by Chloe Neill
Kess took his place beside the queen, who wore a dress of saffron taffeta. The sleeves were short and the waist high, and a collar rose at the back of the neckline to brush the cloud of dark curls that framed her face.
Chandler stood nearby, watching as they entered, considering, evaluating.
“Captains,” the queen said, when they reached the dais. “Grant.”
Your Highnesses were murmured.
“I understand your mission was successful.” She looked at each of them, lined up like children prepared to report to their governesses, eager for attention. All but Kit, who was content to watch and wait.
“Captain Preston,” the queen said, without shifting her gaze from Kit. “Report.”
“Your Highness,” Preston said. “The squadron confirmed Forstadt was the site of a shipbuilding operation.”
“Was?” the queen asked.
“There was evidence of shipbuilding on the island. But the ship was gone. There were several dead men, some evidence of a fire.”
“Dead?” Chandler asked.
“Killed, it would appear, by fire or explosion.”
The queen’s brows lifted. “A ship, dead men, a fire,” she said, steepling her fingers. “You haven’t mentioned magic. Dunwood’s intelligence indicated the Guild hoped to incorporate magic into their design.”
Preston’s lips thinned. “No, Your Highness. I’m not one of the Aligned, nor did I see any direct evidence of the same on the island. I prefer to sail the old-fashioned way.”
He was an unapologetic liar, Kit thought, if one who carefully calibrated his words. He hadn’t “seen” evidence, so there was no such evidence. Despite what Kit had said. Beside him, Smith shifted, but made no move to correct the assertion. Because she’d changed her mind, Kit wondered, or had been rolled over by the others?
“With slaves or serfs doing the rowing?” The queen’s voice was utterly smooth, the chill in her eyes devastating.
Preston didn’t bother to hide his apparent disgust at the truth, or the fact that she’d cornered him so neatly. “With skill,” he said, the viper no longer hiding behind pleasantries.
“I believe seeing and understanding magic, much less incorporating it safely into one’s sailing, takes considerable skill,” the queen said. “As does sailing into Finistère and surviving the trip. Any confirmation of Guild activity?” she asked, before he could argue.
“No, Your Highness,” Preston said.
“Yes, Your Highness,” Grant countered and, with Kess’s nod, moved forward to offer the trade token he’d found. The queen took it, and Kit saw the fire light in her eyes, along with the anger.
Kit watched the other captains, saw confusion give way to surprise, then fury. But Kit saw no guilt or deception. Skilled actors, she thought, or legitimately surprised at the connection.
“A trade token,” Chandler said, when the queen offered it to him, then looked at the captains, watched them, too.
“We were not apprised of this evidence,” Preston said, directing his expression toward Kit, “and cannot verify its authenticity.”
“I can,” Kit said unapologetically. “It was found on one of the deceased sailors.”
The queen nodded. “And magic?”
“Your Highness,” Kit said. “On the way to the island, the amount of magic in the sea current, and the stability of that magic, steadily decreased. We also experienced doldrums, unusual for that portion of the Narrow Sea, and a severe storm. We arrived at the island to find what remained of a shipyard, evidence trees had been chopped for lumber. No ship was present. And the magic had, we believe, been stripped away. We believe magic was manipulated, and harshly so, on the island, possibly to fuel that ship, given Dunwood’s statement. We believe, as at Contra Costa, the manipulation of that magic caused the resulting decrease in magic on sea and land, and the doldrums and the storm, and some sort of explosive activity that destroyed most of the scaffolding, felled trees, and killed several of the workers.”
Silence fell.
“We disagree,” Thornberry put in. “Magic cannot be used to fuel a ship, and any comparisons to Contra Costa are overblown.”
The queen nodded, but she made no other indication of surprise or concern. No shock at the possibility magic had been so profoundly manipulated despite the storm, the lingering malevolence on the island, and the possibility Gerard had found a new and powerful weapon.
