The Smoke Thief

by Shana Abe

  She had taken one look at the gown and sent it back to him. Rue knew a wedding frock when she saw it.

  Twenty minutes later, wrapped in a sheet after the swift, stolen luxury of her bath—in a tin tub, with her knees up to her chin—the guard returned with the same gown and a note, which she read while the man stared down at the soap-slicked bathwater, slowly reddening.

  The note said, This, or nothing.

  Very well. If Christoff Langford desired that she look virginal for the council, she would. It needn't impede her own plans.

  The frill of lace against her collarbone had been too heavily starched; it itched mercilessly. She had to keep reminding herself not to scratch at it.

  The councilman seated in the precise center of the table seemed more aged than the rest, garbed in a waistcoat of dull mustard velvet and a wig of sausage curls. His jabot had been tied very tight, cutting into the skin of his neck. He kept glancing from Rue to a stack of papers before him, fingering the pages, scowling through a monocle.

  She remembered him. Parrish Grady. He had scolded her once to tears when she was nine for plucking a stray daisy by his garden house gate.

  The marquess, Rue noticed, was not seated. He stood alone by a window in a corner with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the frosted slant of the rainfall. He had not turned when she entered the room.

  He was wearing white, just as she was, formal silk breeches and stockings and a long-skirted coat worked in elaborate silver and indigo thread. Even his hair had been tamed, tied back into a queue. Against the fall of sky-blue curtains, against the dark-pearled clouds, he seemed nothing less than an extension of the chamber, of the manor itself, elegantly remote, unchanging, a cool wash of shadow and storm.

  “For our records,” intoned Mr. Grady, with a stern look down the table at a scribe, “you are one Clarissa Rue Hawthorne, born of Antonia Reine MacKenzie Hawthorne, now deceased.”

  Rue sat demurely silent.

  “You will grant us the favor of a response,” said Grady, peering up at her.

  “I am,” she said.

  “You are the sole offspring of Antonia Reine.”

  “Yes.”

  “Aged twenty-six—”

  “Pray, don't forget my father,” interrupted Rue, pleasant.

  The councillors gawked at her; someone's chair creaked.

  “Avery Rhys Hawthorne, of Pembroke,” she said. “Also deceased.” Rue looked over at the scribe and smiled. “Shall I spell it for you?”

  “Er, no.” The man blinked at her, as if only just seeing her there. He was younger than the others, bespectacled, well-favored. There was a smudge of ink on his cuff. “That won't be necessary. My lady.”

  Christoff turned, silhouetted against rain and blue brocade.

  “Clarissa Rue,” said Grady, with calculated censure. “Also known as ‘the Smoke Thief.'”

  “Yes.”

  “You can Turn.”

  “Yes.”

  “Since what age?”

  “Since the morning of my seventeenth birthday,” she said.

  “Seventeen.” Grady ensured the scribe made a note of it, then went on. “And since that time, you have abused this sacred ability by stealing . . . One moment . . .” He scowled down at the papers, shuffling through them with blue-veined hands.

  “Allow me.” Rue began to tick off her fingers. “The Monfield gems. The Voroshilov emerald. The Steiff necklace—extraordinary jade. Princess Caroline of York's blue pearl choker and ear clips. Lady Wetherby's nineteen-carat yellow topaz brooch, shaped as a songbird. Lord Cranston's twelve-carat ruby stick pin. The Earl of Harrogate's star-sapphire jabot pin. How far back shall I go for you? The Baroness Shaw's green garnet and diamond brooch; it was a dragonfly with amber eyes, terribly clever. The Greumach tiara. The Aberdeen tiara. Oh—and once a delightful little portrait by Bordone. The Prince of Wales really wasn't displaying it to advantage. I doubt he even missed it.”

  A crack of sudden lightning seared the chamber, blinding. Thunder settled into the seams of wood and glass.

  Grady's voice rose over the dying rumble. “And in this capacity, you also stole the heart of the tribe. You stole Herte.”

  “No,” said Rue, with every evidence of regret. “I did not.”

