The Midnight Bargain

by C. L. Polk

  Father found a pen box and set it atop the newspaper, opening the lid.

  Beatrice gathered up every last scrap of her nerve. “I know it will come in, because my luck spirit, the same spirit who helped me win at cards, knows the ship will come in. And it will be soon. If you bought that quarter share, Father, you would make thousands of crowns. The cargo is tea, cacao, and spices—all considered essential to the Chasland diet. You’d have a sale before you even had to warehouse the cargo.”

  :How soon?:

  :Hurry,: Nadi said.

  “I think you would have to buy the share quickly,” Beatrice said. “Today. Nadi is certain.”

  Father flicked a glance at her, and her heart leapt. But he went back to tuning his pen nibs, as if she weren’t there.

  “This is how I can help you, Father. Please trust me. This ship will come in, and soon. And then I can keep looking, with Nadi to help me. I can find more ship shares to buy. You will have capital to invest. We will prosper . . . and it will begin with this quarter share of the Cuttlefish.”

  He put one nib down and selected another, squinting at the tip.

  “Father,” Beatrice said, her voice breaking. “Please. I know no man is going to come and ask for my hand. But I can do this for you. Harriet will go to Coxton’s. She will have her bargaining season in high style. We’ll never want for anything, so long as Nadi helps us.”

  She begged Father to allow her to use her power, just as Mother had done. She clasped her hands together, choking on a sob, and whispered, “Father, please hear me.”

  The footman’s knock sounded at the door—three gentle raps, and Father raised his head.

  “Yes?”

  The door opened, and James stood in front of Ianthe Lavan.

  “Mr. Ianthe Lavan to see you, Mr. Clayborn.”

  “Ah yes. Come in. Miss Clayborn was just leaving.”

  Ianthe was here? Beatrice swiped at her cheeks, bare of maquillage. Ianthe had never seen her without it, and here she was, red-eyed and blotchy from crying, and Ianthe was here. Why?

  He gazed at her for a long moment, and Beatrice kept herself from touching her hair, her coppery curls allowed to do as nature wanted, fought to keep from checking her apron for stains, and breathed around the tear in her heart. Ianthe. She thought she’d never see him again—

  “Beatrice, go.”

  “I don’t mind if Miss Clayborn stays,” Ianthe said. “I’ve come with an offer.”

  Father sat back in his chair, his hands curled around the lip of his desk. “An offer?”

  “I’ve come to offer you fifty thousand crowns, plus an additional ten thousand at the end of the year.”

  “An interesting sum,” Father said. “What for?”

  “To ensure that Miss Clayborn can remain single until next year’s bargaining season, which she may attend again if she wishes. The ten thousand is to finance your return to Bendleton.”

  Fifty thousand crowns. That had to be enough to finance Father’s losses. It had to be enough to save Riverstone. And then another bargaining season, if she wanted to attend one after a year of freedom. And Ianthe would be there. She knew that in her bones.

  “Let me be clear,” Father said. “You are offering this sum. Not your family, or Lavan International. You are.”

  “I am.”

  “I had no idea your personal fortune was already so vast.”

  “In truth, the sum is considerable,” Ianthe said. “That is my income for the year, plus a portion of my personal principal.”

  “And you want me to take it so Beatrice can return for a second bargaining season,” Father said. “Are you returning to Chasland, then?”

  “I’m looking forward to attending another bargaining season.”

  “Does your family know you are doing this?” Father asked.

  “They do not,” Ianthe said. “I’m doing this on my own.”

  “That decides it,” Father said. “No.”

  Beatrice’s knees shook. She gasped. “Father—”

  He held up a silencing hand. “If this offer had been a bride price . . .”

  “Miss Clayborn has no desire to marry, and so I cannot make the offer, though it is my fondest wish.”

  That understanding crushed her. “Mr. Lavan—”

  “Silence, Beatrice. This is not about my daughter’s desires,” Father said. “This is a generous, noble offer. I cannot take it, no matter what she’s done to necessitate buying her off.”

  “Father!”