She shifted her gaze to Grant. “Colonel?”
“I have nothing to add to Captain Brightling’s statement, and concur with her analysis.”
“Thank you, Colonel.” She looked at Preston, Thornberry, and Smith. “We appreciate your service and your swift investigation of this matter.”
“Your Highness,” Preston said with a little bow, but made no move to leave. Instead, he slid his gaze to Kit.
The queen’s brows lifted. “You have been dismissed, Captain Preston.”
The trio managed not to grumble, but made their little nods and exited the room with anger in their strides.
“Well,” she said, when the door closed behind them. “I suppose those who aligned with the Prefects will have plenty to talk about this evening.”
The sarcasm in her voice broke the thick tension in the air.
“My offer to destroy what remains of them stands,” Chandler said.
“And it is a thoughtful offer,” said the queen, with a hint of a smile. “But I must decline.” She turned her attention to Grant and Kit. “Now that we have cleared the room, let’s discuss your next mission.”
“Our next mission?” Kit asked, and could feel Grant bristling beside her.
The queen nodded. “Mr. Chandler.”
Chandler straightened. “As you’re aware, the dispatch Captain Brightling located has been decoded. In addition to referencing Forstadt, it arranges a meeting, tonight, at the pavilion at Lambeth Gardens. The dispatch’s intended recipient is to deliver certain requested information to his or her contact.”
“What information?” Grant asked.
“It wasn’t discussed in the dispatch,” Chandler said. “Given the lengths taken to organize this meeting, it’s presumably important. To ensure the meeting would proceed as planned, we delivered the dispatch to the Cork and Barrel as directed.”
“Clever,” Grant said.
“I’m glad to hear you think so,” the queen said dryly. “Given that you’ve returned with ample time to prepare, you will attend the gathering tonight and you will surveil the meeting. Together.”
The room went silent in the aftermath of that announcement.
“Together,” Kit said. “At Lambeth Gardens. With the Beau Monde and the strolling and the fireworks?”
“And the meeting of traitors,” Chandler said. “The pavilion, during the fireworks. You will confirm the identities of the spies and capture them, if possible.”
Kit admitted to herself that dressing up for an evening at Lambeth Gardens looking for perfidy could be interesting; she’d enjoyed playing a salty trader at Finistère, after all. But with Grant, and in the wake of the kiss and the lingering awkwardness?
“Captain Brightling is not trained in espionage,” Grant said.
“And you aren’t trained in compliments or pleasant conversation,” Kit said with amusement, “but I suspect we’ll both manage.”
The queen’s lips twitched. “I believe Captain Brightling has amply demonstrated her ability to adapt to circumstances—and viscounts.”
“Why us?” Grant asked.
“As a viscount, it’s perfectly reasonable that you’d attend an important social event, and unlikely anyone would suspect you had ulterior motives. And, frankly, given the delicate nature of this issue, and the presence of traitors in the Crown Command, we must make use of a limited pool of assets.”
A bit less entertaining, Kit thought, t
o have been the only option.
“You’ll need an escort,” the queen said. “In order to fully maintain the illusion, and lest you should be accused of improprieties.”
“Notwithstanding cavorting with pirates,” Grant said.
“Notwithstanding,” the queen agreed, and looked at Kit. “Captain, perhaps one of your sisters would be agreeable?”
Kit imagined Jane’s amusement at following them around Lambeth. “I imagine one would.”
The queen nodded. “While the event will be, shall we say, lighthearted, I do not need to remind you of the gravity of this situation, nor the risk if the spy is not apprehended. We do not know how much information has already been given to Frisia, the Guild, or Gerard, but we do not want more to fall into their hands. And as to the magic . . .”
She looked at Kess, at Chandler. Both of them nodded.
