I pulled out my watch, checking the time.
“Boots?” the couturier asked, still cutting into the fabric.
“Everything,” I answered. “Silk cravats. I want the jackets lined with silk as well.”
He nodded approvingly. This wasn’t my first time around a man’s proper suit and Henrik had said to spare no expense, so I wouldn’t.
“And for you, miss?” His eyes looked me over from head to toe.
I reached out to touch the fawn-brown bolt of cloth beside me. I’d gone to the couturier’s shop in Nimsmire every time my great-aunt went, and I’d always secretly fantasized about pulling on the tailored fabrics reserved for the men’s suits and tugging my hair from its braids. I’d never liked the silly frocks that Sariah had made for me or the heavy jewels she insisted I wear. I was a bird wearing the wrong feathers, and if I had my way, I’d be donning a jacket instead of skirts. But Sariah would have sooner seen me walk the street naked than see me in a pair of trousers. In a shop filled with the finest tweeds and wools in the Unnamed Sea, I had to choose something fit for a lady.
I sighed. If it was image Henrik wanted, I needed a gown that was sophisticated. Not so highbrow that I put anyone off, but impressive enough to draw attention and make an impression. I stood before the other bolts of cloth, thinking. The organza would be too frilly, the satin too sultry. Silk was the common choice, but I needed to be memorable. That’s what they’d want from me. And I was good at giving people what they wanted. It was only a matter of presentation.
“This one,” I said, letting my eyes fall to a bolt of chiffon. It was a shade of warm silver, on the verge of pale gold. I picked it up, cradling the fabric in my arms.
The tailor gave another approving nod, lifting a piece to hold against my skin. “A good choice.” His eyes went to the door behind me and the bell jingled as it opened.
Ezra came up the steps with the sun at his back, his cap pulled low over his eyes and his open watch in his hand.
“There you are,” I said, glaring at him.
He ignored the implication that he was late. Instead, he went straight to the pot of tea beside Tru and poured himself a cup without bothering to remove his jacket.
“He needs to fit you.” I handed the bolt of chiffon to the couturier and he set it down with the others I’d chosen.
Ezra answered with a sigh, unbuttoning his jacket with rough fingers. “This needs to be quick.”
I’d taken him away from his work and from what I’d seen, the workshop was the only place that Ezra was relaxed. Standing in front of that forge with the wall of tools behind him was the only time I’d seen that scowl off his face.
“It’ll take as long as it takes,” I said flatly.
He shot me a cold look before he dropped his jacket to the chair Tru was sitting in, burying him in it. Then he shrugged out of his vest. Beneath it, the seams of his white shirt were cut around him with an expert hand. It fit his form perfectly, hugging the shape of him.
“Here.” The couturier directed him to stand before the large, wood-framed mirror and he reluctantly obeyed, turning his back to the table.
The couturier stilled when he spotted the knife at the back of Ezra’s belt, his mouth flattening into a straight line. Ezra ignored him, pulling the suspenders down his arms and letting them hang from his waist. I watched as the man took the measure and drew it across his broad shoulders. He easily stood within the width of Ezra’s frame and Ezra was an entire head taller than his height.
Ezra stood perfectly still, his silver-striped hands hanging at his sides. The scars were like shimmering bands that disappeared beneath the cuffs of his shirt.
“Lapels?” The couturier looked to me.
“Notch,” I answered.
“Brass buttons?”
I met his eyes in the mirror, tilting my head to the side. “Would you give a merchant brass buttons?” I asked.
“No, miss.”
“Horn. Or cowry shell,” I said, an edge in my voice.
He nodded sheepishly. The couturier wasn’t stupid. He knew who we were. And I wasn’t going to let him cheat us because he thought we didn’t know the difference between pauper buttons and sophisticated ones.
Ezra waited impatiently as he wrote down the measurements, lifting his arms when instructed to and turning on command. When the couturier reached for the tail of his shirt, he bristled. “I can untuck my own shirt,” he muttered, pulling it from where it was stuffed into the waist of his pants.