  He ignored her. “If I take your income, your family will make me their enemy. I cannot operate in the business world with a severed relationship with Lavan International. And you do not have the power to guarantee that I will not,” Father said. “Swear to me that you will keep your silence on this matter.”

  “It’s not what you imagine,” Ianthe said. “I’m not here to bury a scandal in money.”

  “But you’re not here to negotiate a marriage contract,” Father said. “Not that I could enter such a bargain with you now.”

  What did that mean? But Ianthe pressed his lips together, gazing at Father for a long moment. “I understand. But Miss Clayborn is a woman of considerable worth. You would do well to keep her at your side.”

  “I will decide Beatrice’s future, thank you. I have no need of your offer, though I appreciate the desire that spurred it.”

  He had no need for fifty thousand crowns? That made no sense, even for a man as proud and stubborn as Father. Why didn’t he need it?

  “You have an offer already,” Ianthe said. “Someone has offered for Miss Clayborn.”

  No. No one would. Father’s gaze dropped to the paper on the desk before him, open to the shipping news. The flame of hope leapt high, but it couldn’t burn away the dread dripping down Beatrice’s skin.

  “I appreciate the offer, Mr. Lavan. It’s generously done. But I cannot accept it. I hope you have a pleasant day.”

  Ianthe stood trembling for a long moment, before he dipped his head in courtesy. “A pleasant day to you, Mr. Clayborn.”

  He glanced at Beatrice before he turned and went out.

  “Father,” Beatrice said.

  “No more,” Father interrupted. “Take the rest of your meals in your room. I don’t want to see you. Prepare for a caller tomorrow morning. Now go.”

  Beatrice left. She climbed the stairs to her bedroom, where she lay across her unmade bed and wept into a pillow.

  This morning, like every morning, Clara had filled her bath, selected her gown—this one a soft, faded gray, the stomacher trimmed with peach satin bows—and Beatrice swung her legs out of bed, staring at her bare feet.

  When the doorbell rang, announcing a visitor, Beatrice and Clara locked eyes.

  “Hurry with your bath,” Clara said.

  Beatrice rested in the warm water, lifting a leg from the pool to scrub the skin soft, her hair slippery from the cream rinse that Clara swore made her curls tamer. Who had called? Father had told her to expect a caller. Who was it?

  The door clicked open; Beatrice glanced at Harriet. “Go away. I know someone called.”

  “Beatrice.”

  “Go away, I said.”

  “Beatrice,” Harriet said, and she sucked down a gulp of air. “Oh, Beatrice, it’s—”

  “A gentleman. I know.”

  Harriet shook her head. “You don’t know. You couldn’t just sit there if you knew—”

  “What are you talking about?” Beatrice asked. “Who is it? Is it— Harriet! Who called for me?”

  Harriet burst into loud, wailing tears and fled. Her feet pounded up the hall; her bedroom door slammed hard enough to make the house jump.

  What— Beatrice stood up in a great cascade of water. She stepped from the bath and had a towel in her hands before Clara came, her lips a thin line.

  “Clara? Who is my caller?”

  “I don’t know him, Miss Beatrice. But Harriet won’t stop crying.”

  When she was dressed, her hair p
roperly pinned, her stays laced firmly enough to cage her breath, she descended the stairs past the retiring room and down to the black and white marble tiled floor of the foyer. A footman led her across the floor to Father’s office, and when he swung the door open, Beatrice wanted to run.

  Danton Maisonette set down his delicate glass teacup and rose to his feet. “Miss Clayborn.”

  “Mr. Maisonette. Are you here to settle damages with my father?”

  “Mr. Maisonette has come with an offer of marriage,” Father said.

  Beatrice took a step back. “No. Father, you can’t.”

  “Powles’s word has closed all doors in Bendleton,” Danton said. “I am unwelcome at every party and event. The only choice left to go home with a bride is you.”

  Beatrice’s knees went weak. Everything tilted to the right. She swayed, fought for balance, held. “No.”

  “We’ve agreed upon terms,” Danton Maisonette said. “The ceremony will be in three days.”

  Nothing felt real. “Three days,” Beatrice repeated. “Father, I can’t marry this man.”

