Midnight Jewel

by Richelle Mead

  Clara stiffened. Fury flashed in her eyes, but like me, she maintained a cordial façade. “It’s always so nice talking to you, Mira. Enjoy the day.”

  As soon as she was gone, I turned back toward the water and slumped against the rail, resting a hand over my eyes. “Tamsin,” I muttered, “why did you have to take it this far?”

  “Are you talking to me?”

  This new voice was familiar, but unexpected. Grant Elliott. He stood to my left, only a few feet away. He seemed ill at ease, as though he had to force himself to speak.

  “No,” I said, not even caring that I finally had his attention. My mood was too dark for that or even tact. “And I have a feeling you know that, Mister Elliott. You seem like you’re an observant man.”

  “You think so, huh?” His voice held amusement, though his expression stayed serious. He leaned against the rail beside me and watched the Gray Gull. “Are you . . .” A deep breath. “Are you okay? Your face after that girl—”

  “That girl is no one,” I snapped. “Or any of your business.”

  He straightened up. “Okay. I’ll leave you alone.”

  “No, wait.” I shook off my gloom, suddenly aware of the opportunity before me. “I’m being rude. I’m sorry. Don’t go.”

  He wavered, even shifting from foot to foot, and I thought I’d lost him. After a little more hesitancy, he settled against the rail but pointedly looked away from me. “No need to apologize. We all have our days.”

  My mind raced, and I tried to slow it down. I had him. At last. Now I needed to keep him. “Are you . . . are you excited to return to Adoria?”

  “I wouldn’t say ‘excited.’ But I’ve got work to do in Cape Triumph. And a couple of people I’d like to see.”

  As I started to reply, I had a weird sense of familiarity. Like I should know him. But it wasn’t possible. “You’re lucky. Going home to people who care about you.” Images of Lonzo and Tamsin flashed through my mind.

  “I’m not sure I think of Cape Triumph as home.”

  “I’ve always thought people are what make a place home.”

  “People complicate things. They can be dangerous if you get attached to them.”

  He still wouldn’t look at me, but I realized he’d dropped that overly proper air he usually projected. He was almost candid now, revealing a slight shift in the way he spoke. I always used my best Osfridian in public, but when I relaxed among friends, my natural accent slipped back in. I felt like that was happening to him now, but I just couldn’t figure out what I was hearing in his voice. It was maddening. As a student of linguistics, I needed to unravel it. And as Adelaide’s best friend, I needed to unravel him.

  “Thinking that way sounds like it’d be . . . lonely.”

  He only shrugged. I was in grasping distance of figuring out that cadence in his voice.

  “Is your voyage going well?”

  “Any voyage where you’re still afloat is going well.”

  Silence again. I had it. Almost. I’d heard enough colonial accents on board to recognize them now, even carefully hidden under the proper Osfridian pronunciation he managed so well. But something still felt off about his. “Mister Elliott . . . which part of Adoria were you born in?”

  His whole posture changed, growing stiff. Wary. “What makes you think I was born there at all?”

  “It’s in your voice, your accent. I mean, it’s hard to pick up—but it’s there. The way you stress your vowels, I think.”

  I finally received eye contact, and it was filled with suspicion. “And how in the world would you—” He stopped and averted his gaze once more. “I’ve traveled around. I’ve probably picked up some of the local sounds.”

  “Were you outside the central colonies? I haven’t heard many Adorians from the edges, but there must be regional differences.”

  “Are you a linguistics professor in your free time, Miss Viana?”

  “No, but I worked with one back in Osfrid.” I noted how he’d dodged my question. “I’ve been trying to get rid of my Sirminican accent.”

  “Why?”

  I thought he must be joking, but he seemed legitimately puzzled. “Most people think I’ll make a better match if my accent isn’t so noticeable.”

  His eyes traveled over my body, studying me from head to toe. “Unless you’re marrying a blind man, no husband’s going to care about your accent.”