A slice of smooth, pale skin appeared when he lifted it and the couturier took the measure around Ezra’s hips. He was the kind of creature that was as beautiful to look at as he was unnerving. But there was almost an unawareness about him, as if he didn’t really know how much his silent presence seemed to fill every room he entered. With better breeding, he would have been the prize of any family in Nimsmire.
When I looked into the mirror, Ezra was watching me. He’d caught me staring. I blinked, looking away to hide the burn in my cheeks.
The bell jingled and Murrow came barreling into the shop, his face flushed as if he’d run half the distance.
“What happened to tidy and timely?” I glowered at him.
“Sorry,” Murrow said, winking at me. “Had business in North End.”
The humor left his eyes as he reached into his jacket. When his hand reemerged, he had Henrik’s leather-bound ledger. He cleared his throat. “Ezra.”
“What?” He didn’t bother turning around, letting the tailor finish with the measurements around his chest.
Murrow’s eyes shifted to me. He almost looked nervous. “I’ve just done the count.”
Ezra dropped his arms, finally turning. “And?”
“It’s off,” Murrow said, heavily.
Ezra’s gaze sharpened. “Whose is off?”
Murrow’s attention cut to Tru, who was watching with wide eyes from the armchair. “Tru’s.”
Ezra’s jaw clenched and Tru shrank beneath his stare, his shoulders hunching.
“Get out,” Ezra said.
The couturier obeyed immediately, setting down his quill and dismissing himself through the door that led to the back room. As soon as he was gone, Ezra stepped off the platform, stopping in front of Tru. The boy was already on his feet.
Ezra folded his arms over his chest. “Why is the count off, Tru?”
Tru cleared his throat, his hands finding his pockets.
“Did you check it three times?” Ezra stared at him.
Tru swallowed. “No.”
Murrow and Ezra met eyes across the table. In the back room, I could hear the couturier opening drawers and closing them.
“Why not?” Ezra’s voice deepened.
“I forgot,” Tru answered.
“You forgot.”
“He made a mistake.” I looked between them, confused. “Can this wait?”
“No, it can’t.” Ezra looked at me as if I’d said something incomprehensible. “Come here,” he said, gesturing to the floor in front of him.
Tru hesitated and the hair on the back of my neck rose, the eerie stillness in the room making me nervous. The calm on Ezra’s face didn’t match the tension in the air. There was a cavern between the two and I felt as if we were all about to fall into it.
Tru came to stand in front of him, taking a deep breath, and after a moment, he looked up. His hands fell from his pockets and I realized too late that he was waiting. Bracing himself.
I took a small step forward. “What are you—”
Ezra’s hand lifted into the air and he brought it down so quickly that the scream was trapped in my throat. His hand flew across Tru’s face, whipping it to the side, and I lunged forward as he toppled backward, hitting the chair.
“What are you doing?” I cried, my voice breaking as I came around the table.
I took Tru’s hot face into my hands, turning it toward the light coming through the window. His eyes were filled with tears, a stripe of blood lining his bottom lip
. He reached up, wiping it away with the back of his hand, but the redness was already blooming deep under the skin where Ezra’s hand had struck. The whole side of his face would be bruised.
Heat boiled in my veins and I let him go, turning toward Ezra. I shoved hard into his chest with both hands, and he looked so surprised that I thought he was going to stumble straight into the mirror behind him. His eyes widened as he looked down at me, and for the first time since I’d come to Bastian, I could see beneath the stone mask he wore.
“Bryn.” Murrow’s voice sounded behind me, but I could hardly hear it. My fiery gaze was fixed on Ezra.
“You touch him again, and I’ll put that mark on your face.” I spoke the words through gritted teeth.
Ezra looked stunned, taking a second to compose himself. He ran one hand through his mussed hair, and he stared at me, his eyes jumping back and forth on mine.
