Even Murrow seemed back to himself, despite the bright red knuckles that covered his hands. He hovered over his plate as he scarfed down Sylvie’s stew, the bites too big for his mouth. My plate went almost untouched.
The rye was poured, and the reports began, starting with Casimir. I stared at one of the lit candles at the center of the table, unblinking as the conversation drew on about merchants and informants and pages of ledgers that had been passed along. An update about Simon’s new contract with the Serpent. Noel was next, giving Henrik a report on cargo inventories coming in from the Narrows. Murrow relayed rumors overheard at the tavern, only one of which caught Henrik’s interest with any real noticeability. Ezra offered accounts of his progress on the pieces he was working on. Some were commissioned by merchants in Ceros, others would be added to Henrik’s collection for the exhibition. As each of them spoke, Henrik made note after note in his ledger, planning and scheming, his mind turning.
It was always turning.
“And Bryn?” Henrik said, making my eyes snap up suddenly.
Somehow, the minutes had ticked by and everyone’s plates and glasses were empty except mine. I glanced at my fork, realizing I hadn’t even taken my first bite of food.
My fingers curled around my fork as I studied my uncle’s smug expression. He was sitting on his throne. In control. And we were all playing along.
Across the table, Ezra watched me with a measured gaze. He was perfectly still, but there was a warning in his eyes. A plead to behave.
Temper, Bryn.
Sariah’s words echoed the look on his face.
“Your report?” Noel said beside me. He touched his elbow to mine, a discreet gesture that was unlike him. Even he was nervous that I was about to say or do something stupid.
“Yes.” I cleared my throat, pulling my small leather book from inside my vest and laying it on the table before me. My voice was uneven as I began, my fingers trembling as I turned the pages. Murrow seemed to notice, leaning forward just enough to half hide me from Henrik’s view.
Maybe I could count on him after all.
“We’re set to open in two days. I’ve already ordered the next shipment of tea and the dice are ready. The tea house itself has come together beautifully, and it being on the cusp of the Merchant’s District has already helped to get the word out.” I rattled off my rehearsed report. “I spoke with Coen and he said the rumors are flying.”
“You spoke to Coen?” Henrik looked intrigued.
“I wanted to invite him to the opening in person. He’ll be there and hopefully that will draw others, as well.”
He smirked. “Seems the two of you make decent partners after all.”
I tried to keep myself from looking at Ezra, but I couldn’t help myself. He was staring at the table, his mouth set in a straight line.
“Very good.” Henrik nodded. “The more talk there is, the sooner Simon will formally offer his patronage. That bastard won’t be able to resist being caught up in the excitement. He’s always been one for fanfare.”
Casimir made a grunt, catching Henrik’s attention.
“What is it?”
Casimir set his elbows on the table, thinking before he spoke. “It’s just a lot of coin to invest for something with no guarantee of a payoff. If we want information, we know where to get it. The tavern.”
I let the ledger close over my hand, holding my place. “The tavern is filled with traders and ship crews. If you want information about the docks or inventories, that’s the place to get it. But if you want the kind of social rumors and indiscretions that give you power over the guild, you have to go to the places they spend their time. Turning this family’s business away from fake gems and into a legitimate trade will require you, all of you, to become one of them—the merchants. This is how you do that.” I set a finger on the ledger.
Casimir turned his attention on me. “You really think it can be done?”
“I do,” I answered. “I know it can.”
I needed this if I was going to get out of the match with Coen. And I’d seen it. Sariah had carved out a place for herself in Nimsmire, and Simon had done it here in Bastian. If they could do it, so could we.
“If she says she can do it, she’ll do it,” Henrik said, matter-of-factly. But when I looked at him, the expression on his face was cold and distant. It soured in me, knowing what my uncle’s disapproval looked like. He wasn’t saying he believed in me. He was saying I would do it because I had to. Because if I didn’t, there would be consequences.
“Simon’s patronage will come. I’m sure of it. And then the guild will vote.”
