“I’ve heard very good things about the development of your trade in Ceros.” Simon kept his back against his chair as he turned the conversation toward Henrik.
Henrik looked comfortable with the attention, but it made my stomach twist into knots. The closer they looked at him, the more fearful I was that he would do or say something foolish. “I’m glad to hear it. I have no doubt it will do just as well in Bastian.”
I grimaced. It was too forward. Too strong for leisurely business talk, but Simon seemed to forgive him the mistake. “It’s been a tough business with Holland. I think we all agree that filling the hole she left behind will be a good thing. But there will be more than one candidate for her merchant’s ring.” He shot a glance to one of the other men and I took note. These men were going to hedge their bets and if Simon offered patronage, it would be to someone who could benefit them.
Henrik nodded as the servant filled the glass beside his plate. He exuded confidence. “Those jewels are only a glimpse of the collection we’re curating for the exhibition.”
“Working on a collection already.” Simon smirked. “You must be very sure of yourself.”
I looked for malice in the words, but there was none. Simon seemed to like Henrik’s arrogance.
My uncle shrugged. “Ezra’s skill gets stronger every year. He has a very bright future.”
“Very lucky for you,” Simon replied, lifting his glass. That time, I sensed an insult, but I didn’t know what it was.
Coen leaned in beside me, taking my attention from their conversation. “My father says you’ve only just come to Bastian.” I could hardly hear him over his father’s booming voice.
“I have,” I answered with a smile. “I grew up in Nimsmire with my great-aunt.”
“To my knowledge, you’re the first Roth not to be raised here in Bastian.”
He was right. If he’d grown up in North End and Henrik and Simon had once moved in the same circles, he would know. But it struck me as bold that he was using my last name so informally. There wasn’t even a hint of disapproval in it and I liked that. Coen had the same quality his father seemed to—sincerity.
He looked at me directly when he spoke, simultaneously putting me at ease and on my guard. “And how do you like it here?”
“It’s … big. Much bigger than what I’m used to.”
When the servant reached us, Coen fell quiet, allowing her to pour before he continued. “Why didn’t you stay in Nimsmire?”
I picked up my glass, holding it before me. “Our family’s business is here. My uncle needed me.”
Coen liked my answer. He lifted an eyebrow, nodding. “Family is the only enduring legacy, isn’t it?” He said it with such conviction that it made me look up.
The house and the decorum may have been familiar, but this watchmaker and his son weren’t like the finely bred men I’d known. They were frank and to the point and I couldn’t help but like them. Henrik, I thought, might actually do well among their ranks.
Coen spoke on about his father, recounting how he’d built their trade from nothing in North End. It was clear he respected Simon. Loved him, even. The thought made me feel regret for what Henrik was here to do, and for my part in it. But there was more at stake than my uncle’s ring. If I was going to get out of a match and claim my stake, I didn’t have the luxury of listening to a guilty conscience.
Ezra sat at the end of the table across from Henrik, cutting into his pheasant gently and taking small bites. He was the only thing out of place in the scene, answering the men’s questions with one word here and there and going rigid every time he caught himself about to put his elbows on the table. He looked so miserable, I almost felt sorry for him. But more concerning was the fact that I couldn’t stop looking at him. My eyes drifted in his direction every few minutes and though he pretended not to notice, he did. Every time my gaze landed on him, he rolled his shoulders or ran an anxious hand through his hair. By the end of the first course, it was falling into his eyes.
The chatter grew louder, and the merchants turned their focus to him. They asked questions about his latest work, a set of complicated molds he’d casted for diamond brooches that they’d heard about. He was polite, but wholly uninterested, and Henrik was growing visibly more frustrated by the minute. Ezra wasn’t playing his part and I found myself cringing as I thought about what Henrik’s reaction might be when we were done here.
“He’s … an interesting fellow, isn’t he?” Coen said suddenly, and I realized he’d caught me staring.
I dropped my eyes, pushing a roasted potato around on my plate. “I didn’t realize you knew each other.”
“Yes, for many years. He grew up in my father’s workshop.”
My fork scraped the plate. “He worked for Simon?”
Coen nodded. “Learned to cast in our forge. He apprenticed here until he was twelve or thirteen years old.”
I’d put together that there was history between Ezra and Simon, but it had the air of a secret. “How did he end up with Henrik?” I asked, before thinking better of it. I was being too obvious, but I couldn’t help myself. I knew next to nothing about Ezra.
My question appeared to make Coen curious. He eyed me, most likely wondering why I didn’t already know. It was a misstep and he’d noticed. “Your uncle’s cunning got the better of my father.”
Simon’s quip suddenly made sense. There was more to that story than anyone had let on, and this was all the explanation I would get. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Simon seems like a good man.”
Coen shot a look down the table. “He is. Our beginnings were humble, but he’s made his own fate from a very unlikely set of stars.”
The look in his eye was one of pride. I wondered if his mention of their humble origins was his way of putting the cards on the table. He had to know that Henrik had a match in mind. His father might even be in on it.
“I don’t think I have to tell you about our stars,” I said.
He smirked. “No, you don’t. Everyone in this city knows your family’s name.” He leaned in closer. “But you don’t look like a Roth.”
