She’d taken the lot to the table and poured over the stories. Shock turned her stomach inside out. She could hardly give credence to what she was reading. She clutched the edges of the paper, reading the first story again. LUCY TRENTON CONVICTED OF TREASON AND MURDER. According to Phineas Heep, the lord chancellor had ruled nearly as soon as the crown had presented its case.
“Lucy Trenton’s unwillingness to come forward and defend her innocence is damning in and of itself,” declared Phineas Heep.
She has been found guilty of being an unregistered majicar, shamefully withholding her skills from the people of Crosspointe. She is responsible for setting the Salford Terrace fire, resulting in hundreds of thousands of dralions in losses to the crown, to Sylmont, and to the wretched people caught in its path, as well as the horrible deaths of at least twenty-eight innocent victims. Only the timely intervention of the Sennet has stopped the flames and saved the rest of Sylmont from certain destruction.
Additionally, Trenton has been convicted of using her position in customs to smuggle goods, robbing the crown of needed revenues, and stealing the food out of the mouths of those in desperate need. The families of the men serving aboard the ill-fated Sweet Song must not only suffer the dreadful loss of their husbands, brothers, and sons, but they do so without their rightful share of the blood oak find. They may look to Lucy Trenton during Chance when their children go hungry and their hearths are cold because they haven’t the money to buy necessary staples.
In perhaps the most painful scene ever witnessed by this reporter, the lord chancellor ended the trial by finding Lucy Trenton guilty of murdering his own son, Captain Jordan Truehelm. As previously reported, True-helm was found murdered Pescday. Clearly Trenton had seduced him, overcoming his superior strength with her majick, slitting his throat while he lay helpless to defend him-self. There was not a dry eye in the courtroom as the lord chancellor pounded the final gavel. Such are the men who make this country great. Lucy Trenton, you have much to answer for.
Jordan dead? Lucy’s head rang as if her ears had been boxed. It wasn’t possible. It had to be a mistake. Who would do such a thing?
She read through the account again and then fumbled through the papers until she found the report of Jordan’s death. Grief seized her heart. He’d been found in his bed days after someone had broken in, tied his hands and feet, beaten him, and then killed him. The rats had been gnawing at him. His flat had been ransacked and valuables stolen. Written in a shaky hand on his naked chest had been a single word: Lucy. Her stomach felt revolt at the news.
She vomited into a dirty pot in the sink. They’d killed him to frame her. She was certain of it. She wrapped her arms around herself, knotting her hands into fists. Her legs were shaking, but she refused to give in to the swamping sorrow and fear. She might not have murdered him, but she was responsible. If he hadn’t been her friend, if she’d stuck to the law and not made herself and him a target, he’d still be alive.
She walked stiffly back to the table, straightening the papers with forced precision and beginning to read again. She was determined to learn the status of her father, brothers, and friends. The news was equally bleak. Lord Chancellor Truehelm was expected to rule the next day that they had conspired with Lucy to commit treason. As far as the reporter Phineas Heep was concerned, it was a foregone conclusion.
Her stomach heaved again and she fled back to the sink. She hung her head over it, bracing her arms against the counter. She gasped, tears and snot running down her face. The Reckoning was on Sylday, just three days hence. Then all convicted prisoners would be sentenced. The day after, the Bramble ship would depart. The memory of the salvage and holding the many-eyed blob of muscular flesh as it sprouted spines and greedy tongues made her retch again.
At last she straightened, swallowing hard, wiping her face with the backs of her hands. She was responsible for this mess. She had to fix it. Purpose swept her and her jaw hardened. She’d made a new plan to find out about the stranger and the Jutras contract. Tonight she’d set it into motion.
She looked down at the cipher. The sylveth disks had turned an angry orange. But for once there was no heat, no cold, no tingling—no unusual sensations at all. She had a sense of it waiting. Slowly she lowered her arm. The question was, what was it waiting for?
Keros returned a glass and a half before sunset. He found her stewing over the papers, her expression grim.