  Parrish Grady dropped his monocle. “What did you say?”

  She leaned forward in her chair, holding the man's eyes, allowing at last a measure of the anger that burned inside her to rise. Kidnapped, imprisoned, hauled before these men like a disobedient child expected to meekly take its punishment; her wrath hardened in her veins, transformed into a black well of resolve.

  “I said, I did not steal your diamond. But I know who did. And I would be delighted to take you to him.” She glanced once more at Christoff, now watching her openly with a new tension to his mouth, as if he knew already what she was about to say.

  “For a price,” she finished, and relaxed back into the chair. Rue crossed her legs, let her left foot swing lazily in the air and smiled again, this time directly at the marquess.

  She could count the seconds it took them to collectively fathom her. Three, two, one—

  “How dare you!” erupted Grady, standing. “Impudent chit! You would have the nerve—”

  “Wait, wait,” another was saying, his hand on Grady's arm. “Let us—”

  “—dare to threaten this council—”

  “—she said she knows—”

  “—someone took it—”

  “—has it hidden—”

  “—just reason with—”

  “—allow her to—”

  The tribe's fearsome council were all on their feet now, arguing, a few beginning to shout. But Rue never took her gaze from Christoff, who remained apart and silent, examining her from under his lashes. When someone began to pound the tabletop he finally moved, a predator unfolding from its contemplation of a meal. He stalked to the end of the table and lifted it easily up into the air, letting it slam back to the rugs with a muffled bang. It loosed all the papers and the scribe's cloisonné ink pot, which hit the floor and wobbled into a half circle, ending up near Rue's feet. Several of the men jumped back.

  “Hold your tongues and let her speak.”

  The council stood dumbstruck. The ink from the pot began to bleed across the rug. Rue tapped it with her slipper to send it rolling again.

  “You were saying?” Christoff prompted her, courteous.

  “It's quite simple.” She matched his tone. “I lead you to the runner who stole Herte—and it was another runner—and in return you let me free. No imprisonment, no marriage. None of you, none of the tribe, ever troubles me again.”

  “Impossible,” snapped Grady. “You cannot possibly think we would agree to such a thing.”

  “Then farewell, diamond.”

  “Now, see here—”

  “Quiet,” barked the marquess, and to her hidden surprise Grady heeded him, retreating back into his seat with pale-knuckled fury. The other twelve men followed. Most seemed stunned, ending up in chairs no longer near the table. Two or three inched forward again, but that was all.

  Rue kept her heels hard against the rug, resisting every urge to leap up, to flee. She was cold despite the heat of the candelabras, despite her outer calm. She was cold inside unto freezing and could only hope that the icy smile she kept in place hid it well enough to fool them all. For days she had anticipated this moment, had planned it out in her head, imagining every sort of reaction from the council, how she'd counter each objection. She had but one card to play, just this one; without it she was truly as powerless as they had thought. She needed all her resources to make it work.

  But she did not think she was fooling Christoff. Not with that narrowed green look he sent her.

  “And who is this other runner?”

  Rue allowed her smile to grow into a smirk.

  “It's a trick,” said a red-haired man flatly. “There's no other runner. We've gone over the lists, my lord. She's the only
one.”

  Christoff inclined his head. “Rufus has a point,” he said, very reasonable. “No one else is missing, save you.”

  “You're mistaken.”

  “We're not mistaken,” insisted the red-haired man. “You're working with a human, that's all it is.”

  “No.”

  “Tell us the name of the runner, then. Just his name.”

  Rue lowered her eyes. The rain whispered and rolled around them.

  “Force her,” said Parrish Grady in a thin, strained voice. “Force her, Lord Langford, or we will.”

  “She is under my protection,” Christoff said at once, shifting to brace an arm against the back of her chair. “Need I remind anyone of that? Please, step forward if you harbor even an ounce of uncertainty. There is nothing I enjoy more than clarity.”

  No one came forward. No one even rose from his seat. From the edge of her vision the marquess was all white and glimmer, like a shaft of candescent sun dividing the gray dusk of the room.