The queen sighed, linked her fingers together, and looked back at Kit. “Let us be frank. We agree with Dunwood’s conclusions and your suspicions regarding the magic used by the new ship. We believe you were correct that the ship used magic as some sort of fuel. We were aware that Gerard was interested in utilizing magic, despite Contra Costa and the terms of the treaty. We were aware,” the queen said again, “in part, because we also have an interest in developing magic as a tool of warfare.”
For a full minute, Kit just stared at her queen, the woman who commanded her, whom she’d bowed to on innumerable occasions. And the woman’s last words, magic as a tool of warfare, echoed in Kit’s head. She was torn between bafflement and fury.
“We lost thousands at Contra Costa,” Kit said quietly. “There were dead men on Forstadt, and we nearly lost sailors in the Forstadt storm. Manipulating magic, the current, carries a cost that is too high for us to bear.”
“And the deaths caused by prolonged war?” the queen said. “Is that cost too high?”
“Heat, famine, the ruin of the soil, volcanic activity.”
“Millions dead or missing before Gerard was stopped at Saint-Denis. You may believe his means of conducting war—past or future—are immoral. I tend to believe that war is immoral, and a queen allowing deaths that could have been prevented equally so.” Her tone was scalding now, her eyes just as hot. “So before you decide what cost is too high, be sure you’ve done the calculations.”
“Your Highness,” Kit said, taking the reprimand.
“You’re dismissed,” the queen said, and left them in silence.
* * *
“Are you all right?” Grant asked, when they were outside the throne room in the chill of shadowed marble.
“I’ve just argued with the queen, so no.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he said. “‘Magic as a tool of warfare,’” he repeated. “You went pale when she said it.”
“Maybe it’s naive to expect we hold ourselves to higher standards than Gerard.”
“It’s not. But let us thank the gods we aren’t in her position. And do our best in fripperies and silk tonight to stop Gerard before we need to deal with magic.”
“Fripperies and silk,” Kit said, lips curving at the mild insult in his voice. That felt comfortable, as if he’d moved past the moment in her quarters.
“I assume you’ll be put out if I arrive at the Brightling home in torn linen and patched trousers.”
He was trying to amuse her, she realized with a jolt. Trying to ease her mind. And she appreciated it. “I suppose you’ll wear whatever you will, being a viscount and all, and I’ll have little choice in the matter.”
“We always have choices, Captain. Lambeth Gardens wasn’t how I intended to spend my evening.”
“Nor I,” Kit said. “But it appears that’s the evening we’ll have.” She looked at him, expected to see grim resignation in his expression. That was there, of course. But there was something else beneath it. Fear. And she recalled why he’d wanted to return to New London.
“You’re going to look for your brother before the event,” she said.
“I am.”
“Would you like help?”
“Help?”
“In finding him. I’m a skilled fighter and a ranked officer in the Crown Command. I imagine I’ve spent more time in New London than you have. And, given my profession, I’ve seen a gambling hell or two. And I let you go on my adventures. It’s only fair that you return the favor.”
“Those were the queen’s adventures. And no, I don’t need assistance in locating my own brother.” He pulled a pocket watch from his coat, checked it. “I’ll ring for you at six.”
“Try not to wear torn linens and patched trousers.”
Grant leaned down, lips nearly at her ear and sending a thrill of something that felt like magic along her spine. “Do try to look a becoming escort for a viscount,” he said, and walked away.
Kit blew out a breath. Perhaps he hadn’t moved past that moment after all.
Twenty-Three
Kit walked into the Brightling house with a frustrated disposition. Portnoy’s was closed, having apparently devoted itself to preparing for the Lambeth festivities, where Kit imagined it would sell cones of sweets to attendees.
She opened the front door, found herself looking down at a girl in a simple pink dress, her blond hair a gleaming mass of curls held back by a pink ribbon.
Mrs. Eaves had wasted no time, Kit thought.
“Hello,” Kit said pleasantly. “Do I know you?”
Louisa’s chin lifted. “It’s me, Louisa. Mate of the Diana.”
Kit frowned. “That doesn’t sound familiar. You don’t look like a sailor.”