  “You do not get a choice in this agreement,” Father said. “I have decided. You will marry Danton Maisonette. He has settled a generous sum on you, and his ship for Valserre departs at the end of the week. You will board that ship as his bride.”

  His bride! He had tried to kill her! “But Father—”

  “I brought you here for instruction, not discussion,” Father said. “Clara is gone to Silk Row right now, arranging a fitting for your bridal gown. You will be permitted to attend the appointment tomorrow. We are having dinner at the Maisonettes’ on the eve of your wedding to celebrate.”

  Celebrate. Beatrice’s stomach shuddered. “But I am to move to Valserre? Will I never—”

  “If you have given me a son, we will return to Bendleton on the occasion of your sister’s bargaining season.” Danton’s smile had a hole in it. Beatrice felt Nadi flutter in response.

  This couldn’t be happening. “Father, can’t we simply do as I suggested before?”

  Father sighed. “No. I never intended to spoil you, Beatrice, but to suggest such a thing, and in front of your future husband—”

  “There is another way,” Beatrice said. “If I make a bargain with a greater spirit—”

  Danton cocked his head. “I worried about this. I’m afraid I have to insist, Mr. Clayborn.”

  Father’s shoulders came up. “It’s only three more days—”

  “She must understand authority. Immediately.”

  Father sighed and pulled open a drawer. The flat wooden box came out, and Beatrice was going to be sick.

  Danton opened the box and nodded. He lifted the collar from its satin bed. “This should prove to be a useful reminder of reality.”

  Beatrice swayed dizzily. “No.”

  Father sighed. “I had no idea she had this depth of defiance. Beatrice, come here.”

  “No.”

  Father held out his hand. “Danton Maisonette shall be your husband. You will obey him. You will obey me. Come here.”

  :Hate you hate you hate you hate you—:

  Nadi screamed it at Danton, bubbling up so high that Beatrice was seized by it. “I hate you.”

  “I don’t care,” Danton said. “You ruined my family’s name. I don’t need your love. I need your sons.”

  :Curse,: Nadi said, and the power bolted through her body. Danton flinched.

  “What did you do?”

  “Father, please. You’ll see. I was right about the Cuttlefish. Wait until proof comes if you have to, but I can do that again. And I will keep doing it. Only please don’t give me to this man, Father, please—”

  “What did she do to me?” Danton asked, his voice rising. “She did something.”

  “I laid my curse upon you,” Beatrice said. “I will never give you a son, Danton Maisonette. I will never stop hating you. I will make your life a torment until death parts us. This I swear. If you force me to marry, I will—”

  “I’ve had enough of your impertinence,” Father said. “Cease this belligerence and come here.”

  “Father—”

  Beatrice sobbed. She shook her head. But Father rounded the desk, crowding her. Danton held the warding collar open and aimed for her neck.

  “Please,” Beatrice said.

  She turned and dashed for the door, but Danton was there before her. She raised a fist to strike him again. He ducked, and her knuckles met the hard wooden door with a red-hot crunch.

  She snatched her hand back, and Danton pounced, seizing her in his arms.

  “Enough,” Danton said. “Your father has obviously spoiled you. No daughter of ours will dare a tenth of your outbursts.”

  Beatrice lifted one foot and stomped the heel of her slipper onto his instep. Danton howled, but he didn’t let go.

  “Beatrice, please,” Father said. “Stop this violence at once. It’s for your benefit, child.”

  “It is not!” Beatrice screamed. “Father! Stop!”

  :No! No!: Nadi cried. :Beatrice! Beatrice!:

  :Go, Nadi. Run!:

  :Beatrice!:

  The collar snaked around her throat. Nadi’s scream of terror stopped. The sprit fled her body, leaving her alone. Her skin shuddered. A high-pitched, ululating whine, so loud and awful it assaulted her ears. Her stomach lurched, as if she were falling from a very great height.

  And then the collar clicked closed. She landed with a thump. The collar settled around her neck and all the color leeched out of the room. A soft whine sounded in her ears, dulling the sound of her own sobs. The world was drab, as if the light had dimmed—and inside, where Nadi used to be, there was nothing.

