“I’m afraid not. Is the Provost still inside?”
“I don’t know. “I’ve been waiting here—I never went in.”
“I’d like you to find him. Tell him Magister Treust needs armed backup at the church—someone named Vane has stolen the Eye.”
“Right away, Highness. And where would you like me to meet you?”
“Bring them to the church. Make sure they come quickly.”
“Pardon my boldness, but if there is some sort of conflict there, shouldn’t you wait for the Provost to resolve it?”
She shook her head. “Michlos may need me. Just bring the Provost’s men as soon as you can.”
Newcomb started to object, but the Princess was already running back toward the church.
“Well,” he said, “I guess she always has been prone to make exceptions where he’s concerned.”
. . . . .
After an entire morning of scrubbing smoke-damaged walls, the pain from Tilly’s cracked knuckles and the throbbing in her back finally convinced her to take a break. She wiped the lye soap from her hands with the rag she’d been using to cover her face against the smoke smell and strolled through the brothel to inspect the ongoing work. She was heartened that a fair number of the girls had shown up to help with the cleanup. If they hadn’t, she wasn’t sure she could have forced herself to keep going. It wasn’t just the hard work—she was used to that—it was knowing that at some point she would have to face the room at the end of the hall. When she caught herself complimenting each of the girls on their progress for the second time, she finally realized she couldn’t put it off any longer.
She marched resolutely toward the stairway, but, at the last minute, veered into the adjoining warehouse. Before her stood Jonas’s cart, none the worse for wear from the fire. After a glance over her shoulder, she reached up under it to retrieve a key and unlocked a fold-down panel. She pulled out a large bottle, and after a good long swig, she slipped it back onto the cart.
No sense going in unprepared.
The heat in her throat couldn’t distract from the anguish in her soul as she climbed the stairs to the hallway where her mother had made her last stand. Nana’s had been a tragic end to a tragic life, and Tilly couldn’t help feeling partly to blame. If she’d kept a tighter rein on Jonas, or maybe if she’d realized Nana’s intent a few moments sooner, there might have been something she could have done. The scorched walls conjured up the ghastly wails of those who had died there. But those memories paled in comparison to her recollection of the haunting beauty of Nanna’s defiant lullaby—her anguished proclamation that life had finally become too cruel to endure. Tilly tried humming an old drinking tune, but ended up floundering on the chorus, which she usually managed flawlessly even after a long night of rum and revelry. She pushed on to the end of the hall through sheer force of will, pausing once, briefly, to wipe away tears.
Nanna’s room, like the others near the end of the hall, had borne the brunt of the damage from Nanna’s Sacrifice. Blackened wallpaper, once striped, peeled away from the plaster. The feather mattress had also gone up in flames, as evidenced not just by the remains of bedclothes, but also by the charred ceiling above. The trunk at the foot of the bed fared somewhat better, but its lid had been pried open and the contents strewn about the floor, presumably by the same agents of the Constable who had absconded with the bodies. Tilly bent to retrieve a jewelry box, its lid hanging by a hinge. From the rubble, she saved, one by one, inexpensive rings, chains and earrings, now soot-covered, many of which she’d given Nanna over the years. She spent a moment remembering each gift and its occasion before placing it solemnly back in its box. The remains of Nanna’s hand-embroidered linens, once stored in the chest of drawers, were now scattered randomly about, as were the charred remains of hats and dresses that had once graced her treasured walnut wardrobe. Her most-prized possession, her wedding ring, was nowhere to be found. Above the chest of drawers was the little painting Jonas had given her from the Artist’s Colony. It had always called to mind the proud towers of Caprian before the Inquisition. Singed though it was, she imagined she could still make out the skyline if she squinted hard enough. Setting the jewelry box aside, she took down the picture, wondering if there was any way it could be restored. As she moved it, something fell behind the chest of drawers.