“I see you’ve read the latest,” he said cautiously, setting his bag on the counter and leaning his hip against it.
“My trial is over. I’ve been convicted.”
“I know.”
“Were you going to tell me?”
“Yes. Though with a little less melodramatic flair than Mr. Phineas Heep.”
“I’m going to ask to be a live-in scrub maid at Sweet Dreams.”
Keros surprised her by nodding slowly. “I thought as much.”
“You aren’t going to argue?”
“No.”
His expression was tightly austere and Lucy wondered at it.
“How are you going to convince them to let you stay on?” he asked.
“Lora Clump’s family are water rats. With the strike and Chance looming, there’s no work, and so there’s a crowd packing her house. Living at Sweet Dreams lends the family more space and takes a mouth away from the table. It’s perfectly reasonable.”
“I won’t be able to renew the glamour. Once it fades, they’ll know you’re not Lora.”
“It will last my first shift. After that, I’ll keep my head down. You said it yourself—no one really looks closely at maids. There’s only a few days left before Reckoning. If I haven’t found the truth by then, it won’t matter,” she said bleakly.
If anything, his expression turned more severe. “It will,” he said softly. “You still have to warn the king about the Jutras, even if you fail to save your family and friends. No matter how hard it is, you have to see this through all the way.” He paused. “If you have to choose, then it’s your duty to keep yourself safe and alive.”
Lucy’s lips crimped together. “About that. If anything happens to me, you need to go get the copies of the Jutras contract and take them to Cousin William. Tell him everything that’s happened.”
Keros blanched, his face turning the color of milk. “Me? Have you forgotten what I am? And anyhow, why would he allow a ruffian like me to have an audience?”
“You’ll find a way.”
Keros shook his head adamantly. “No.”
“I’ll write a letter. It will corroborate what you say.”
“Good. Send it to him. Better yet, take it to him yourself.”
Lucy ignored this last. “Someone might intercept it. Who knows who is involved in this or how high up it goes? I need you to take it to him. Put it in his hands.” She paused. “If I can’t,” she added placatingly.
“It’s impossible.”
“Please.”
Keros just shook his head again and turned away. “It’s nearly sunset. It wouldn’t do to be late when you’re asking to stay on.”
Lucy hesitated and went upstairs to put on her uniform and scribble the hasty letter. When she came down-stairs, she laid it on the table between them. They ate silently, the scraping of their spoons the only sounds in the kitchen.
When he was through, Keros rose without speaking and came around to stand behind Lucy. He dipped his finger in his wine and drew a series of symbols on her forehead and neck. He then murmured a singsong chant, squeezing her shoulder and pressing down hard as he did.
The feeling of the spell was like cold oil washing down over her. It slid along her skin, wrapping her in an unpleasant shroud. Lucy felt the Koreion stir when Keros settled his hands on her shoulders. She closed her eyes, imagining herself stroking its soft, feathery muzzle. Easy, now. He’s only doing what I’ve asked. The sea dragon nuzzled her and subsided. A flash of well-being suffused her and she smiled.
“What’s funny?” Keros asked snapp
ishly, starting to clear the table, carefully avoiding touching the letter.
“I am. You are. This whole mess.”
“If you say so. You’re wasting time, Lora Clump. It’s time for you to go to work.”
Lucy took a breath and nodded. “Thank you for all you’ve done.”
Keros strode to the sink and dropped the dishes with a clatter. His back was straight and stiff. “I’ve done all that I’m going to. I’m not going to take the letter to the king.”
“Then put it in the mail. It’s the only warning Cousin William will have if things don’t work out for me.”
Keros laughed, a harsh, angry sound. He spun around, his eyes narrowed in unexpected fury. “If things don’t work out? Don’t you mean if they catch and kill you?”
“That, or if they catch me and throw me on the Bramble ship,” Lucy said, her own anger blossoming. She glared back at him, her hands on her hips, her chin jutting.
After a long moment, he sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. “You’re a damned fool. We both are.”
“Undoubtedly. You’ll send the letter?”