“And if they vote for Arthur instead?” Noel asked.
“I’m working on that. But in the end, I will be holding that merchant’s ring,” he said evenly. “Then a new chapter begins for this family. Are we all clear?”
His eyes moved over the table and one by one, each of them nodded. Even Anthelia.
I understood now why she always seemed to be on the fringes, hiding behind her children and hovering just outside of any responsibility in the family. It was the safest place she could exist, and I wondered if maybe Noel had been the one to put her there. Maybe he’d kept his wife from his brother’s reach.
Murrow interjected with something about the barkeep at the tavern, and the conversation drifted away from me. Ezra chimed in here and there, and I could see that there was no tension between him and Murrow. No harbored anger about what had happened the day before. It just was. The thought made me feel sick inside.
I had watched the entire scene of the dinner play out in a kind of petrified awe. In the short amount of time I’d spent in the Roth house, this was by far the most surreal. They’d collectively turned on one of their own who had betrayed them. And now, they’d brought him back into the fold with warmth and care. There was something so twisted about it that I couldn’t even think to give it a name.
I’d done exactly what my uncle had asked of me since I came to Bastian, like everyone else. And I’d seen what happened when you didn’t. But that only made me more confused about what it meant to sit at this table.
When dinner was finished and my uncles made their way to the kitchens, I stayed behind, watching the fire die down. In only two days, I’d open the doors of the tea house and usher my family into the world of the Merchant’s District. If I succeeded, I had to believe that I’d win my freedom. Temporarily, at least. If I failed, I’d find myself married off to Coen in a trade deal between the two families. Either way, Henrik would get what he wanted. That was the only thing I was sure of.
When I finally stood from the table, I headed for the stairs. I didn’t want to stand with them in the kitchen and eat cake and play round after round of Three Widows. I didn’t want to pretend to be one of them. If the last few days had shown me anything, it was that. But I was also afraid that deep down, I already was.
I set my foot on the first step and froze when I spotted Henrik. He stood in the shadow cast by the kitchen’s bright light, leaning into the wall beside the closed workshop door. He stared at it, listening to the sharp ping that rang out every time Ezra’s hammer came down on the anvil.
“His focus is back,” he said, glancing up at me. “That’s good.” He nodded.
I didn’t know if it was supposed to justify what had happened or if Henrik was just reassuring himself. It didn’t seem possible that he could feel guilty. If the words were for me or him, there was no way to tell.
“Now we can get back to work,” he said, shoving off the wall. “Whatever that was last night, it’s over. Understand?”
The blood drained from my face, making me shiver. So, he did know I’d spent the night in Ezra’s room. And that was a complication he didn’t want. One he wouldn’t allow.
“I made you a deal, and I never break my word,” he continued. “You pull this off with the tea house, and we’ll talk about the match. But that”—he gestured to the workshop door—“that’s not on the list of options.”
I clenched my teeth so hard that they felt like they might crack.
“Are we clear?”
He focused his sharp eyes on me until Jameson came running down the hallway and Henrik caught him, lifting the small boy into the air with a wide smile. Jameson squealed, wriggling in his uncle’s arms, and I watched as they disappeared into the kitchen, where Murrow’s laughter was echoing. But inside the workshop, the strike of the hammer went on.
THIRTY-ONE
It was a magnificent thing to behold.
In only two weeks, the dust-covered tea house was a sparkling, twinkling jewel at the end of a brick-lined alleyway off the main thoroughfare of the Merchant’s District. Tucked away just enough to be out of sight but still firmly planted within the boundaries of acceptable society. I couldn’t have chosen a more perfect location myself, and I could only assume that had been my mother’s thought when she purchased it. It was exactly the kind of thing Sariah would have done. Maybe it had been a plot schemed up between the two of them. I liked that idea.