  Heat flooded my face. I had no reason to feel offended, seeing as I’d sized him up in exactly the same manner that first day. “Well, I should hope he’d care about more than just my looks,” I shot back.

  “Did I say anything about your looks?” He was watching the waves again, but I could see a wry smile playing at his lips.

  “You didn’t have to.”

  “I meant no offense, which I think you know—because you seem like you’re pretty observant too.” Decorous Grant returned as he gave me a small bow and turned in the direction of the door that led below. “Thank you for your time, Miss Viana.”

  He walked away, and that was when I spotted something I’d never noticed before—probably because the wind was always blowing his hair around.

  A nick in his left ear.

  My jaw dropped. I’d seen that nick before, twice—in the laborer who’d been at Blue Spring. A coincidence, I started to tell myself. That was all it could be. The Flatlander had been older, scarred, and stooped. Not to mention prone to coughing. Grant, while a little untidy sometimes, was a striking man and not much older than me. He was educated. He talked easily to the middle- and upper-class passengers on board. The two men had nothing in common, except that ear.

  And their voices, I realized. The laborer had had a heavy Flatlander accent, similar to Ingrid’s, but there’d always been a slight twang in his that differed from hers. Something I couldn’t identify then, just as I couldn’t identify it in Grant’s voice now.

  How was this possible? How could one man pull off two completely different people? An accent change was the first way, I supposed. I could imitate any number of them—why not Grant? And how hard was it to fake a hunched back and coughing fits? I’d never been able to study his entire face back at Blue Spring. Mostly I’d just seen his eyes—dark, cynical eyes. Eyes that didn’t miss anything.

  I gripped the rail tightly. Okay. They could be the same person. But to what end? Why had he been at Blue Spring, and why was he on our ship now?

  And most importantly, why was he so focused on Adelaide?

  I had no idea what he’d want with my friend, but it couldn’t be good if it involved disguises and fake identities. I felt a tightness in my chest as I scurried downstairs to check on Adelaide. I would protect her. I would learn what Grant was doing and stop him.

  I just had to figure out how.

  CHAPTER 7

  MY CHANCE CAME A FEW DAYS LATER DURING A WALK with Adelaide and Cedric. Another passenger passed by and offered Cedric an invitation to a card game that night, which Cedric accepted. After the other man left, Adelaide and I demanded more information.

  “It’s a thing the men do around here a couple of times a week,” Cedric explained. “The passengers—not the sailors. My father’s not that good at it, but he keeps going back, convinced he’ll get his lucky break.”

  “And I’m sure you fleece them all each time,” said Adelaide.

  “I’m worse than some, better than most.”

  “Do all the men you room with play?” I asked.

  “Yes, everyone in my room goes. Some shouldn’t,” he said with a laugh. “Jeb Carson? The old man with the white mustache? He’s even worse than Father. But Grant Elliott’s the one doing the fleecing. He’s a great bluffer.”

  “No surprise,” I muttered.

  When the card game came that evening, I sneaked out of our wing, evading both Adelaide and Miss Bradley. I found Agostino, the Sirminican
sailor, and convinced him to take me to Cedric and Grant’s cabin. “I don’t want to get in trouble if they catch you stealing,” he said. He liked having someone to converse with in Sirminican, but we weren’t exactly best friends. “And why do you need to steal anyway if you’re going to be some rich man’s wife?”

  “I’m not stealing. And I won’t say a word about you if I’m caught.”

  He dubiously handed over a lantern and closed the door behind me. I stared around the empty cabin, unsure where to start. Cedric’s bed and belongings were easy to spot. Others were less obvious. A couple of trunks were unlocked, and a quick perusal of their contents let me rule them out as Grant’s. Then, I spotted a familiar coat lying on a bunk. It was cut long in the Adorian fashion, made of dark brown worsted wool, and I’d seen it on Grant many times. Under the bunk was a worn black leather trunk. I slid it out, unsurprised to find it locked.