“And if I say no? Will that stop you?”
Lucy shook her head slowly. “No.”
“Fine. I’ll do it.”
“Thank you. I owe you again.”
The majicar shook his head. “Then pay me back by not getting caught.”
Lucy’s lips twisted. “I’ll do my best.”
In the guise of Lora Clump, Lucy awaited entrance to Sweet Dreams. She allowed the other servants to sift into line ahead of her. Tucked inside her shirtwaist was the Jutras contract. She’d left her seal with Keros, telling him to drop it into the harbor at the first opportunity. She’d given him the remaining gems she’d stolen as well. Over her shoulder she held a small bag containing a comb and her few other belongings. Unthinking, she touched her hair. It was tied in a tail at the base of her neck, the fractious curls that wouldn’t cooperate pushed up under her cap.
“Come, now! Step lightly and stop yer mooning.”
The underhousekeeper’s shrill voice cut across Lucy’s maunderings. She hunched and shuffled forward, bobbing her head respectfully.
“Yes’m. Sorry, mum. I didna mean t’dawdle,” she said breathlessly.
“Yer Lora Clump, yes? Yer the last of the lot. Come on, then.”
“If ye please, mum. I’d like t’ask…I mean, beggin’ yer pardon, if it be no trouble…”
The underhousekeeper was a thin, sallow woman with sharp features and widely spaced buckteeth. She shook a bony finger at Lucy. “Come on, then. Spit it out. What do ye want?”
“It’s just that wi’ th’strike, it be so crowded at home. Wi’ Chance comin’ and food bein’ so scarce and all, I wondered if’n I might be ’lowed t’stay on as a boarder maid. Leastwise till end o’Chance.” Lucy spoke diffidently, averting her eyes and digging her toes in the gravel.
The underhousekeeper sniffed. “As it happens, it may be that ye can. We’ll be filled up tighter than a Jutras slave ship and needing extra hands. I’ll see if the housekeeper’ll have ye. In the meantime, get to work. Time’s wasting.”
Lucy was assigned to a set of bathing rooms in the east wing. She collected her buckets, brushes, rags, and cleansers and wound through the maze of squat, narrow service passages. The first bathing room was filthy and smelled of incense, roast pork, garlic, and sweaty sex. Lucy rolled her eyes, then set about cleaning up.
She drained the water from the pool and scrubbed down the basin, walls, and floors. She fetched fresh towels, soaps, sponges, and wooden scrapers, piling the old ones in a cart to be washed. She rinsed down the slatted wooden benches and swept the ashes from the iron stove, refilling the kettle of water on top. Next she took store of the wines and liquors in the cabinet, noting down on a slate which needed restocking. She’d pass the list to the wine steward. She then moved to the sitting area and cleaned it, removing the stained coverings and replacing them with fresh ones. She fetched bowls of dried fruit, honey-roasted walnuts, crackers, chocolate truffles, and spiced sausage. Lastly, she refilled and lit the scented oil lamps in niches on the walls. When the room was ready, she rang the bell to notify the housekeeper.
The entire night went the same way. Sometime around the second glass, she fetched a sandwich and a mug of sour wine from the kitchens. Her hands itched and burned from the harsh cleanser and her back and shoulders ached from scouring on her hands and knees. She sat with the other girls in the small dining room, eating silently, too tired to do anything else. Several bolted their food and snored softly on folded arms. The under-housekeeper rousted them out and they returned to work. Lucy cleaned several bathing rooms more than once as different guests moved in and out.
Finally the end of her shift came and she put her cleaning things away, following the other scrub maids out to the exit. Each was checked off as she departed. The underbutler stopped Lucy when she gave him her name.
“Ye are to report to the housekeeper. Off ye go.”
Relief uncurled in Lucy’s stomach, even as her lungs filled with lead. The glamour was fading. If the housekeeper noticed…She hurried, arriving outside the door breathless. She knocked sharply. A young maid answered the door, the folds of her cap nearly hiding her face. Lucy wished for the same concealment. She went inside, ducking her head low.
