“Maybe they have a good soup,” Hadrian suggested.
“Still gonna have to check for tails… and whiskers.”
Royce ignored them both and never took his eyes off Grue, who soon returned as promised.
“Make a decision yet?” Grue asked, dropping off the drinks, which made a healthy thud on the table.
“Still thinking,” Royce replied, wearing the same smile. “Why don’t you tell me more about the woman who runs that place across the street.”
“Gwen DeLancy? Not much to tell. She’s an ungrateful whore.”
Albert shot Hadrian a look of alarm.
“When she came to Medford, no one would hire her. Being the tolerant, understanding man I am, I looked past her being from Calis. Heck, I thought it might even be a benefit… you know, exotic and all. So I took her in, but she just wanted to serve drinks.” He gave a little snort that actually made Hadrian want to punch him. “I set her straight quick enough. A good thick belt will do that, you know?”
“You beat her?” Royce asked.
“Had to—she refused to make my customers happy. ’Course, nothing like what that other fella did last night. Right now I bet she was wishing she hadn’t run out on me. She has a hired man, but he didn’t do much. People around here respect me. They know there’s a high price to pay for damaging the merchandise, and I’ve not had much of that kind of trouble.”
Royce’s smile vanished as his eyes narrowed. “Gwen’s hurt? What happened?”
“I told you, she got the piss beat out of her last night by one of her customers. Rumor has it she can’t even walk. Might be true—I ain’t seen her today. I don’t think anyone has. From what I heard he messed her up bad. Maybe he cut her up and she’s too embarrassed to show her face—now that it ain’t so pretty no more.”
Royce began squeezing his hands into fists. “Who did it?”
Grue shrugged. “No idea. I was sleeping one off last night. Just heard about it from Willard, who said she was dragged out into the street by some fella he didn’t recognize—but Willard ain’t the shiniest pot on the shelf.”
“Did she tell the sheriff?” Hadrian asked.
Grue chuckled. “Ethan don’t care what happens to no stupid whore—less she dies. Then he’s required to see the body is removed from the city and make sure restitution is paid. I had that happen once. There’s this guy named Stane, a real ugly sort who works the docks and always smells of fish. He killed one of my girls.” Grue made a face like he tasted something awful. “It was bad. But there was nothing that could be done about it. Well Gwen, being crazy like she is, she went and got Ethan. I told him Stane’s a good customer and that he had agreed on a price for damages, pretty generous, I might add. And that should have been the end of it. But Gwen got mad and that’s when she left for good. She thought Stane might get her, too, but he and I had a real good talk and he wasn’t gonna do it again. Didn’t matter, though. Turns out she had money saved and leased the shack across the street.”
“You’re sitting here and call that a shack?” Albert asked.
“Oh yeah, it was a dump. They fixed it up some. Not sure how. She couldn’t have had that much coin. I’m guessing she serviced a whole lot of people along Artisan Row. All I know is she’s made it impossible to run a decent business anymore. I tried getting more girls, but they all go over there. I used to make a quarter of my coin from prostitution. Now I’m left with only the ale and gambling.”
“What about food?”
“I don’t sell no food.”
Hadrian glanced at Albert, who offered a smile.
“I guess I could’ve beat her again—probably should’ve, but I don’t suspect it would’ve done much good. She’s too willful, that one. She’ll end up dead because of it, believe me.” He turned to Royce. “Say, have you decided what ya want yet? There isn’t a lot of choices, to be honest.”
“You’re right about that. Right now all I want is to find out who hurt Gwen.”
Grue chuckled. “That sort of thing can get an idiot killed.”
Royce offered that cold smile of his again and said, “I’m thinking more than one.”
They stepped out of The Hideous Head, and Royce made a quick left, heading up Wayward Street in the direction of Artisan Row.
“You’re moving like you’ve got a purpose,” Hadrian said as he and Albert struggled to keep up.