I stood behind the counter, checking the teacups one more time. The gold rim along the ivory porcelain was hand-painted with tiny bouquets and inside, a single blue flower was unfolded at the bottom of the cup. They were a one-of-a-kind set, likely ordered from one of the port cities in the Unnamed Sea that specialized in such pieces. And after all these years hidden away in a forgotten tea house, they would finally see the light of day.
I set it down onto the saucer and looked out across the floor, where pristine white linens were draped over the round tables and the chandeliers hung like clusters of stars overhead. It was beautiful. So beautiful that even Sariah would be impressed, and that was no small feat.
A soft ache bloomed in my chest when I thought of her. She’d never been a tender caregiver, but I trusted her. And I was realizing more by the day what a truly rare thing that was. Here in my ancestral home, in a house with my own flesh and blood, I felt alone. But I’d always known that in her own way, Sariah was in my corner.
Outside, more than one passerby stopped to look through the windows, where the name of the tea house was painted on the glass in a bright gold. EDEN’S TEA HOUSE. But every time I saw a figure appear, I had the briefest thought that maybe it was Ezra.
I hadn’t spoken to him since the night I’d climbed into his bed. After Henrik’s warning, I’d kept my distance. He’d kept his distance from me, too. Over the last several days, he had put his hands back to work and was doing as he was told. And every time I almost knocked on his bedroom door or went into the workshop to catch a glimpse of him, I reminded myself what it had sounded like in the library as I stood there and listened to Murrow beat him.
The bell on the door jingled and I startled, nearly knocking the teacup from the saucer. Murrow came barreling in out of the wind and I exhaled, disappointed. Everyone in the family had come for the opening. Everyone except Ezra.
“How’re we doing?” Murrow panted, taking off his wet jacket. His eyes were bright with excitement as he joined Henrik, Casimir, and Noel in a back booth.
“Just fine,” Henrik answered. “Get over here, Bryn.”
I braced myself as I came around the counter, catching my reflection in the mirrors behind the bar. My suit was finely tailored with sharp seams and horn buttons that were polished to a shine. The tweed was a deep amber and my dark hair fell over one shoulder in a tumble of loose waves.
It was an odd picture to see myself like that against the backdrop of the refined, gilded room. Weeks ago, I would have been dressed head to toe in the finest gown the couturier could make. But I was through putting on other people’s skins. And soon, Henrik would know it.
He slid a glass to the edge of the table and filled it as I walked toward them. It was a tea house, but my uncles were drinking a bottle of rye, and I couldn’t think of a better picture that would encapsulate them as they sat there in their beautiful suits with perfectly combed hair.
Henrik lifted his glass into the air, a glimmer of pride in his eyes. For a moment, it looked as if he was hesitant to speak. “To Eden.”
A soft silence fell between us, and Casimir and Noel met eyes across the table in one of their silent exchanges.
“To Eden,” I echoed, raising my glass higher.
I tipped my head back and swallowed the rye in one gulp, wincing as it lit my throat on fire.
Casimir clapped me on the back, laughing, and then poured himself another. Tonight, they weren’t working. They were spectators. And it was up to me to give them a good show.
“Open her up!” Henrik clapped his hands together, taking the bottle from Cass.
The servers unlocked the door right as the harbor bell began to chime and a stream of hooded cloaks in the glow of the streetlamps began to appear outside the curtain-draped windows. All over the city, tea houses would begin to fill and in moments, I’d know my fate. If I succeeded, I’d be closer to winning my autonomy from Henrik. If I didn’t, he’d find better employment for me in a match with Coen.
I returned to the bar as the servers pushed the doors open to find three women waiting, their wide eyes moving over the tea house from beneath their hoods. Two men rushed forward to take their cloaks, and I sighed with relief when I saw them slip from their shoulders. Beneath, extravagant frocks and jewelry glistened around their throats and wrists, revealing them to be not just the shop runners that catered to the merchants. These were the kind of guests that could be the wives and sisters of the merchants themselves.
