“What are you working on?” I asked, realizing as I said it how very rude it was.
And yet a grin lit up his face, and he flopped onto the bed and started reading. “What is it that you express in your eyes? It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life.”
Something fluttered in my stomach. “Oh. That’s . . . quite pretty.”
“I discover myself on the verge of a usual mistake.”
“That’s . . . insulting?”
“I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.”
“That’s flat-out bizarre. Is it supposed to be poetry?”
“I had a favorite book in my old world. I was obsessed with it, really. Owned several copies of it, one of them very special and expensive, a gift to myself. It was called Leaves of Grass, and it was written by a man named Walt Whitman. It didn’t always make sense, but most of the time it did, especially one poem called Song of Myself. And while lots of books from my old world are in your world, if slightly different, I’ve never found evidence that there’s anything like Leaves of Grass or Song of Myself.”
“So you have Bolstoy, and Dostoevskin and the other major writers?”
“Close enough. But it doesn’t appear that there was ever a version of Walt Whitman writing in Sang.”
“And so you’re . . . trying to write the book yourself?”
He rolled over onto his back and laughed, a wild sound that marked how close he was to my world. “Exactly that. Something about you helps me remember. It’s all coming back to me. I’ll never have all of it, but I’m starting to think I might have enough.” His smile was warm and dimpled. “You’re becoming my muse. Or Walt’s.”
“Oh.” I feigned interest in a painting on the wall to cover how very much it sounded as if we were flirting, despite the fact that I knew I needed to distance myself from him. It was odd that the dance of bodies should feel primal and natural but compliments from him were hard for me to swallow. And yet I liked all the things his mouth did, and so I had to learn this dance, too. “I’m glad that you’re . . .”
“Finding the unfound?”
“Yes.”
He scribbled something in his book, his face alight. I looked more closely at his wine bottle and found that its level was lower than I would have expected. He must have been busy last night.
“So was there something you wanted to talk about?” he asked.
“Maybe. Where’s Keen?” I leaned against the wall, opposite him but close enough to touch, for it was a very narrow room.
“She’s annoyed with me. Well, she’s always annoyed with me. But more than usual just now. Said she would hang about the dining car and see if she could pick up any gossip from the local Pinkies. What did you need?”
My mouth fell open as I searched for an answer. “I . . .”
I had never felt so helpless and caught out. Why had I come to him? It was an impulse, one that I hadn’t given much consideration. All my thoughts on assassins, Muscovy, Sveden, and Ravenna, all my determination to distance myself—and yet here I was. He stood and took a single step to my side. His arm went around me, and I was helpless to keep myself from leaning into him, savoring the warm bulk of his body.
“How can I help?”
I fidgeted with the laces on my dress. “It’s just that . . . once my feet touch down in Muscovy, everything changes. I must be hard and cruel and merciless. I must focus on my goal.”
“I know. And I want to help you.”
“But how . . .”
“Ahna, honey, are you scared?” he asked softly.
“I just wish I was stronger.”
He squeezed my hand. “You’re strong enough,” he said. “You got us this far.”
“I had a lot of help.”
His dimples came out in full force, and he brushed my hair back behind my ears, sending shivers all over me. “I thought you wanted my head on a platter?”
“I think it’s more useful to me where it is.”
“Do you, now?”
It was a short distance from his lips to mine, and I relished the soft tug of his hand behind my neck as he pulled me close. This time, I met him with open lips and a feverish wanting. He fell back onto the bed, taking me with him and holding me tighter as I squirmed sinuously against him. I couldn’t tell him how I felt, that I was scared for me, for him and Keen. That I felt guilty for putting them in danger and even guiltier for knowing that I would have to put him aside later. That I was selfish and had wanted, all along, for him to touch me again like this and make me forget everything else.
One of his hands went back to my buttons as if it had never left, and I pulled away just far enough to murmur into his mouth, “You can’t undress me now. The train is stopped. We must go.”