  CHAPTER XIX

  Filled with nothing, Beatrice left Father’s library. The collar should have choked her, but it lay on the curving sweep of her collarbones, the metal already warming to her skin. Footsteps, a cough, both muffled by the soft, high-pitched whine troubling her ears, the marble table in the center of the entry hall dull and gray—everything had lessened after the robbery of her senses; everything diminished.

  The parlor door clicked open. The soft tap of pillar-heeled slippers prompted Beatrice to lift her eyes.

  “Mother,” Beatrice whispered.

  How alike they were now: the same rounded ears, simple pearl drops affixed to their lobes. The same autumn-red curls dressed for a day indoors. The same silver collars, denying them the talent they were born with.

  Mother lifted her arms, and Beatrice rushed into them, pressing their tear-tracked cheeks together.

  “My darling,” Mother whispered. “I am so sorry.”

  “I can’t do it,” Beatrice whispered back. “I can’t.”

  Mother held her. Beatrice clung to her.

  “I wish I could make it easier,” Mother said, and stepped back to look at Beatrice. “It weighs heavy on you.”

  “Help me. Please,” Beatrice whispered. “Get a message to Ysbeta Lavan. Tell her I will teach her, but I need the grimoire.”

  A drawer in Father’s office slid shut with a thump. Mother went tense. She flicked her gaze over Beatrice’s shoulder, and stroked her daughter’s arms. “You will grow used to it,” she said.

  Beatrice felt a dull, pale disbelief. “Mother?”

  The door to Father’s office opened. Mother went on in a tone that soothed without listening. “After a while, you forget it’s there.”

  “How could I forget this? Everything is different. It’s diminished. It’s—”

  “Beatrice,” Father said. “Say goodbye to your fiancé.”

  Where was the heat that inflamed her senses? Where was the sensation of her body acting in concert with her feelings? She turned around. Danton Maisonette drew near, his hand offered palm up.

  Beatrice stood where she was, her hands by her sides. She should be boiling with rage. She should make a fist and aim for his nose.

  “Beatrice.”

  Father’s disapproving look didn’t send her hear
t fluttering. Father’s expectation didn’t ignite angry sparks over her scalp. She didn’t even have the same body any longer.

  She lifted her hand for Danton Maisonette. He captured it in his and bowed so deeply it was a mockery, his lips on her knuckles a muffled, half-dead sensation.

  She pulled her hand away.

  Danton’s smile had not a drop of good humor in it. “I count the days, Beatrice.”

  Her name on his lips was appalling. It didn’t belong to him, but he took it.

  She turned back to Mother. “Please.”

  “You will forget,” Mother said. “It will all fade away.”

  “You are overwrought,” Father said. “You should take supper in your room. Take a novel and go to bed.”

  She had no wish to remain down here. She bowed in obedience and ascended the stairs, one flight and the next, and entered her bedchamber.

  Harriet sat on the edge of Beatrice’s bed, clutching a ruffled pillow. It fell to the floor as Harriet bounded to her feet. “Oh, Beatrice,” she said, her voice quiet. “Oh, Beatrice, I’m sorry. It’s my fault. It’s all my fault, I shouldn’t have told—”

  She tottered forward and fell on her knees, hands clasped before Beatrice and begging. “I shouldn’t have told,” she said, and sobs wracked her. “I ruined your life.”

  “Get up,” Beatrice said. “Come here.”

  Harriet scrambled to her feet and threw her arms around her older sister, and when had Harriet grown so tall? She came up to Beatrice’s nose already. Harriet wept miserably, and Beatrice walked them to the bed, where Harriet had a great mess of a cry, and Beatrice held her.

  “It’s my fault,” Harriet said eventually, sitting up. Her face was streaked with tears. Her maquillage was a ruin. When had Harriet’s maid begun painting her face for the day? “I did this. If I had kept silent, you wouldn’t be in that thing.”

  “Perhaps,” Beatrice said. “I could have gotten caught some other way.”

  “Is it—you never wanted to wear it,” Harriet said. “Is it bad?”

  “It’s the worst thing that has ever happened to me,” Beatrice said. “Everything is dull. Nothing looks right. My ears ring. And Nadi—”