I could feel my cheeks blooming red. “Is that why you agreed to sit beside me?”
Coen laughed. “I sat beside you because I was told to. But I’m glad I did.”
He didn’t hide his meaning. Henrik hadn’t expected it to be difficult to catch Coen’s attention, and he’d been right. Maybe the young women of the Merchant’s District hadn’t been willing to turn their eye to someone with his past. Or maybe the craftsman in him liked pretty things.
“Soon, I think.” Henrik’s voice broke the spell between us. “The tea house has been sitting for far too long. It’s time.”
My gaze moved back down the table. Henrik was relaxed in his chair, his plate empty except for a bite or two just like I’d instructed. He could take orders, after all.
“I’m thinking to open it in the next couple of weeks.”
I could feel the glower on my face and even I was surprised by the storm it stirred in my chest.
“Couldn’t hurt your chances with the guild,” Simon said. “Every merchant in Bastian drinks tea.”
I took care to divert my eyes, picking up my glass and taking a long sip. Henrik was going to open the tea house. My mother’s tea house. I didn’t know why it surprised me or why I was so angry. I’d been the one to suggest it, after all. But he’d brushed me off when I gave him the idea, and now he was taking the credit.
“Are you all right?” Coen noticed the change in my countenance, his brow wrinkling.
“I’m fine.” I looked across the table. Ezra was looking at me for the first time since dinner began. He’d noticed, too.
“But I hear you’ve got your own bit of new business,” Henrik said. “The Serpent.”
I took another bite, listening. The Serpent was the ship he and my uncles had been talking about.
Simon leaned back in his chair, a smug look on his face. “Ah, yes. Violet Blake was set to ta
ke that contract, but you know we couldn’t have that.”
“Certainly not,” Henrik agreed.
Recognizing the name, I leaned toward Coen, keeping my voice low. “Who’s Violet Blake?”
He smiled as if he thought I was joking. “Really?”
“Really.”
“She’s a gem merchant on the rise in Bastian. Her trade has been taking up every spare coin to be had in this city and she’s caught the disfavor of the other merchants because of it. If she’d secured that contract, she would have held more power than any member of the guild. But my father outbid her.”
“I see.” That was how the guilds worked—a teetering balance of alliance and competition.
“A good thing, too. People should know better than to get on my father’s bad side.” He said it with humor, but Murrow’s account of Simon resurfaced in my mind. According to my cousin, anyone who crossed Simon found themselves floating in the harbor.
One of the men asked Coen a question, drawing his attention, and I set down my fork. If I was going to get to the study and back while the men were still eating, I needed to make my move. Now.
My hand tightened around my glass of cava, making its contents swish, and I tilted it just slightly, eyeing the edge of the table.
“Oh!” I tumbled the drink toward me, spilling it into my lap with a gasp.
Coen sprung from his chair, offering me his napkin, and I took it, pressing it against the chiffon firmly to soak it up. “Here.” He reached for me, but I got to my feet, stepping out of his reach.
“I’m so sorry,” I cried, trying to blot at the stains.
“Kit.” Coen waved over a servant, but I lifted a hand, stopping her as she hurried toward me.
“I’ll be fine.”
“But your gown,” the girl fussed. “Let me help you, miss.”
“It’s only a little bit of cava.” I laughed. “Can you show me to the washroom? I just need to clean up a little.”
Henrik watched me with a flicker of mirth in his eyes as I followed her out, my skirt clutched in my hands. She led me back the way we’d come, toward the salon, and I let out a relieved breath when I saw the doors of the study.
“Here you are.” She stopped in front of the entrance to the washroom. “Are you sure you don’t need my help? I’m happy to…”
“I’m sure.” I waved her off. “Just a clumsy hand. Thank you.”
She reluctantly gave me a small bow before she scurried back to the dining room, and I pushed the washroom door widely open, letting it close on its own with a loud creak. When I could no longer hear footsteps, I moved down the hallway silently. The study door was closed, but the handle turned easily, and I slipped inside without a sound.
Darkness enveloped the small room, the fireplace cold, but the full moon outside filled the window with a soft glow. I didn’t waste any time, pulling the two extra pins from my hair and coming around the desk, my skirts swishing. I sat in the tufted leather chair and felt for the opening with the tip of my finger before fitting the pins inside.
The sound of my breath was loud in my ears, my pulse pounding. The pins inside the lock weren’t as nimble as the ones in Henrik’s chest. At the first attempt, they refused to slide into place.
I tried again. The pinheads scraped along the grooves as I moved them, and when I felt the first pin lift, I exhaled, going for the next. One after the other clicked and I bit my bottom lip as finally I turned it, opening the lock.
The bronze latch sprang open and I reached into the drawer, feeling for a ledger. I was careful not to shift the papers or sealing wax inside, my small hands delicate with the drawer’s contents. But there was no book.
I dropped my hands into my lap, looking around until I saw a closed cabinet on the wall. It, too, was fit with a lock. But this one was different. It was round, with a bigger keyhole, and the latch looked more elaborate.