“This is nowhere close to finished,” he murmured back into my mouth.
“I hope not,” I whispered. “Although I can be hard to catch. Keep trying.”
He pulled back with a grin. “Failing to fetch me at first, keep encouraged. Missing me one place, search another. I stop somewhere waiting for you.”
With a wild laugh, he tumbled me onto my back, kissed my nose, and leaped up to scribble in his book. I sighed and hitched myself up on an elbow.
“Your priorities,” I said slowly, “could use some work.”
“I’m an artist, darlin’, and the muse is a fickle bitch. I’ll make it up to you later.”
“I’ll consider that a promise,” I whispered in his ear as he scribbled.
I could hear the crowd outside, the doors opening and closing, and voices raised in laughter, annoyance, and greeting. As I stood to smooth my dress again, Keen burst in through the door and gave me a dirty look that I more or less deserved.
“I stopped by your room, but you were gone,” she said. “Been busy again?”
“I’ve had enough,” Casper started, standing to glower at her. “Keen, you need to remember that we’re consenting adults, and what we do is our own business. I’m not your dad, as you keep reminding me. But I’m your friend, and any feelings I might have for Ahna don’t change that.” He looked from her to me, his eyes pleading.
Deadly assassins I could handle with aplomb, but the drama of teenage girls was beyond me. And Casper had just admitted to having feelings for me. I was a mess of emotions, all of them distracting me from our goal.
“I want us to be friends, Keen,” I finally said, realizing that, oddly enough, I meant it.
“Well, friend, would you like to explain why I found night-vision goggles on your bed?”
Casper rubbed his eyes, smearing ink across his forehead. “We were attacked by an assassin last night. We took care of it.”
“I bet you took care of it,” Keen said, and it was easy to see that the “it” in question wasn’t the assassin.
I held up a hand, done with her games. “I extend my friendship to you, but I also give a warning. We’re in Muscovy now. Do you know what they say in my country about nosy bludlemmings?”
“Do I care?”
“They lose their noses. Followed by their lives. Be careful in Freesia, little lemming, or you’ll never get that pony.”
She actually had the gall to stick her tongue out at me, and I nearly smiled. She had heart and guts, as my father would say of his best hounds. I was actually starting to admire the creature. To imagine a child waking up naked and alone in Sang and managing to live long enough to find food and clothes—it was impressive. And I suspected she would soon have much more vitriol to lay at my feet, and for genuine reasons.
Over her head, Casper mouthed the words Thank you, and I smiled and nodded.
He would have little reason to thank me once we were in the city.
26
As soon as my feet hit the streets, I was filled with purpose. Finally, things were familiar. The grand façade of the train station sparkled in a thousand shades of white and blue, the edges of every window picked out in solid gold. The city of Muscovy was the jewel of the Freesian empire
, a hub of history and energy and art. From the beautifully laid-out parks with their ice sculptures and topiaries to the grand library to the museums and theaters, everything had been planned to impress and delight. I still remembered my first trip there as a child, how I had kept my hands hidden in a white fur muff for fear that I would get in trouble for touching something and smudging its magnificence.
I had to stop and wait for Keen and Casper. They were so fascinated by their surroundings that they were acting more like country-bred food slaves and less like respectable servants.
“My little snacks, do keep up,” I said in my most cultured voice. One of the militsiya was approaching, tapping his billy club against the many medals on his elegant uniform jacket. “It’s their first time in our grand city,” I said to him coquettishly, as if we shared a great joke. “Can you imagine?”
“Leashes might be preferable, my lady,” he said politely, eyeing Keen’s scruffy outfit.
“I’ll look into that, thank you.”
I probably enjoyed myself too much, hauling her off by her collar and tsking in her ear.
“Behave, or they’ll impound you,” I said, and the look on her face was priceless. It was a very real threat, but only for free Pinkies, of course, and only on the more elegant streets.