One after the other, they filed in. Men and women of the Merchant’s District in their glamorous jackets and hats and rouge-painted cheeks. There was a wonder in their eyes. A mischievous light that flickered in their gazes as they trailed across the room. It was the feeling that they shouldn’t be here. That it wasn’t proper. And yet, it was just proper enough to be acceptable. The teetering balance of the two was what I’d placed my bets on.
Only minutes after the doors opened, I spotted a tall young man towering among them, a stroke of light brown hair slicked to one side.
Coen.
He was with a group of young men and I smiled when he caught my eyes and broke away from them, crossing the room toward me. From the back booth, I could feel my uncle’s scrutinizing attention on me.
Coen inspected my clothing with an amused grin. “I must say, you’re very strange, Bryn Roth,” he said, with an edge of humor.
I smiled back. I may not want to marry him, but there was something I liked about Coen. He had a grounded countenance that high-society men never had and wasn’t afraid to laugh at himself. Probably because he’d grown up with a father from North End. But he was also naive enough to believe that a strange wife wouldn’t cost him with the Merchant’s District when he inherited his father’s place in the guild. And in that way, I was doing us both a favor by avoiding the match my uncle had his heart set on.
But his eyes lingered on me a little too long and I realized they were more glossy than usual. When I inhaled, I could smell rye. He and his friends had obviously already started their evening with a few drinks.
“Well done,” he said, surveying the tea house around us. “Very well done.”
“Thank you.” I stood taller beside him, watching as the guests took their chairs.
Already, ladies were pulling their gloves from their hands and servers scurried around the tables with pots of tea hovering in the air. Freshly arranged flowers spilled from gold vases at their centers and I caught one woman admiring them—hothouse blooms I’d specially requested from a greenhouse in North End.
“Silly, isn’t it?”
I looked up at him. “What?”
“This.” He motioned to the room. “These people. Nearly every purse of coin in this city hangs from the belt of a fool who thinks they’re scandalous for taking tea under the roof of the Roths. It’s all a game.”
I smirked. The rye had loosed his tongue. “Well, right now, I think I’m winning.”
He nodded. “I thin
k you are, too.”
I wondered if there was more to those words than what I could hear. If maybe he knew that I needed the advantage of the tea house to keep from marrying him. But he watched the room around us, his expression still light until his gaze found the door.
“My, my…” he said, surprised.
It opened with a gust of rain-soaked wind and a woman in a velvet jacket ducked inside, her ruby satin hat tipped low over her brow. All at once, the commotion of the tea house vanished, and a room of wide eyes landed on her.
“Who is that?” I whispered, eyes narrowing.
She reached up, unpinning her hat, and a pair of red lips was tilted in a smile. I knew her face, but I couldn’t place it.
Coen smirked. “That’s Violet Blake.”
My mouth dropped open as I remembered. It was the woman who’d been there in the alley the day I first saw the tea house. She’d never given me her name.
“Did you do this?” I whispered, looking up at Coen.
He laughed. “Violet Blake wouldn’t so much as glance in my direction. And she hates my father since he outbid her on that contract with the Serpent. You clearly have friends in much higher places than me.”
But I didn’t. Simon and Coen were the only real link Henrik had to the merchant class.
Violet cast a warm smile on the women waiting for seats, and they instantly parted, making way for her. But she wasn’t headed to a table. Her eyes moved over the room slowly until they settled on me. Her grin pulled wider, and she made her way up the bar until she reached us.
A single gloved hand extended from the fur stole draped over her arm. “You must be Bryn.” Her eyes raked over me, studying my suit with fascination.
I stood up straighter, hesitating before I took her hand. “I am,” I answered. “I’m honored to have you, Ms. Blake.”
“I am the one who is honored.” Her head tipped to one side. “Your great-aunt wrote to inform me that I was to be at the opening of her niece’s tea house. There aren’t many people who can give me orders, but Sariah is one of them.” Her smooth voice was laced in warm humor, the way it had been the day I’d met her in the empty alley.
The Last Legacy Page 20
