A Court of Muses

by Sarina Dorie

  Athaliah wiped her eyes. “You would do that for me? But Jezebel wasn’t even my mother.”

  Errol looked to Delilah. “It’s your money to do with as you please. Do you want me to free your friend as well and give you the rest of it to get started with your new life?”

  She nodded, but she still wouldn’t look at him.

  Errol paid his outstanding balance to the madam and then settled the business of freeing the two girls. Outside, he handed over the rest of his savings to Delilah. She turned away from him without another word.

  It was Athaliah who ran to him and kissed his cheek. “You’re very generous, sir. Bless you and your kin.” She ran off with her friend, the two of them linking arms.

  Errol walked home penniless, with nothing more than a bottle of whiskey that he couldn’t even drink. He’d thought he’d feel better after buying the young woman’s freedom and helping her, but his misconduct clung to him. Each footstep back to his room echoed down the cobblestone street, speaking of his shame.

  Now that he’d spent his entire life savings on prostitution and restitution for his deeds, he would have to explain to Alma that all the money he’d saved for her future dowry was gone. The dishonor of his actions pressed down on him.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  A Daunting Day Ahead

  Errol slept fitfully, his dreams haunted by Jezebel’s slack jaw and empty eyes. Visions of the salon of muses returned to him, only, instead of being memories of the past, they were nightmares of his future. He was dressed as a giant easel, glamoured to resemble a piece of art as a female artist stroked him with her paintbrush. He was like a bee bumbling up against a flower, covering himself with the powdered pollen of her creativity.

  He kept taking and taking just as he had in real life.

  A timid knock came at Errol’s door, rousing him from his slumber. He sat up with a start.

  He couldn’t imagine any soldier rapping so quietly, even the men in his unit. The pocket watch on his nightstand said it was six o’clock in the morning. It was too early for his shift to start.

  The knock came again, this time louder. Even through the door, his magic sensed a decidedly female presence. He hoped it wasn’t one of the young ladies he had freed. Or worse yet, the brothel owner, having changed her mind and come looking for her property.

  Reluctantly, he opened the door, still wearing his long nightshirt and stockings. Alma stood there, tapping her foot in impatience.

  She carried a steaming bowl of porridge. “What’s this I hear about you being ill and not telling me about it?”

  “Oh,” he said.

  She frowned. “That’s not an answer.”

  “Can I have a moment to dress?”

  Alma glanced down at his stockinged feet. “Fine.”

  She started toward the nightstand, but it was too small to contain much besides his pocket watch, the handkerchief he’d left there, and a book. She turned to the tiniest desk he suspected anyone had ever owned, which was no tidier. Books, an apple, and an empty coin purse cramped the small surface. She set the tray on the trunk that doubled as a bench when he sat at his desk.

  She left him to dress. He didn’t look forward to this conversation, but he knew he’d have to find a way to break the news to her somehow. He’d just given away the majority of his savings to two former Witchkin slaves, though he’d told Alma years ago that he was saving all his earnings for her.

  When Errol opened the door again, he’d cleared a spot for her tray at the desk so she could sit on the trunk.

  She marched inside with the determination of a soldier. “Are you going to tell me what happened, or am I going to have to force it out of you?”

  “It’s a long story. Would you like a seat?” He gestured to the trunk.

  She sat, crossing her arms.

  “How’d you find out I wasn’t well?” he asked.

  “There’s a soldier who fancies me. He stood me up last night because he was covering your shift for you. That’s how I found out. Not from you. I’ve been worried sick. Especially when you weren’t in your room last night, nor the infirmary.” She looked as though she might smack him.

  Errol could only focus on her offhanded remark that someone fancied her—and he assumed she fancied him back. “Is one of my men courting you?”

  “It’s none of your business. You are going to tell me what’s going on. I ran into Captain Helga late last night, and she wouldn’t tell me a thing. She said if I couldn’t find you, you were probably at the latrine. She suggested I come back in the morning and let you inform me yourself.”

  Errol doubted Alma would have just happened upon Helga. Being married, and one of the officers with a nicer room, she wasn’t housed anywhere near his wing. Alma would have needed to go seek Helga out because she was one of the few officers she’d met—which probably meant Alma had stirred up all sorts of trouble.

  Errol sat on his bed. “I haven’t been well, but not how you think. Mostly it’s my conscience that troubles me.” He swallowed, trying to find the words to start.

  She tilted her head to the side, some of her venom fading. “You act as though you killed a man on duty.”

  “Not on duty, no. And not a man.” He couldn’t meet her eyes.

  “Oh.” She was silent.

  Errol listened to the ticking of his pocket watch on the nightstand. The aroma of maple and cinnamon wafted up from the oatmeal. Normally he would have enjoyed the aroma—and the flavor—but at the moment his stomach twisted into knots.

  He rubbed his clammy palms against his trousers. “I don’t want you to think less of me, but I know I need to tell you about what happened.”

  “We’re family. I’m not going to think less of you.” She took his hand. “Tell me what happened, and I’ll see if I can help you get through whatever it is.”

  He grimaced. “I’m the big brother. I’m the one who’s supposed to help you get through things.”