The housekeeper sat in a wingback chair near the fire. There was a tray on a table with her breakfast. She sipped a cup of tea and set it aside with a click.
“I understand you wish to stay on as a boarder maid.”
“Aye, mum,” Lucy answered with a quick curtsy.
“The evaluations I have of your work are quite good. I see no reason not to allow you to board. It will change your duties, however. You’ll be servicing the more discreet areas of the bagnio. You’ll be expected to answer any summons promptly, whether day or night, and you will be released for half a day once a sennight, and a full day once a month. You’ll need to be polite and if I find that you’re gossiping, you’ll be put out immediately without references. Lettie has your room assignment. You can begin this evening.”
Dismissed, Lucy withdrew, going in search of the underhousekeeper. She found her in the kitchen eating breakfast.
“Ye’ll be rooming in with Janet and Betsey. Eat yer breakfast and have one of the girls show you the way. Best take a bath. Yer a might bit ripe, and ye’ll be seen by guests now. Don’t want to scare any delicate gentle-folk.” The underhousekeeper snorted with uncharacteristic humor. “Ye’ll need a fresh uniform, too. The girls will tell you where to go. Keep your room tidy. Now let me be.”
Lucy ate a bowl of porridge with bacon drippings and chopped nuts. She drank two mugs of weak tea and then followed an abigail up to the top of the bagnio. Her room was under the slanted roof and overlooked the alley behind. The room was frigid. She stirred the fire in the grate and added a small scoop of coal, not knowing what the ration might be. There were three narrow beds around the walls and a single wardrobe. The other two girls were absent, for which Lucy was grateful. She felt the majick of the glamour fading and didn’t know if they’d recognize she wasn’t the real Lora Clump or not.
She rinsed her face in the washbasin beneath the window and shivered. She wanted to begin exploring, but forced herself to crawl into bed. First she needed a few hours’ sleep. She pulled the scratchy wool blankets around her chin, staring up at the cracked plaster ceiling. Somewhere under this same roof was the stranger from her childhood, the man who was out to destroy her and her family and friends. Somewhere under this roof were the answers she needed to save them. She had three days to pry them loose. Three days until Reckoning Day.
Chapter 25
Marten had been cooped up in his bilge-hole prison for seven days, escaping only to dine, bathe, and empty his slop jar. When he wanted to leave his room he was forced to knock, and the waiting guard followed him about like a starving dog. He’d learned to go to the kitchens and bathing room during the middle of the da
y, when few servants could take a respite from their duties. This meant the food was often cold and overcooked, but the opportunity to avoid an audience more than made up for it. He was painfully aware of the sidelong stares and muttered conversations speculating about his plight. He didn’t blame them. It was Edgar’s intent that he should be the brunt of servant gossip and feel his circumstances acutely. He maintained a stoic expression in the face of the tittle-tattle, but inside his room he paced back and forth, unable to sit. He was caught between worry for Lucy and fury at her for causing his plight. He should have let well enough alone and forgotten about her as Edgar advised.
Edgar. Marten knew his brother was capable of violence and cruelty. He’d seen it in the scars on the Jutras slaves that Edgar kept. He’d seen it in other times and places as well. But it had affected Marten little, until now. His brother had neatly cut his stays and bottled him up.
He was just about to make his midday foray to the kitchen when his door opened without warning.
“Master wants ye,” the burly guard said tersely, motioning Marten out.
Marten was led to the private dining room, where Edgar was waiting. Edgar’s Jutras servants knelt on the floor behind him, their heads bowed as they awaited his command. Their collars gleamed in the candlelight. For a moment Marten felt his own closing around his throat. He swallowed hard, tearing his eyes away. Edgar chuckled softly, wiping his mouth with his napkin. He leaned back in his chair, scanning his brother up down. Marten bit the inside of his cheek.
“How are you finding yourself, brother?”
Marten did not reply.
“Come, now, I am your master. You must make an effort to be obedient and respectful. I should not like to have to lesson you in proper manners.”
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