“Heading to a tailor now I hope,” Albert mentioned. “For living in a barn this nightshirt is ample, but out in the wind it’s not up to the task.”
“And you’re aware that our horses are still back at the House, right?”
Without a word Royce paused at a fence that blocked the entrance to the alley running behind The Hideous Head. He kicked it hard, breaking two slats. He kicked again, popping off the crossbeam.
“Easy, Royce,” Hadrian said, stunned. In all the time they’d been together he’d never seen Royce lose control like that.
Royce picked up the crossbeam and entered the alley.
“Does this mean no tailor?” Albert asked as they chased after him.
Grabbing Albert by the chest of his nightshirt, Royce shoved him behind a stack of crates set against the side of a storage barn.
“Sorry!” the viscount said. “I was just asking.”
“Shut up,” Royce ordered. He wasn’t looking at Albert. He peered back toward the street.
Royce tilted his head slightly toward the mouth of the alley and then ducked in alongside Albert. Seeing this, Hadrian did the same. No one moved or said a word.
A minute later a man walked past. He was thin, dressed in a beat-up jacket with the collar raised, and his hands were stuffed in his sleeves. He could have been anyone, a weaver, a messenger, a dyer, or a baker. Startled upon seeing them, the man tried to hurry past. Royce walked out and hit him hard from behind with the board.
“Royce!” Hadrian yelled.
The man collapsed with a grunt and before he could recover his wind, Royce leapt on his back and used the crossbeam under the man’s neck for a choke hold.
“What are you doing?” Albert asked, shocked.
“He’s been watching us since we tried to see Gwen.” Royce slammed the man’s head against the stones, hard enough for it to bounce. Grabbing him by the hair, he pulled his head back and placed his white dagger against the prone man’s throat. “I’m not a patient person in general, and today is a bad one. You’re only going to get one shot at this. Tell me why you’re following us to my satisfaction or I’m going to open your neck and let your blood drain. You’re leaning downhill, so I won’t even get my boots wet. Got it?”
The man gasped out a yes.
“Okay, go ahead.”
“I’m supposed to check out anyone who visits the brothel.”
“Why?”
“To see where they go, who they talk to.”
“Why?”
“We’re trying to find a girl.”
“Gwen?”
“No. Her name is Rose.” The man coughed.
Royce ignored it and kept the pressure tight. “She’s a girl from the House?”
“Yes. Disappeared last night.”
“And who is this we that’s looking for her?”
The man hesitated and Royce began to cut.
“The Crimson Hand,” he blurted out.
“Thieves’ guild?”
“Yes.”
“And why are you looking for Rose?”
“I don’t know—honest I don’t. I just know everyone’s looking for her. I’m only supposed to watch and follow. That’s all I can tell you.”
Royce nodded. “Then you’re no longer of value.”
Hadrian saw the man’s muscles stiffen and assumed Royce had slit his throat. It would not have been the first time. When Royce said he had little patience, he meant it, and Hadrian was already wondering what to do with the body when a second later he noticed the man was still breathing.
“You can still save yourself by performing a serv
ice,” Royce explained.
“Why? You’ll just kill me afterward.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions before you hear what I have to say.”
“I should warn you, if you kill me the Hand will find you.”
“That’s just the thing. I’m going to save them the trouble. I want you to take me to your guild.”
CHAPTER 7
THE LADY OF FLOWERS
Gwen sat rocking on the edge of the bed, her face in her hand, crying.
Why now? Why did he have to come back now?
It hurt to cry. It hurt to do anything, but the shuddering was especially painful. Two of her ribs were cracked, and they ached whenever she took a breath. Closing her eyes brought images of Avon—her hair dyed crimson, eyes open but not seeing as they stared at the rafters of The Hideous Head. That was the last thing her friend ever saw—that and Stane’s ugly face.