The heavy paper that had sealed the painting’s back had burned away. Likely whatever had fallen had been concealed within the stretcher that held the canvas. Her questing hand came upon a package tightly wrapped in scorched leather. The bindings offered little opposition, and the protective layers fell away to reveal a leather-bound book. The front cover, in embossed gold letters, said simply “Diary.”
At first, she was reticent to open it—what if the artist left it there by mistake? Should she try to return it? If so, to whom? At last, she peeked at the title page to see whether the owner had signed it. It read: Francesca Ravennan.
Tilly’s jaw dropped. Never had it crossed her mind that Nanna might have kept a diary. All these years never knowing what had happened to her, and now she could actually be holding in her hands the full explanation. The first entry was dated 882, when Nanna would have been in her late teens:
I met my future husband today—Mr. Giles Boothby Harcourt. He was sort of handsome, I guess, but he seemed a little old. Mother says a man of good breeding is hard to come by and that I should be grateful. He was very polite, and he gave me this diary as a gift, so I let him kiss me on the cheek when he left. FR, May 17, 881.
Already Tilly had learned something—she hadn’t known her parents’ marriage had been arranged. She rifled hungrily through entries until another caught her eye.
Last week our little girl finally arrived. We named her Mathilda after Boothie’s grandmother. I think she looks more like me, but Mother says she favors the Harcourts. FRH, March 5, 882.
Curious to see whether there was an entry for Jonas, she skipped ahead. Sure enough, Nanna had recorded the event:
It’s a boy! Boothie said it wouldn’t matter either way, but he was so excited, you could just tell he didn’t mean it. Boothie’s mother insisted on the name Mapleton after her side of the family, and I agreed on condition his first name be Jonas. Jonas Mapleton Harcourt—can a name get any more distinguished than that? FRH, January 22, 883.
Tilly smiled as she envisioned a young and vibrant Nanna cooing over her “distinguished” baby brother, and settled down on the cloth she’d thrown across the charred floorboards to read more:
The cotillion was splendid. I admit I got a little pouty when Boothie up and left me without a partner, but what did he expect? I don’t care how important he thinks his little meetings are, we’d been planning this for weeks. It would have been a complete disaster if it hadn’t been for Barclay. He was so gallant, offering to step in and rescue me like that. I’m sure he could have had his pick of any number of younger prettier girls, but long after any reasonable person would have deemed his rescue obligations met, I still had his arm. Did I mention he said I looked radiant? FRH, April 2, 887.
Barclay? On one hand, Tilly didn’t want to think anything ill of her mother. On the other, she couldn’t wait to see if the name showed up again. She didn’t have to page very far:
Boothie left again today for another week. It seems the Church has declared Phrendonics to be heretics, and the Accipitrines are debating whether to appeal to the Primal directly. Those who aren’t would prefer they all stayed out of it, but Boothie thinks he might be able to convince at least a few of them to change their minds. Anyway, before he left, he gave me a little money to spend. I think I’ll visit the racetrack. Barclay says it’s a great way to meet important people. FRH, April 17, 887.
This entry was followed immediately by:
He was there, and what a lucky thing, too. He offered to help me place a little wager, and I won! I think he might be growing fond of me—he told me he'd be attending Lady Ashbury’s costume ball, and he was fishing to find out if I’
d be going too. Of course, I didn’t tell him I was—that would have been far too forward. FRH, April 19, 887.
Even though it had all happened so long ago, Tilly had a bad feeling about this Barclay character. Over the next few entries, Nanna had arranged to meet him several more times, each time without her husband’s knowledge. What had seemed initially like a harmless flirtation had apparently developed into something far more serious. Though Tilly wanted desperately to believe her father never learned of it, she felt compelled to flip farther ahead regardless of what she might find.
Apparently, my badgering Boothie to get Barclay Accipitrine membership wasn’t enough for him—now he’s starting to ask me personal questions about the members. It’s a secret society—new recruits can’t expect to get immediate access to everything just for signing up, especially with the threat of Inquisition hanging over us. I’m trying to convince him to be patient, but he’s making me nervous. He can seem so poised and self-confident when he puts his mind to it, but in his heart, he’s not a patient man. FRH, August 12, 887.