  I produced my pick kit from a pocket in my dress. The irony of using Grant’s gift to break into his possessions wasn’t lost on me. The trunk possessed a type of lock I’d never seen, but after some experimentation, I finally clicked it open.

  The contents proved disappointing. Clothes, mostly, and ordinary ones at that. A couple of books—high Osfridian literature. A brush. A razor that he apparently rarely used. I sat back on my heels, deflated. I’d been certain I’d get some big revelation here, something that would explain the mystery behind Grant Elliott and—

  The trunk itself. There was something wrong with it. I examined it from where I sat on the floor, and then I leaned forward to look inside. The interior and exterior sizes didn’t match. I pulled everything out and piled it up behind me. Once the trunk was empty, I could tell for sure that I was looking at a false bottom. The trunk held more; it was just concealed.

  I ran my fingers along the edges of the wooden bottom, searching for some catch. At last, I located a small metal piece that popped up as though it might be used to pull that board out. But there was a keyhole in it, and the false bottom still didn’t budge. I took out the lock picks again, selecting the tiniest one.

  Figuring out how to maneuver such a delicate tool took even longer than my first attempt. In the back of my mind, I worried constantly about someone walking through the door. How long did card games go? At last, I heard a pop, and when I tugged on the metal lever, the false bottom lifted to reveal the rest of the trunk’s interior.

  The first thing I saw was a gun.

  That was a bad start. I gingerly pushed it to the side. A lock pick kit sat beside it, and I recalled Grant boasting he had three more sets. What had he done with the rest? Given them to other vengeful girls? There was a money bag too—a heavy one—but I didn’t count it. Beneath that sat a pile of matted hair, and I wondered if he’d stored some dead animal in there. But when I lifted it out, I recognized it as a false beard—the same beard my “friend” had worn at Blue Spring. A few other wigs and fake mustaches accompanied the beard. There was also a cosmetics set. Some of the creams and pigments were akin to what we’d been trained to use at Blue Spring. Other substances were more mysterious and had strange textures. Textures that might very well look like scars when painted on the skin, I realized.

  “Okay,” I murmured. “I know the how. But what’s the why?”

  A leather-bound journal hinted at answers. I opened it eagerly, only to be faced with blank pages. As I started to shut the book, the faint scent of citrus wafted through the air. I double-checked for any missed writing but only noticed that many pages had been ripped from the beginning.

  An old memory came back to me, my father sending and receiving messages from secret sources in his network. I uncovered the lantern and held the first page up to the flame, as close as I could without burning the paper.

  Words slowly appeared.

  These had been written with so-called invisible ink, made with lemon juice or some other acidic substance. It didn’t show up until exposed to heat. Triumphant, I turned the page and positioned the second one by the fire. Words appeared on that and on a third, but no more. I now had a letter and a list of names.

  Mister Silas Garrett

  Percival & Sons Tailoring

  Cape Triumph

  Denham Colony

  My dearest Silas,

  It was a delight to receive your letter. You’re as blunt as ever, a trait I see you’ve passed on to your protégé. I’ve enjoyed having him as a guest this winter, and I believe you’ll find him more polished. As much as it pains me to admit when you’re right, I agree that he’s been an excellent student of espionage. He easily learned all the old tricks—and a few new ones.

  Our spies on this side of the water have continued investigating the conspiracy you and I communicated about last fall. Evidence suggests there’s still dissent brewing among some colonials. What makes them more dangerous is that they’re now receiving aid from the Lorandians in the form of supplies, both smuggled from the continent and stolen locally. Guns and rations can turn grumblers and whiners into a serious army. Lorandy has always eyed our territory; we can’t let this situation give them a foothold.

  Cutting off the rebels’ resources is now our main objective. It will set back any other treasonous plans, and then we can chase those down as well. The attached list contains the names of individuals who are in positions capable of aiding the conspiracy, men with power or critical jobs. We also believe there is a Lorandian nobleman at work in the colonies who’s directly giving a substantial amount of gold to the traitors. Tracing that money will help find them.