For Gwen, she had been convinced that the porch steps and the beautiful balustrades would be her last sight. They were painted white just like the fancy house in the Gentry Quarter. Just like she had always wanted. She had lain in the street, staring at the porch railings while he kicked her. She couldn’t scream anymore—he had kicked out all the air. She expected to die. A whole year after leaving the Head, after thinking she might have escaped Avon’s fate, it had happened again.
It would always happen.
The girls had done so well. Better than Gwen had ever thought possible. Medford House was the reality she dreamed of, a sanctuary for women like her. They had grown strong over the past year. Medford House had a prized reputation and men came from as far away as Westfield and East March. Over the last few months the clientele had shifted. While they still drew dockworkers and merchants, new faces—men with swords or those dressed in silks and fur—had recently visited. The nobility had discovered Medford House and had liked it enough to return. Names were never given—not real ones. They called themselves Todd the Tinker or Bill the Baker, except the baker arrived in a coach and wore a fur mantle… and the tinker dressed in velvet and silk. Patrons using false monikers is what gave Gwen the idea of changing the girls’ names.
She’d always hoped that the women who worked the House would eventually leave it. That they would find new, better lives, but how could they if their names followed them? How could Jollin, Mae, or even Etta settle down somewhere if everyone knew what they had been? All the girls had picked pretty, exotic, or cute names. Jasmine, Daisy, Olive—Mae had wanted to be called Lily-of-the-Valley, but they had talked her into going with just Lily. The only two who had kept their real names were Rose and Gwen. It just seemed silly to Rose to change her name to a different flower, and Gwen could never imagine leaving Medford House.
“They’ve left the Head,” Abby, now known as Tulip, said. “All three went around to the alley. Royce looked awfully mad. He beat up the fence.”
Gwen brought her good hand to her lips, trying to hold in a sob.
“Do you need anything?” Tulip asked.
With her head down so that the scarf hid her eyes, Gwen shook her head. Tulip lingered, and Gwen heard the faint close of her door and the creak of the steps.
Why now?
Every day since Royce and Hadrian had left, Gwen had looked for their return. In the evening she sat on the porch swing, staring down the length of Wayward Street, imagining she could see Royce riding up or perhaps just walking with that cloak of his rippling in the breeze. She had always known there was no guarantee he would return.
In all the time he had lain on her bed, she never once looked at his palm. The idea felt deceitful, indecent. She was there to help, not rifle his pockets.
Gwen’s entire life had been leading to that single event. Her mother had known. She had dragged her daughter on the road west, then died along the way, but she had made Gwen promise to finish the trip and make Medford her home. She never said why. Gwen might have never completed the journey if not for the mysterious man, in whose eyes she had seen so much and yet understood so little. All she knew was that she needed to save a man who would come in the night, dressed in his own blood. After so many years of waiting, of not knowing if it was true or if the choices she had made had changed her future, Royce had arrived. She had saved him just as foretold. After so long, she finally had the key to the riddle, but she refused to open his palm to look for answers.
After the men had been cleaned and the doctor had finished his work, Royce had lain unconscious, wrapped in white linens. He had looked so serene. She had touched his hand, soft and so unlike other men. Royce Melborn was, in a word, elegant. Her only hint to his identity was the brand on his shoulder, a dark M.
“How is Hadrian?” Those were the first words out of his mouth when Royce finally woke. He had no concern for himself. This, she knew, was a good man.
“He’s fine.” She could tell from the look in his eyes that such a simple answer wouldn’t do. She added, “A doctor tended to his wounds and he’s sleeping quietly.”
“It was you on the street.” His expression shifted from recognition to confusion. “Who are you? Why did you help us?”
In all of her imaginings of that moment, she had always expected him to know who she was and why he was there—he was supposed to be the one with all the answers, filling in the blanks for her. In that instant she realized this man hadn’t a clue, and Gwen smiled at the thought of actually telling him, I’m the daughter of a fortune-teller, and I’ve traveled across four nations to make Medford my home just to be here when you arrived so that I could save your life. But that wasn’t the time; the man was barely alive.