  Her smile was sad. “And you have. Now it’s my turn to return the favor.”

  Errol wasn’t yet ready to think about the death he’d caused. He started with the muse magic. “Do you remember when I asked you whether you have any special abilities inherited from our mother’ side of the family?”

  “Aye.”

  Errol reminded Alma of his abilities to see the powers of the Silver Court and the duties he’d been given as a result. She nodded. He went on to describe the night of debauchery he’d witnessed.

  “Don’t repeat what I’ve confided. Guards are expected to keep the royal family’s secrets,” he said. “If anyone in the kitchen starts talking about what I saw, they’ll know the gossip came from me, and likely the king will have my tongue for wagging it too much.”

  “Contrary to whatever you believe, I am capable of keeping a secret.” She gave him a pointed look.

  That did seem to be the case if she had a beau and wouldn’t tell him.

  Errol went on to explain how the muse magic affected him and made him crave an artist of his own to feed on, though he hadn’t known what that hunger in him had been at the time. “I didn’t want to go to a house of ill repute. I know how you feel about those poor girls, but I didn’t know what else to do.” Tears filled his eyes.

  She squeezed his hand.

  Errol explained meeting each of the women and described the theatrical they put on for him. He left out the part about propositioning a commanding officer, which had led to going to the brothel in the first place. He was still kicking himself for both those deeds. He also left out the part about waking up naked in a bed full of women.

  “I can’t remember much of what happened. I suspect I was like the royal court when I witnessed them feeding on the energies of the artists. Only I don’t know if I fed on that woman’s soul or drained her energy or her heart simply gave out. I felt miserable about it when I heard—I still do. I offered to pay a severance to the brothel owner for her death and tried to leave something
for the daughter, but one of the other girls told me if I wanted to do something for Lila, I needed to return at midnight with more money and meet her in the alley.” He swallowed the lump in his throat and explained the rest. He couldn’t meet Alma’s eyes as he told her about spending every penny of what he’d set aside for her future marriage.

  Alma scooted closer. “Is that what bothers you the most? Losing the money you wanted to give to me?”

  “That’s half of it.”

  “I don’t need a dowry. That was Sarah’s idea—and that was back when she had said she was going to raise me as a well-educated lady and give me good prospects for marriage. She never sent me to school and stopped paying tutors well before the captain died.” She shook her head. “Dowries are for proper ladies, not common women. I make my own money and set it aside so that if I ever do settle down, I’ll have it to pay for renting a room in a cottage, but I’m not ready for that yet. You save your earnings for your own family when you start one, all right?”

  He nodded woodenly. He only felt marginally better.

  She patted his shoulder. “I imagine the other half of it is the accident you feel torn up inside about.”

  His throat constricted. He had no words. He only nodded.

  “You don’t know you killed her,” Alma said. “Mayhap she did have a weak heart. The important thing is you don’t put yourself in a position where anything like that happens again. You can’t let those muses get to you.”

  Easier said than done, considering his occupation required it.

  “What you did for those girls was a good deed—I only hope they have enough sense not to squander what you gave them or get themselves robbed. You did the best you could to remedy their situation. Most Fae wouldn’t have done anything.” She raised her chin proudly.

  “I tried to fix things, but I couldn’t bring that woman back. I have powers that I don’t know how to control, and this job brings it out of me. What if I do it again? I could hurt someone else, one of my men or you.”

  She snorted at that. “I beg your pardon—it’s just that—” She shook her head. “I’m about as uncreative as they come. If this is a magical skill inherited from the royal family, think about the other part that is paired with it. None of the Silver Court are artists themselves. They only appreciate art. I’m like that. I know a good recipe when I see one, but I can’t just make something up like the head cook can.”

  “The Silver Court are artists in their own way. You should have seen their costumes.”

  She shook her head at him. “They don’t make their clothes themselves, you ninny! They’ve got their own tailors and designers they pay—and probably inspire—to do that for them.”

  Errol hadn’t thought of that. He supposed she probably knew this from gossiping with maids in the kitchen.

  “You aren’t going to inspire me into madness. And I’ll know if you inspire Magdalen into making up a new recipe.”

  “Magdalen?” he asked, thinking of the harlot.

  “That’s the head cook’s name. Anyway, I doubt you’re going to bring out her creativity—and if you do—we’ll both know, right? What’s more likely is one of the royal family would do so, but none of them would ever set foot in a kitchen or use the servant hallway to get there.”

  Her words only made him more anxious. “What if the queen did come to the kitchen? Do you think it would affect you?”

  “The only people from upstairs who ever come to the kitchen to give us orders are the housekeeper and the queen’s and princess’s maids. No one from the royal family. And like I said before, I don’t have a creative bone in my body. It’s you we need to worry about.” She wagged a stern finger at him. “You need to tell your superior officer how dangerous this magic is that they want you monitoring. Tell him how it affects you and that you can’t be put in that position again.”

  Errol thought he remembered Helga cursing and complaining about his captain. He doubted his superior officer would listen.

  “I should resign. I’ll ask to be transferred back to the air navy.”

