the rest of your life.”

  “It hurts like fire.”

  “And it’ll ache when the weather turns, but it’ll be all right,” Dr. Kirford said. “You’ll need the poppet. Squeeze it tight, dear. That’s it.”

  Beatrice clutched the soft rag doll and startled when the hot, throbbing pain in her knee faded to a cooler ache. The doctor smiled, showing off a set of well-made dentures. “It hurts for you, so don’t let it go. Put all your pain into the poppet. That’s right.”

  Harriet dashed into Beatrice’s room, breathless. “Can you hear that?”

  “Hear what? The sea?”

  “They are calling you the Warrior Maid.” Harriet paced across Beatrice’s bedchamber, her agitation driving her feet faster and faster. “There’s a group of men outside, shouting—”

  Beatrice gripped the healing poppet tighter. “I can hear them. Ouch!”

  :It hurts,: Nadi said.

  :Do you want to go?:

  :No.: Nadi curled up inside her, hissing at the physician’s attention. Dr. Kirford looked at Beatrice, her white, wispy brows raised in surprise. Beatrice tensed, and the bonemend’s gaze sharpened.

  Oh, oh no. She knew about Nadi. She could tell. Beatrice squeezed the poppet, pleading silently for her to keep quiet.

  At the front of the townhouse, the men outside sang battle-hymns of the hero Ijanel, a farm girl who became a vessel of the wind lord Gelder and successfully drove off the conquering forces of the Etruni from Chasland’s shores with a gale that capsized ships.

&nb
sp; “Hold still,” the physician said. “I have been paid to heal your joint. It hurts. I told you that it would hurt.”

  “What are we going to do?” Harriet’s brow pinched up as she whirled to face Beatrice. “What were you thinking? Punching a gentleman, knocking his teeth out, and then asking him to fetch his pistols? You can’t fight!”

  Beatrice shrugged. “I can shoot.”

  “You shouldn’t know how to shoot,” Harriet snapped.

  “So Father should just let us be eaten by bears?”

  Harriet ignored this. “He could have demanded swords. What if he’d chosen?”

  “Then I would have fought him,” Beatrice said. Nadi would have helped her. And made her lucky. “He tried to kill me, Harriet. What part of that is trivial to you? Would you have honestly preferred that the undertakers had to come for me?”

  That shut her mouth, but only for a moment. “You could have accused him.”

  “I won’t wish the experience on you. But you really had to be in my shoes to understand. He chose a terrifying, painful way to die—and if I hadn’t? I would have been so gravely hurt that I would have been out of the way anyway.”

  “Your father should take him to court, young miss,” Dr. Kirford said. “Now hold still.”

  The doctor spread her wrinkled, age-spotted hands over Beatrice’s knee. The joint soaked up the warmth radiating from the doctor’s touch, and her spirit flared to life, seeping into Beatrice’s joint. The heat became a throbbing, terrible ache. Beatrice hissed.

  :It hurts,: Nadi said. :Hurts.:

  :It’s healing.:

  The doctor glanced at her again. Beatrice froze. Had her spirit told her about Nadi’s presence?

  She patted Beatrice’s hand and smiled kindly. “That’s the way of a bonemend, my dear. We can’t just touch you and you’re good as new. You have to endure the pain of healing—hold the poppet, dear, nice and tight—yes. You feel it all at once, instead of spread out over long, long months.”

  “Thank you,” Beatrice said, but it came out tinged by a whimper.

  “You’ll be in dancing shape by morning,” the physician promised. She took her hands away and held out her hand for the poppet. “I’ll go and report to Mr. Lavan, if he’s still here.”