I moved faster after that, urging them to hurry as well. It had been too long since I had looked at a Freesian calendar, and I didn’t know how close we might be to the Sugar Snow Ball. We hadn’t missed it yet, as the air didn’t smell properly of snow and the streets were dry and still warm under my boots. But it was close, and one never knew how the weather would go. The sooner I found my old nursemaid, the better. Verusha saw and heard more than anyone alive.
It was difficult following the grand avenues without indulging in the many beauties of the White City. We had spent the summers there most years, and I knew well which shops kept the prettiest hats in stock and the softest dancing shoes and the finest feathered hair combs. Outside one of my favorite boutiques, we passed a grand lady with a precious little Pinky girl on a jeweled leash, pretty as could be, and I took in a deep and appreciative breath. Cleanliness, good breeding, and an understanding of one’s place were hallmarks of a royal servant.
But when I looked closer, I saw the leash’s collar digging into the child’s tender white neck, leaving a red mark behind. It should have inspired hunger, but now I just felt pity. I could see in the child a reflection of Keen, but broken and tamed. The child’s smile faded when her mistress turned her away from the sparkling window of a toy store, where she’d been gazing as if in a dream. Scurrying behind the grand dame’s skirt, I saw the child for what she was: a slave and a prisoner, held against her will.
“Faster,” I muttered, turning down the staircase to the underground trains that connected all of Muscovy with minimal grit and ugliness. I would have once considered the walk to Verusha’s flat a pleasure, but I was too concerned about encountering something that would cause Keen to say the wrong thing to the wrong Bludman or Casper to release his beast in a suicidal fashion. Time was of the essence.
Once we were down the marble staircase and in the station, I turned into a corner to fetch the coins and necklace from my corset. The coins were there. The necklace was gone.
“Looking for this?” Keen held out the glistening trinket with a smug smirk, and I snatched it from her before anyone in the crowd noticed a Pinky carrying something so valuable.
“You could be staked for touching that, little fool.”
As I smoothed out the chain to tuck it back into hiding, I noticed that there were five gems missing instead of the three I’d removed myself.
“You vile little thief!” I hissed.
“I figure you owe me,” she said, putting her gloved hands in her pockets and rocking back on her heels. I began to see why she caused Casper such problems—just when I thought I was getting anywhere with her, she went and did something so ridiculous that I wanted her head right back on that platter. One step forward, two steps back, and now she was in deeper water than she knew.
“Give them back now, and I’ll try not to drain you.” I fought for composure, and Casper’s hand subtly brushed my waist, a reminder of the slender wire I walked.
“Only got one left, but I’ll make it up to you by paying for the tube.” She held out a hand brimming with coins, and I cursed myself for leaving her alone outside the dress shop. She was lucky she hadn’t been arrested. But we’d already attracted enough attention, so I just said, “Fine,” and picked three coins out of her glove, careful not to touch the stained leather.
We were silent through the turnstiles and onto the car, aside from Keen’s whispered “Holy crow!” as we sat on the tufted velvet bench seat. I’d been impressed the first time I’d seen it, too. The tunnels looked like catacombs, old brick and stone with skulls and bones mortared into complex patterns. But the train itself was as elegant as the one that had brought us from Minks, with beautiful details and glittering glass edged in gilt. A violinist in the corner took up her bow, swaying with the music, and Casper went still all over as plaintive music filled the air.
“That’s brilliant,” he said under his breath.
“Welcome to Muscovy,” I murmured back.
We sped through several stops, changed trains at a grand station with soaring skylights, enormous chandeliers, and glittering mosaics, and disembarked at the stop where Verusha had lived ever since retiring as my maid.
“I will die here, darlink,” she had told me once, settling back into her favorite chaise, surrounded by rich silks and soft furs, “but I think there will be many years before that happens.”