  Rue lifted her face. “The drákon you want has been feeding off my reputation for some while. I know where he travels, I know who he knows. I know how he thinks. He tends to steal smaller things, less noticeable things. He prefers—a darker sort of lifestyle than I. But he is out there, I promise you. He has Herte. And you won't find him without me.”

  “I believe her,” said the scribe. Everyone turned to him, and he flushed. “Why would she lie? When the truth can be proven?”

  “Why, indeed,” murmured the marquess with a slow, burning look down at her.

  “If you don't agree to my offer,” Rue said bluntly, “I'll go to my grave with the secret, I swear it. You'll have me, but you'll never have your diamond again. And know this as well: I won't stay here willingly, no matter what you decide.”

  Kit never dropped his gaze. He stared at her as if to see through her, as if he could rouse the truth from her with just the will of his mind, his eyes feral and pale, a strand of golden hair just brushing the high, pristine folds of his cravat.

  “Men have died for less than this,” said a councilman at the end of the table, almost incredulous. Rue tore her gaze from Kit's.

  “Yes. But none of them held the key to your precious bauble, did they?”

  She stood, arranging the white-and-rose skirts as serenely as if she were at a fête champêtre and not in mortal judgment of her life. “Perhaps you'd like to consider my proposal.” Rue offered a small curtsy to the council, and then a deeper one to the marquess. “Shall we say—until four o'clock?”

  She drew away from them all, one step, another, moving toward the carved and gilded doors where the guards who had escorted her to the chamber stood watching. Behind her came only the ballad of the rainfall striking glass and hills and vales; she walked forward as if she had the full right to do so, and the men at the door actually looked at her, actually began to budge—

  “A moment, Miss Hawthorne,” said the marquess.

  Rue paused and turned again, smooth-faced, her stomach in knots.

  “I imagine we can settle this now.” He gave a gracious nod to the council. “Gentlemen, I suggest a compromise. Allow Clarissa Hawthorne and me to return to London for a period of time—say, a week. We hunt the other runner. If we find him, and the diamond, Miss Hawthorne gets her wish. If not, she returns to Darkfrith and takes her rightful place among the tribe.”

  “A week isn't long enough,” she said sharply.

  “A fortnight.”

  “That's hardly even—”

  “No,” said Grady at the same instant, “what are you about? We can't let her—”

  “Pardon me,” said Christoff, with his terrible, gentle smile, “I don't believe you're thinking this through. We require Herte. We require the runner. I'm certain Miss Hawthorne will agree to keep the existence of the tribe a strict secret, should she return to her former life.” He cocked a brow at her and Rue quickly nodded. “But we have no such guarantee from this other fellow. He's a rogue threat.”

  “But why use her?” demanded one of the men. “We can keep her here and hunt the runner ourselves.”

  “By all means,” retorted Rue. “Do it, if you think you can. Comb the largest city in the kingdom for one remarkably sly thief. Find him in the alleys you don't know, in the gamehells and gin houses you've never heard of. Find him before he sells Herte, before it's recut into a series of marvelous little gemstones, its fire destroyed. No doubt all the rage next year will be tiny violet diamonds for ladies' hats and snuffboxes.”

  “He wouldn't . . . he'd never. . . .”

  “Of course he would,” said Rue. “I would.”

  Oh, heavens, she knew what she risked. This was Darkfrith, and the drákon followed their own laws, far more ancient and ruthless than anything English society could conjure. If they sensed her fear she'd never leave that miserable cell again. She would stay trapped in marriage, in body, in heart. Even if days from now, years from now, they allowed her out into the open, she'd still be bound to a man who did not love her. And every time she looked at him it was as if some slender thread of her self came undone; she saw Christoff and in him all her old dreams, so vain and juvenile they could make her weep.

  But she was not that girl. Not any longer.

  Rue focused on the windows. She imagined the rain, she breathed the rain, cool and constant and strong.

  Her hands began to tremble. She hid them in the folds of her skirts.

  The marquess was facing Grady, but she knew his next words were addressed to her. “To be clear: you would trade this runner's liberty for your own?”