“Well, I was,” Louisa said, “before I became a prisoner and was forced into a stupid dress.” She pointed at her dress, stuck out a boot. “It’s a tragesty!”
“Travesty,” Kit said, holding back a smile. “Or tragedy, depending.”
“That’s what I said. Did you bring a box from Portnoy’s?”
Kit narrowed her eyes. “Who said I bring something from Portnoy’s?”
“The twins. And they hide them so Mrs. Eaves doesn’t find out, or it’s right into the bin. And Mrs. Eaves doesn’t cook very good things.”
Louisa had been here for barely two hours, Kit thought, and already had the lay of the land. She could have been one of Sutherland’s observing officers.
“Unfortunately, I didn’t bring treats today. The treat shop was closed.” She heard music from the parlor, and glanced over.
“That’s Pari,” Louisa said. “She’s playing the pianoforte. She said she could try to teach me some but you have to sit still for so long.”
“I had the same reaction,” Kit said. “Other than the dress, how do you like it here?”
Louisa lifted a shoulder.
Time would tell, Kit thought, and walked to the parlor doorway, looked in. Pari sat in front of the pianoforte, hands moving across the keys. She was fourteen, with tan skin, long dark hair, and a slender build.
Kit closed her eyes to listen to the soft rise and fall of the melody, the little trills that sounded like birdsong. Kit couldn’t play an instrument, couldn’t hold a tune. Which made her appreciate it all the more.
When Kit opened her eyes again, Pari was smiling at her with a single lifted eyebrow.
“That was lovely.” Kit went to her, took a seat beside her on the bench. “Who wrote it?”
“I did,” Pari said. Hope shined in her eyes. “Did you really like it?”
“I really did. It was beautiful.”
“Did you bring any pistachio nougats?” Pari asked hopefully.
Kit sighed. She was beloved for the narrowest of reasons. “Portnoy’s was closed for the Lambeth celebration.”
Pari clapped her hands together. “I think that will be magnificent, with fireworks and an orchestra, but Hetta says we’re too young to go.”
“You’re too young,” Kit agreed. Lambeth was for couples to steal time alone, whether or not beneath the watchful eyes of their chaperones.
Hetta appeared in the doorway, smiled at her daughters. “Good afternoon, Kit. Pari, that was lovely. Louisa, you look very presentable. Pari, might you take her upstairs for a bit so Kit and I can talk?”
“Of course, Mother.” Pari held out her hand, which Louisa took without hesitation. “I’ve found a new book of pirate adventures.”
“I’ve fought pirates before!” Kit heard Louisa say. “They were very fierce.”
When Hetta’s brows lifted, Kit shook her head. “She stayed in the hold, and didn’t have so much as a glimpse of a pirate.”
“That’s a relief.” Hetta walked to Kit, and they embraced.
“You look tired,” Hetta said.
“It’s been a very long few days.”
“Then let’s go into my study and have some tea, and we can discuss it.”
* * *
Tea was served with milk and sugar, but Kit drew the line at sampling one of the dishwater-colored “nutritional biscuits” Mrs. Eaves had added to the tray.
“‘Biscuits,’” Hetta said, eyeing them warily over the rim of her cup, “is a very generous term.”
That confirmed Kit’s suspicion of tastelessness. “Nutritional” was how Mrs. Eaves described food with no taste and little texture.
“The Guild has built a ship,” Kit said, getting to the business of it. She told Hetta everything, from Queenscliffe to Forstadt and back, but for the kiss. Nothing good would come of sharing that, or dwelling on it. And by the time the update was complete, Kit was exhausted.
Roast beef, she decided. She wanted a slab of roast beef, delicate potatoes, crusty bread. None of which she’d be eating at home. And more, instead of considering how she might spend an evening at home after many days at sea, she had another mission—and a social event—to prepare for.
She’d take a lie-down, she thought, just a few minutes to rest before an evening of intrigue.