Tilly wasn’t sure what to make of this passage. Either her father must have been very distracted or her mother must have been a consummate liar. She couldn’t imagine how Nanna could possibly have kept her relationship secret while at the same time promoting Barclay for membership in her father’s secret society. The situation could not have been comfortable. Indeed, as a subsequent passage made clear, it was about to get worse.
The Primal negotiations have fallen through—the Accipitrines have been ordered to disband for the crime of abetting heresy. Despite the promise of diplomatic immunity, the Accipitrine representative barely escaped the Holy City alive. Unfortunately, he was forced to use his Phrendonic training, and several Inquisitors were killed in the process. Boothie says that until this blows over, all Acciptrine activity will be suspended except at the highest levels. I doubt Barclay will be happy to hear that. FRH, November 4, 887.
Tilly paused. Now that she was getting close to entries that dealt with the Inquisition, she wasn’t sure she could bear to keep reading. Nanna’s passing was still an open wound, and the details of Nanna’s ordeal would do little to speed its healing—but she couldn’t bring herself to put the little diary down. Instead, she told herself it would be better to know now and heal later rather than reopen the wound once it closed. Whether or not she was lying to herself, the need to know won out.
I’ve decided to call it off with Barclay. Our situation becomes less tenable every day, and my family must come first. Caprian has been ordered to turn over the leaders of the Accipitrines or face interdict. The King dithers, fearing, on one hand, the ramifications of interdict, and on the other, the Accipitrines’ wrath. FRH, January 31, 888.
Tilly felt an odd sense of relief that Nanna had finally decided to end the relationship. While she knew they would not fare well during the Inquisition, at least they could now face it united as a family. The next entry chilled her blood.
I am undone! Barclay refuses to let me end it. If I insist, he says he will see to it that Boothie obtains all my letters to him. I can’t risk it. I might never see Jonas and Mathilda again. FRH, February 5, 888.
Tilly’s heart sank at the thought of Nanna’s dilemma. Once again, she found herself wondering who this Barclay person was and why she’d never heard of him.
The King is allowing the Church to station Inquisitors within Caprian. He seeks to avoid a confrontation with either faction by letting them fight it out among themselves. Boothie’s sources tell him the Church plans to send Inquisitors in multiple waves to mask their true numbers. It is doubtful the King even realizes the danger. I suggested we send the children someplace safe, at least for the time being, and thankfully Boothie agreed. If they were here, Barclay might find a way to use them against me. FRH, March 12, 888.
Tilly’s mouth fell open. Could it be that she and her brother had been spared the Inquisition not because of their father’s foresight, but because of their mother’s indiscretion?
Today Barclay finally told me he would be willing to set me free—on condition that I tell him the identity of the Grand Eagle of the Order. I worked up the nerve to ask him why he wanted to know. To my amazement, he condescended to tell me, as if it were no great thing. He wanted to deliver him to the Inquisition and end the madness in Caprian. I told him I’d sooner cut out my own tongue. He laughed, took me by the chin, and forced me to look him in the eye. He then asked if my answer would be different if that meant he would have no choice but to offer up Boothie in his place. FRH, March 23, 888.
Tilly knew what Nanna must have done–what she would have done in Nanna’s place, even if it ultimately would have led the Inquisition back to her husband. She shuddered to think a man Nanna had once loved could have been so cruel.
They struck in the dead of night. Boothie didn’t even find out until morning, and by then, there was no way to know where the Inquisition had taken the Grand Eagle. I’ve never seen Boothie so angry, but then, he is unused to feeling helpless. Only when I wept did he soften, mistaking my guilt for fear. He reassured me that we would be safe—that the Grand Eagle had prepared against this eventuality, and that he would sooner invoke the Sacrifice than betray the Order. He was baffled when, in response to his comforting words, I wept all the more. FRH, April 1, 888.