  “Without hesitation.”

  “And you are aware of the consequences of lying to us, Miss Hawthorne? That if we discover there is no other runner, that you have taken Herte, the repercussions would be most . . . unpleasant?”

  “Yes,” she said past stiff lips.

  “Very well. Gentlemen, a vote, if you please.”

  If she had doubted him before, if she had ever imagined that the Marquess of Langford did not hold power over the tribe and all the men in this room, Rue had no doubts now. No one else spoke; they exchanged glances, most skeptical, a few still incensed. But they were considering what she had said. They were weighing it, measuring their dogma and creed against one outlawed woman and the lord who stood behind her. And their diamond, an icon sparkling just beyond their grasp.

  The scribe had gathered his quill and sheets of paper and was staring down at them blankly.

  Grady rubbed his chin. “If—if—we do this thing, we shall require more men than just you to accompany her, Lord Langford.”

  “More men will spook the thief.”

  “A company of a dozen or so will do.”

  “No,” said Kit.

  “Your guard, at least.”

  “No.”

  “My lord—”

  “Just us. Just her and me.”

  “Five men,” said Rue. She turned to Kit. “You'll need servants. It would look odd without them.”

  “Five,” agreed the marquess, after a moment. “And fourteen days.”

  “Very well,” said Parrish Grady. The rest of the council seemed to shrink smaller in their chairs, settling in, releasing pent-up sighs. Grady alone remained adamantly taut; he drummed his knuckles against the table before him. “And at the end of that fourteenth day, Mistress Hawthorne, be most assured that there shall be no further bargains.”

  Rue tipped her head and curtsied a third time, sinking so deep as to touch her knee to the floor.

  “Very pretty,” observed Christoff under his breath, but she did not glance up at him again.

  ______

  He couldn't help but watch her leave the chamber. He tried not to gape at her; he had been trying the entire time not to gape, but the runner, Clarissa Hawthorne, drew his gaze like the only dab of color in a bleakly silvered day, and Nick Beaton found himself drifting back to her every time his attention wandered. Which was too often.

  There was something about
her, some ineffable quality beyond the soft glint of her lower lip, or the single chocolate lock of hair that escaped her coiffure to her shoulder, something even in the way she cupped her hands in her lap, her wrists bent, feminine and slight. When she spoke . . . when the light hit her just so, when the wind sighed and she glanced up at him, through him, with those incredible brown eyes . . .

  He'd lost minutes. He'd had to sort through the echoes of words in his mind to scrawl them out on paper.

  Nicholas was a dutiful man. He'd been scribe for the council for these three years, the same assignment his father had held before him, and his father's father, and he had never taken his office lightly. Yet in his distraction his thumb had smudged the final sentence of the official meeting: the scripted e in vote had a tail to it now, drawn long and plumy across the page. He frowned at his thumb, rubbing the black smear by his nail until it faded against the whorls of his skin.

  He had ceased scribing after that. By their laws, the Alpha could quash a vote but not call for one, and all the men knew it—even if the girl did not.

  But she was gone now. Nick rose and found his ink pot, salvaging what was left inside of the precious liquid. He took off his spectacles, wiped them clean on the sleeve of his shirt, sharpened and dipped his quill, blotted, and glanced up at the marquess.

  Christoff Langford was standing with his arms crossed, watching the footmen stationed beyond the doors swing them gradually closed. The runner's footsteps down the hallway were soft, nearly silent, dimming quickly into the rhythm of the storm. It was much easier to follow the guards' staccato clip.

  But they would wait, all of them, until they were certain she could not overhear.

  The marquess began to shrug out of his old-fashioned coat, draping it across the chair where Clarissa had sat.

  “Well?” said Grady.

  Langford took the seat, lounging back with informal ease. “A fortnight will motivate her, I imagine.”

  “You actually believe you can control her in London?”

  “She won't run again. She won't think she has reason to.” He lifted a sleeve of the coat crushed behind him, examined the tracery of thread that made the cuff glitter. “Whatever else happens, she'll be working to find Herte. It's what you wanted.”