But the mask returned as his breath slowed, and the familiar emptiness that usually filled his eyes turned them even darker.
“We done?” he said, his tone hollow.
Ezra was speaking to the couturier, who was now standing in the doorway behind us with wide eyes.
“Yes,” he answered unevenly.
Ezra took a step toward me, until he was standing so close that I could smell the scent of cloves and the blackest of tea leaves coming off of him. There was a small spatter of blood on his white shirt. Tru’s blood.
When his hand moved nearer, I stopped breathing. My lungs twisted behind my ribs, my pulse racing as he reached around me to the chair and took his vest and jacket from its back. His eyes didn’t leave mine as he slipped them back on.
“Give it to me,” he said, holding out a hand to Murrow.
Murrow set Henrik’s book into it and Ezra finally stepped past me. “Let’s go.”
Tru was already moving toward the door, following on Ezra’s heels as he went down the steps to the street.
I let out the breath I was holding, angry tears pricking my eyes.
Murrow watched out the window as Ezra disappeared. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen that before,” he said.
“What?” I snapped.
He gave me a bewildered look. “You might be the only soul in Bastian to be left standing after putting hands on that scary bastard.”
TWELVE
Dear Sariah,
I stared at the parchment until my great-aunt’s name looked strange and unfamiliar. I’d tried to write the letter over the last two days, but I didn’t know what to say.
There had been no messages from Nimsmire and there wouldn’t be for some time, I guessed. That had never been Sariah’s way. She’d said all she needed to when she said goodbye. Whatever else she’d wanted to part with was written in the letter in my drawer, but I still hadn’t opened it. I didn’t know if I ever would.
The days since I’d arrived in Bastian were no more than echoes of the stories she’d always told me. Still, I’d underestimated the brutality and coldness of my uncles. This house was like shifting ground beneath my feet.
Nimsmire hadn’t really ever felt like home, but I found myself longing for the routine and quiet of that big empty estate and the few words my great-aunt spoke. Looking back, I’d spent so much time waiting to leave that I’d never really settled there. I’d never made friends, and aside from a few stolen kisses in the darkened corners of parlors at elaborate dinners, I’d never given my heart away, either.
My life before Bastian had always felt like a very long stop on my way back to the Roths. And now that I had reached my destination, I was only more sure that maybe I didn’t belong anywhere.
Someone rapped on my bedroom door and I startled, dropping the quill. It rolled across the slanted table as I stood and shuffled my papers to cover the unwritten letter. There was nothing there to hide, I realized, but everything in this house felt like a secret.
I made my way across the floor and opened the door to find Henrik. He stood in the hallway with a small wooden chest in his hands, Ezra’s brooding shadow lurking behind him. I frowned.
“May we come in?” Henrik asked.
His tone was impatient but not in the usual way. He was excited, and if anything, that instantly put me on edge. I stepped back, letting them cross the threshold, and Ezra’s eyes fell briefly to my bare feet as he passed, going to the window. He looked even more irritated than normal, and I wondered if Henrik had heard about what happened at the couturier that afternoon. I hadn’t seen Ezra since I’d screamed at and shoved him. The thought made my blood boil all over again. From the look on his face, he was thinking the same thing.
“There’s something I need you to do,” Henrik began, setting the chest down onto my little desk.
I stood against the wall opposite Ezra, leaving as much space between us as possible. I didn’t like him being in my room. Looking at my things. I didn’t like feeling like he’d invaded the only private space I had in this house.
“Have you ever picked a lock?”
I blinked, looking up at Henrik. “What? No.”
He let out an irritated sigh. “I thought that might be the case.” He looked genuinely let down by the revelation.
“Why would I need to know how to pick a lock?” I was afraid of the answer, I realized.
Henrik tapped the top of the wooden box. “At some point during the dinner at the watchmaker’s, I need you to find a way into the study. There is a desk with a drawer that has a lock similar to this one, and I need you to open it.”
I stared at him, my mouth dropping open. He couldn’t be serious. “You want me to steal something?”