  Your protégé can fill you in on the rest of the mission’s details, as well as a unique opportunity. He’s also in possession of the Adorian McGraw branch’s annual stipend. This matter is of such urgency that His Majesty is offering an additional five-hundred-gold reward if the conspiracy can be stamped out by autumn. You may distribute that bonus as you like, either among your agents or perhaps to move your office out of a tailor’s shop.

  Sincerely yours,

  Sir Ronald Aspen

  I had to steady my trembling hands as I read the letter again. The McGraw Agency! It was almost like something from the heroic stories I loved to read. Everyone knew about the McGraw Agency in Osfro, but few people knew anyone in the agency. They worked in law enforcement but not in the way the soldiers or watches did. Their cases were bigger. Osfrid’s elite hired them to investigate private matters. And the crown hired them for matters of national security. Some agents worked openly while conducting investigations and gathering intelligence. But others worked in secret, without anyone knowing their identities. Shadowmen, I’d once heard them called. That was where their mystique came from—that and alleged stories of death-defying heroics.

  A rattling of the cabin’s door handle jerked me from my daydreams and brought me to my feet. I offered a prayer to any number of angels—six or twelve—that Cedric would walk through. He didn’t.

  Grant moved faster than I could’ve imagined. He slammed the door and closed the distance between us in moments. In one swift motion, he grabbed hold of me and pushed me against the wall.

  “What are you doing in here?” he demanded. “Who sent you?”

  His hands gripped my wrists tightly, and his face was inches from mine. But even after a year of disuse, all of the old defense lessons tumbled back into my brain.

  Avoid a fight if you can, my father would say. And if you can’t, then you put everything you’ve got into it. And then Lonzo: Don’t let their size fool you. The bigger they are, the easier of a target.

  I kneed Grant in the leg, not enough to make him fall, but it surprised him so much that he eased up his hold. I yanked my arms free, swiped at his face with my nails, and then, when he took a step back, I followed through with an upward jab to the side of his neck. Heads are hard, little sister. Go for the stomach. Go for the neck.

  Grant made a startled choking sound, and I sprang away, headin
g for the door. I made it halfway across the cabin before he tackled me from behind. I landed stomach first, the fall knocking the wind out of me. He threw himself onto my back, pinning me in place with his greater weight.

  “Let me go!” I yelled, trying to crane my neck and look up at him.

  “Hush, I don’t want to hurt you!”

  “You slammed me against the wall!”

  “I restrained you so I could find out why you’re robbing me! Who sent you?”

  “No one sent me! I was trying to find out why you were stalking my best friend.”

  That gave him pause, but he didn’t let up on me. “Stalking her?”

  “Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

  Another pause. “We need to talk. If I let you go, are you going to run? Or claw up what’s left of my face?”

  “What are my alternatives? Enjoying your pleasant company?”

  “I want you to explain yourself. If you aren’t here to rob me, why are you here?”

  “I’m the one who has to explain myself?” I struggled, hoping I could maybe get in an elbow jab. No luck.

  “Fine. We’ll both explain. And I mean it, I don’t want to hurt you. I won’t hurt you. I’ll swear it by your favorite angel.”

  Blood pounded through me, battle rage squashing my fear. “I’ll stay if I can stand by the door.”

  “Fair enough.”

  He stood up, and I scrambled to the door, putting one hand on its knob. He held up his palms and backed up to the cabin’s other side. I really had scratched up his face. His rugged good looks were now very rugged.

  The polite, pleasant façade he showed in public was gone. Even the sardonic persona from the deck had vanished. Someone sharp and deadly now stood before me. “So. Let’s talk. Why are—” He did a double take, suddenly noticing now that the trunk’s false bottom was out. “How did you open that?”

  I held up the lock pick kit from a pocket in my dress’s skirt. “With your assistance.”

  His incredulity grew. “I was an idiot to give you that! Next time I try to help someone, I’ll have to remember to ask if she’s a spy first.”