Although her father may have been baffled, Tilly was finally beginning to understand the horror the Inquisition represented for her mother, who must surely have felt in some measure responsible for whatever atrocities the Church committed against the man she had named. She hoped Nanna had taken at least some small solace in the fact that what she had done she had been forced to do to protect her family. With a heavy heart, Tilly read on:
He lied to me! There was a small gathering today at the Ashbury’s and he was there. He cornered me alone and accused me of knowing the Grand Eagle would kill the Inquisitor General and that it would cast suspicion on him. He demanded another name—this time, that of a leader unlikely to burst into flames. Failing that, he said Boothie would be next. FRH, April 12, 888.
A gentle voice interrupted her reading. “Pardon me, are you by any chance Mathilda Harcourt?”
Tilly was so startled she nearly dropped the diary. She’d been so absorbed in her reading she hadn’t noticed the approaching footsteps over the background hubbub of restoration efforts. The man leaning against the doorway was on the stocky side, plainly dressed, and his head sported a thin layer of salt-and-pepper stubble.
“We’re closed.”
“I’m not here for that. I was wondering if I could ask a few questions concerning your mother?”
Tilly tossed the diary into the open trunk. “You’re a little late.”
“I know. I’ve just come from the Constable. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“I find that hard to believe—unless you mean the Constable is regretting the fire may have consumed something of value he didn’t have a chance to either scatter or pilfer.”
“I wasn’t speaking for the Constable.”
“Oh, well in that case I’m touched. There’s nothing like the deepest sympathies of a total stranger to warm the heart when you’ve just lost your mother. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do here, and I’d like to get started.”
“I knew her. And I really am sorry.”
“That’s funny—I don’t recall ever having to pencil you in on her social calendar—and I’ve been in charge of it for quite a long time.”
“I lost track of her, and the last time I saw her, you probably weren’t old enough to use a pencil.”
Tilly froze. “Who are you?”
“I’m the man who adopted your baby brother. Did your mother never mention me?”
“If you really had known her, you’d know she couldn’t speak.”
“Even after all this time? I’d assumed she’d recovered. Does that mean you didn’t know?”
“Maybe you’d better fill me in.”
“Very well. It
was in Caprian, many years ago. The Inquisition was out of control. The death of the Inquisitor General at the hands of a heretic had incited the Inquisitors to new levels of brutality. That, in turn, unleashed a spate of additional Sacrifices that decimated the ranks of the Inquisitors stationed there. In that poisoned atmosphere, my attempts to promote restraint were futile. My own father ordered me to hold my tongue—whether from fear for my welfare, or disagreement with my message, I never found out. I had little choice but to stand by and watch as the situation deteriorated still further. Innocent people were tortured on the strength of baseless accusations, entire families, including children, were branded and turned out of their homes to starve. Officially, my hands were tied. Unofficially, however, I was determined to mitigate these crimes as best I could.”
“What did you do?”
“I cultivated trust among a small group of locals—no small task under the circumstances. Together we created a few secret shelters. We would take in refugees, branded or no. We provided food, shelter, and aid to those we could. I then used what little influence I still had with my father to keep them safe from the rest of the Inquisition. I think he agreed to it because he believed I was less of a problem if I was kept busy. He would warn me in advance of a raid, and I would make sure the place was abandoned in time.
“What does all this have to do with my mother?”
“I met her in one of the shelters. I recognized her immediately. She had a reputation among the leaders of the Inquisition as Lavicius’s spy—the insider among the heretics who, out of profound loyalty to her faith, provided him with the identities of the Phrendonic leadership. Without her, the Caprian Inquisition would have been considerably longer and bloodier.”
“And for her trouble, you had her branded?”
“That was a mistake. Lavicius was supposed to shepherd her to safety when the Inquisition ambushed your father, but she ran from him instead. I’m not sure why—perhaps she got turned around in the confusion. Since the Inquisition was under strict orders that she not be harmed, she escaped. Only much later did I find out she’d been captured in the presence of other accused heretics. No one recognized her until the damage was already done. My father ordered her release immediately when he found out what had happened.”
A House of Cards Page 35