I closed the drawer softly and locked it, sliding the chair back into place before I crossed the room. I slipped one pin inside, feeling my way along the shaft of the lock. It was similar to the other, but there were more grooves. More mechanisms to manipulate. I swallowed down the pain in my throat, trying to even out my breaths. My hands were slick and shaking.
Once the hairpins were in place, I got to work, stretching my inhales to match my exhales as a sheen of cold sweat appeared on my skin. Any moment, the servant would come to check on me. If the door opened, there’d be no way to hide what I was doing.
I pinched my eyes closed, the way Ezra told me to, and worked the pins with no real rhythm. In fact, I couldn’t be sure it wasn’t the result of my trembling hands that finally did it, but when the lock opened, so did my eyes, and a small cry escaped my lips.
The cabinet door lifted and I reached inside, thumbing through the papers until I found it—a leather-bound book about the size of the one Henrik always carried. I pulled it out and tilted it toward the moonlight, flipping the pages and reading as fast as I could. I froze when I saw the name in the left-hand column. It repeated over and over in the same handwriting.
Holland.
A silence fell inside of me and I immediately closed the book, sliding it back into place. Henrik had everything he needed. An imminent patronage from Simon, a weapon to use against him, a silversmith to impress the guild, and a niece to use as a bargaining chip.
I closed the cabinet softly and let it lock, slipping the pins into my hair. My uncle knew what he was doing. He’d constructed his path to the guild with an expert hand. But now I had my own bit of leverage.
EIGHTEEN
The city had gone cold and I shivered, pulling my cloak tighter around me as we moved up the dark street. The three of us were no more than shadows shifting on the walls of the buildings, not a single word passing between us since we’d left Simon’s. Henrik was walking so fast that I could hardly keep up, and he waited until we’d passed beneath the archway in Lower Vale before he finally asked.
“Well?” he said, not a single hitch in his step. “Did you find it?”
I clutched my skirts tighter and the sound of my shoes clapped, echoing. There was more than one way for me to draw my uncle’s anger. The first was the reproach I’d given him for his comment about Ezra before dinner. I’d known the moment I saw his reaction that it would bear its own consequences, but I wasn’t sure when they would come. The other was the ledger.
I’d practiced the words in my head for the remainder of the evening as I pretended to listen to Coen. His voice had been no more than a thrumming sound in the back of my head as I lined up the pieces in my mind. I didn’t like being used, and that’s all Henrik had done since I’d stepped into his house. But the information about Holland gave me a small bit of power—the first I’d run across since stepping off the Jasper. And I was going to use it.
“It wasn’t there,” I said.
Henrik stopped in his tracks, whirling on me. “What?”
I kept myself composed, my fingers twisting into my skirts beneath my cloak where he couldn’t see them. I was grateful for the darkness as his narrowed gaze found me. “I found the ledger, but there was no mention of Holland.”
Henrik stared at me, his mind clearly racing. One hand came up, raking through his thick mustache before he pinned his eyes on the ground. I liked seeing him like that—surprised. “You must have missed it,” he said, almost to himself.
“I checked more than once. If he’s doing business with Holland, he isn’t keeping the numbers in the ledger.”
Henrik was doing his best to keep his reaction in check, and I wasn’t sure whose benefit it was for. He let a long silence fall between us, but inside, my heart was pounding. Just when I was sure his eyes would focus in suspicion, he sighed.
“Damn it,” he muttered. His breath fogged in gusts as he set his hands on his hips. He was reformulating. Finding a new plan in the map of his tangled mind.
“I’m sorry,” I breathed, trying to sound as if I meant it. But this was the first time I had the upp
er hand and it felt good to watch him be the one to squirm.
“It’s all right. You did well tonight.” He set a hand on my shoulder, catching me off guard with the brief show of affection. I stared at it until I realized he was waiting for me to look up. When I did, he gently touched the fading bruise on my cheek. There was a fatherly protectiveness in the gesture.
“I’m tougher than I look.”
“I know that.” He said it seriously. His eyes moved past me, to the darkness. “I think it’s time she got the mark.”
I turned, finding Ezra behind us. His suit was night itself, the collar of his shirt and his cuffs glowing. But his face was hidden in the shadow of the archway.
“I want it done. Tonight,” Henrik said.
Ezra nodded.
The knot in my stomach returned as I looked between them. He was talking about the ouroboros. The tattoo that every Roth bore.
With that, Henrik turned on his heel, starting up the street ahead of us. Ezra followed after him without waiting for me. I pulled the hood of my cloak up against the wind, watching them grow small in the darkness as my heartbeat finally slowed. He’d believed me. Taken me at my word. And now, he was ready to give me the highest seal of his approval—the mark.
There was a finality in the decision. I could feel it. A point of no return.
When we got back to the house, Murrow was at the tavern and Casimir was at the docks. Even the kitchens were silent as I passed the open doors, heading toward the workshop where Ezra had disappeared. Henrik was already shut up in his study with the fire going, likely working out a new way to secure an advantage ahead of Simon’s patronage.
The workshop was colder than it had been the night before, with the embers in the forge only faintly glowing, and when I looked over Ezra’s worktable, I could see the finely shaped pieces of silver in what appeared to be delicate leaves.
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