  “No, take a few days to think about it. This is a good job. They just need to treat you better.” She turned to the tray and lifted his breakfast from the desk. “This will be cold now. Do you want it, or should I go back to the kitchen and make you some more?”

  He held out his hand. Errol wasn’t one to waste food, especially anything Alma made. Her cooking was always better than that of the barracks.

  She nodded decisively. “And make sure you ask for a raise and a promotion for all this extra work they’re having you do.”

  “I’ll ask for a raise and a promotion,” Errol promised, though he doubted Captain Kasen would do either.

  “You know what would truly help you? A lover,” she said. “To take your mind off this muse-magic business.”

  Errol couldn’t imagine he had time to court a woman.

  He had feared what the true price of accepting this position would be. He suspected he’d discovered that cost. Errol hoped the royal family’s ability for inducing madness in Witchkin wasn’t going to affect Alma. He would blame himself forever if she was hurt on account of taking this job that he’d recommended for her.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Nice Try

  “Permission denied,” Captain Kasen said. “If you want to be a captain, you have years of hard work ahead of you. And I won’t stand for this laziness and supposed ‘illness’ after a shift at a big event.” He eyed Errol’s silver hair with disdain.

  “I was ill. You made me work a triple shift,” Errol said through clenched teeth.

  “If you have truly been practicing the lessons your tutors gave you, then perhaps you should be better at controlling this inherited muse magic. I shall expect you to double your efforts to avoid any more sickness in the future. Understood, soldier?”

  “Yes, sir.” Errol noticed how his captain didn’t even use his rank.

  “The king already pays you handsomely for your service, soldier. Remember that.” The captain waved him away. “You’re dismissed.”

  Errol’s captain’s supervisor was unavailable, so instead of going to the major, he went to Colonel Sigeweard. He was aware what he was doing bordered on insubordination.

  He tugged at the hem of his uniform jacket. “If I’m not going to be compensated by pay, rank, or promotion, and I am expected to learn a skill no one can teach me, then I would like to be transferred to a different unit.” He would have asked to be transferred to Captain Helga’s unit, but he didn’t want to ask for her and them to think she favored him in some way—which would make them less likely to grant that request. He wouldn’t have minded serving under Captain Semmy, though that might have been a conflict of interest since he was Errol’s friend.

  Colonel Sigeweard grunted. “If I transferred every lad who didn’t get along with his superior officer and wanted to be reassigned, this place would look like a beehive with people buzzing around everywhere.”

  “His expectations are unrealistic,” Errol said.

  “Indeed. As are the general’s and the king’s expectations above him. Allowing you to serve under an officer with unrealistic values sets you up for what you are to expect for the rest of your life—should you choose to stay in the royal guard.”

  Errol lifted his chin. “Very well, then. I resign.”

  “Mmm. Nice try. Permission denied.”

  “What do you mean? How can you deny my resignation?” Errol asked.

  “You are too valuable. The general sees potential in you, but you’re still rough around the edges and have a lot to learn about being in the royal guard. He expects you to earn your way up.” Colonel Sigeweard looked Errol up and down, his gaze lingering on Errol’s silver hair. “Though, if it were up to me, I would have no problem being rid of you.”

  Errol went up the chain of command until he found himself speaking with General Hereweald. Each time he stated he wished to resign, he was told, �
��Permission denied.”

  General Hereweald said, “You are in no position to resign. Your king has granted you a boon. He made you an enlisted officer. Now he expects you to repay him with loyalty and service.”

  “For how long?” Errol asked. Many indentured servants had contracts that bound them for seven years, fifteen, thirty, or even longer.

  The general shrugged. “He has never said.”

  It was Errol’s debt that bound him to his service. He determined he would have to make the best of his situation. He needed to find a solution that didn’t involve leaving.

  The true problem was he needed a tutor to assist him with his muse skills, and they had no one who could do so. No one outside the royal family was capable of that, and Errol was separated from them by a chasm of class and rank.

  Errol needed a way to bridge that divide.

  * * *

  Errol was on his way back from his latest conversation with a supervisor, taking the long way through the garden in the hope of cooling off. He stalked the path with such rage he didn’t notice anyone else on the path and nearly bowled into Prince Elric-Atherius, strolling on the path with a young lady.

  Errol had forgotten to glamour himself—and it was fortunate he hadn’t—or else the prince wouldn’t have seen him and flung himself out of the way. Unfortunately, he accidentally tossed his lady companion into a giant lavender bush. Her parasol went flying.

  “I beg your pardon, Your Highness.” Errol’s eyes went wide with trepidation. “I should have watched where I was going.”

  The prince dodged toward the parasol, leaving the woman to roll out of the bushes on her own. Errol offered his arm to the lady, then remembered this was probably uncouth, considering royalty didn’t like to touch Fae commoners, Witchkin, and humans. He started to draw his arm back, but the lady grabbed on and hoisted herself to her feet.

  “How kind. At least there’s one gentleman present.” She cast a sour glance over her shoulder.

  Prince Elric-Atherius was still chasing down her parasol, which had been carried down the path like a kite in the wind.