“No.” He nearly laughed. “If Simon knows anything is missing after a dinner we attended, he will know exactly who took it. I just need you to find out what’s inside. There should be a ledger or trade records of some kind.”
“I can’t do that,” I huffed. “What if I’m caught?”
Henrik looked confused. “Bryn, this is what I need from you.” He said it so simply. As if that was the only answer required of him. And it was. There wasn’t anyone in this family who denied the man anything.
“But … I thought you’re trying to get his patronage.”
“I am,” he said. “I also like to be prepared. If he decides to be less than agreeable, I will need leverage. Simon may have been able to fool the guild, but I happen to know his business isn’t as clean as they believe it is. I need something I can use if things don’t go my way.”
My heartbeat ticked up, my hands clenched behind my back. “I wouldn’t even know what to look for.”
“A name,” he said. “It’s only a name.”
I let out a heavy breath, looking to Ezra. But he was the last one who’d take my side. “What name?” I murmured.
Henrik smiled. “Holland.”
“The gem merchant?”
“Former gem merchant,” he amended. “Simon is still doing business with her. I just need to be able to prove it. If you find her name listed in the ledger, that will be enough.”
If the guild found out that Simon was still working with Holland, it would cost him his ring. Henrik wanted leverage to hold that possibility over his head, but I was the last person in this family qualified to pick a lock in a dark study during that dinner.
“You said you needed me to get the family ready. Garments. Decorum. That sort of thing.”
“I didn’t realize that was all you were capable of.” Henrik paused, assessing me. “Are you saying you can’t do it?”
The words stung. Fiercely. I’d backed myself into a corner, revealing the chasm between the pampered, frilly girl Sariah had raised and the Roth blood in my veins. I’d been so eager to make them see me as more than the doll I’d been dressed up to be and here I was, acting delicate. Across the room, Ezra surveyed me as if he could hear every single thought as it skipped through my mind.
I swallowed. There were no ladies and gentlemen in this family. There were only Roths. And that’s exactly what I’d wanted to find when I
stepped off the Jasper.
“I can do it,” I said, meaning the words.
Every task was an opportunity. And each one brought my stake in the family closer. If he wanted me to pick a lock, I’d do it. If he wanted me to scale the rooftops of the Merchant’s District in a rainstorm, I’d do it.
“Good,” he said. “Ezra will give you the basics. I’m sure you can handle it.”
My eyes cut to Ezra, who stood silent against the window. Henrik looked between us before turning on his heel. He ducked out, shutting the door.
We stood staring at each other and the walls of my room felt suddenly closer, the air warmer. Ezra was impossibly still, unblinking.
“Isn’t there someone else who can do this?” I asked.
“You want to ask Henrik? Be my guest.” Ezra pulled the stool from the corner and set it roughly beside the table. When he sat, I hesitated, my eyes trailing around the room before I took the chair beside him.
“It’s called a key pin lock and they all pretty much operate the same way.” He got right to work, sliding the box toward us.
I gritted my teeth, giving him an icy stare. He was going to act like nothing had happened. Like changing into a clean shirt would erase what he’d done to Tru. I’d been ready to tear his head off only hours ago and I was still furious. I wasn’t going to pretend like I wasn’t.
“Inside, there are five key pins, each set to different heights,” he continued. “You’ll have to manipulate them all into position in order to get the lock to turn.”
He looked at me, waiting. When I said nothing, he let out a breath. “Look, can we just get this over with?”
I could see that he didn’t want to be here any more than I wanted him to be. And he was right. The sooner we did what Henrik asked, the sooner he could get out of my room and leave me alone.
I sat up straighter, turning my attention to the lock. “How am I supposed to get them into position if I can’t see them?”
Ezra shifted on the stool and when his hand moved toward me, I flinched, drawing back. He ignored my reaction, his fingers drifting past my face until they were slipping into my hair behind my ear.
The Last Legacy Page 8