She had been well over two hundred then. And yet something told me that she still reclined in the same divan, doing the needlepoint for which she was so famous, ordering around a fleet of daughters-in-law and grandchildren. If not—well, I would cross that bridge when I came to it.
I was blinded for a moment by the noon sun reflected on the marble outside the station. Shielding my eyes with a hand, I soon understood why so few people had gotten off the train with us. The once-grand block of retirement flats had become something I had been taught to dread: a tenement. Lines strung between the buildings carried all manner of unmentionable laundry, and small children and dogs ran about uncontained. Trash blew along the avenues, something I’d never seen before, mainly because my people ate nothing that required wrapping. The graffiti on the grimy walls was the nail in the coffin of my dreams of finding Verusha easily and swiftly.
Pinko District
Get your blud off our streets!
The people will rise!
And so I wasn’t surprised when the first stone stung against my back. I spun, but there was no way to know where it had come from. The children had disappeared, and the dogs were on alert, hackles up and tails stiff. How had my city fallen so far in just four years? And why had Ravenna allowed it?
“Come.” I walked back toward the station as quickly as I could without showing fear. “She’s not here.”
“Hey, friend! You don’t have to bow to her no more!” someone called from behind closed shutters, and Casper subtly moved to cover my retreat.
“Sounds like they got the right idea around here,” Keen muttered.
“If you like them, you’re welcome to stay.” I didn’t look back, but I could hear her boots scraping along the stones behind me. The girl had a fantastic survival instinct, if nothing else. She slipped three more coins into my hand at the train-station gates.
Back on the train, Casper said, “I hate to say it, but humans can ruin anything.”
“I must agree. It used to be so beautiful.”
“Freedom’s prettier than fancy marble,” Keen said.
“Not if you’re starving to death.”
She just shrugged, and I let it go. As we moved away from the newly claimed Pinky district and back into the familiar areas of parks and walks near the central Basilica of Aztarte, the train car began to fill, and my nerv
es calmed. I understood how my people functioned, according to thoughtful rules, years of superiority, and wealth. I knew what to expect among Bludmen. But humans—they were unpredictable, wild, dangerous. I found myself taking an interest in them for the first time in my life. Perhaps the people throwing garbage at me had once been that little girl in the collar. Perhaps they were her parents.
At the correct station, I watched carefully to be sure that many well-dressed passengers also disembarked. Surely this part of the city still belonged to the upper crust.
“Stay close,” I whispered to Casper and Keen, and we plunged into the colorful and cheerful crowd.
The stop had always been a popular one, as the area around the Tsarina’s Park included public gardens, statuary, fountains, the ballet, and several prominent museums. There was also a fantastic clockwork carousel that I’d loved since I was a child. I had heard that the Magistrate of Sangland had commissioned a similar one in London, but it had malfunctioned on opening day and nearly killed people. I turned to ask Casper about it before remembering that women of my status wouldn’t be seen arm in arm with their servants, discussing carousels.
Much to my satisfaction, the park was just as beautiful as ever, clean and bright and glowing in the sun. A large crowd had collected around a gazebo, and I could see flashes of the famous Bolshoi ballerinas practicing in feathery white swan costumes. I scurried around the edges of the crowd, keeping my face down and hoping no one would recognize me through my new hat’s veil. We skirted the shadows around to the servants’ entrance of the Tsarina’s Palace, where my family stayed during the uncomfortable warmth of summer. A fleet of Pinkies worked outside, trimming bushes into careful spirals and washing already-sparkling windows, and royal peacocks danced on the brick wall and called from the trees. Keen shuddered, but I felt a glad rush of pride and familiarity.
Instead of going through the front door, as would have been my right, I sneaked around the corner and hid behind a topiary in the shape of a bludmare.
“Casper, go knock on that door. Tell them you need to find Lady Verusha. Tell them nothing else, even if they pry. Keep a straight face, and do not back down, but above all, be polite.”
Wicked as She Wants Page 22