“My name is Gwen DeLancy. I run this brothel. I helped because you needed me.”
This didn’t alleviate his confusion, but he didn’t inquire further. He was still exhausted, still in pain.
“Who are you?” She had to ask. After waiting so long for this foretold meeting, she needed to know. He didn’t answer for a long time, only stared at her.
“Royce,” he finally said. The word had come out reluctantly, grudgingly, handed over only out of obligation.
She let him sleep again after that—she had enough; she had his name.
He was quiet after that first exchange. In the following few days, he asked only about Hadrian, and it wasn’t until she finally helped him walk into the other room to see his friend that he had started to relax.
“You don’t look like you should be walking yet,” Hadrian had said from his bed as Gwen helped Royce stagger into Etta’s room.
“He shouldn’t be,” Gwen replied.
“You all right?” Royce asked, his voice harsh and demanding.
Hadrian offered a lopsided smile. “Last thing I remember, you were knee-deep in a bloody puddle and I was trying to dig you out from under a dead horse in the pouring rain. And oh yes—I had just been shot with an arrow.” He looked around at Etta’s bedroom, which had an excess of lace and an abundance of flowers. “Yeah… I’d say I’m doing better.”
“Okay,” Royce said, and with Gwen’s help had turned to leave.
“You got up and came in here just for that?” Hadrian asked.
“I was bored,” Royce replied.
“He’s been worried to the point of not sleeping,” Gwen said.
Royce scowled. “I wanted to make certain these people weren’t… you know.”
“By Mar, Royce.” Hadrian shook his head, amazed. “They saved our lives. You can trust them.”
By the time Gwen had Royce back in bed, he was bleeding again, and she had to redress the wound in his side. Before they arrived, someone had done such a terrible job of stitching him that the doctor was forced to fix it. When she was done, he caught her hand.
“If you… if you’re up to something… if you’re trying to…” Royce hesitated, holding her, his arms weak and shaking. She could see him struggling. “Why did you really do it? Why’d you help us?”
“I told you.”
His expression didn’t change. He didn’t believe her.
Gwen smiled.
Royce smirked. “I don’t get it. Something’s not right, and trust me, I’m not the kind you want to cross. Understand?”
She nodded, still smiling.
“Well… good.” He let go of her. “And you should probably be careful, because just about the entire world is looking for us.”
Royce had never provided details, but Gwen understood the two were wanted and on the run. She was housing criminals, a hanging offense if she was caught.
Looking back on those months, Gwen saw them as the most intensely lived of her life. She was never more frightened and never so euphoric. She spent her days tracking gossip and trying to squelch any rumors about a man who had cried for help on Wayward Street the week of the big storm. Her nights had been spent feeding, cleaning, and dressing Royce, during which they held short—often cryptic—conversations she never fully understood. Weak as a kitten, he needed her for everything, and she could see it pained him more than his wounds.
At first he was quiet, but as the days passed they began to discuss such serious things as cooking, sewing, the snow that soon fell, and Wintertide.
“You probably celebrate the holiday with a feast and decorations,” Royce said. By then he was able to sit up and the two spoke in the light of the single candle. “Lots of family and friends, dancing and songs.”
Gwen noticed a twinge of sadness, even spite in his voice. She shook her head. “I’ve never celebrated Wintertide. My mother and I were always traveling, usually alone, and we never had money for any feasts. Since she died”—Gwen shrugged—“I’ve been struggling just to survive. It’s hard to celebrate when your choices are starving or being a slave.”
She remembered he appeared surprised, even suspicious. “You don’t look like you’re hurting for food.”
“No, not now. I finally decided I didn’t want to be a victim anymore. I got to the point where I was just tired of being afraid.”
He reached out then and for the first time touched her for no reason. He placed his hand on hers and gave a soft squeeze. The hint of malice she’d seen in his face had been replaced by sympathy—not pity, but understanding, a shared appreciation that nearly made her cry.
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