by C. L. Polk
I closed my eyes. “The Laneeri raided a field hospital to take me. And if all they wanted was a good doctor saving their lives, that wouldn’t have been so bad.”
Tristan’s hand slid over my shoulders, the material of my shirt slipping under his hand as he stroked my spine. I touched my patients like this, to see them through the darkest parts of their stories.
“They made me save them,” I said. “My own men. They’d been tortured. Mutilated. They knew how I could work miracles. They put a gun to my head and held it there until I passed out from healing. Then they’d feed me until I recovered, and make me do it again. One man, I healed him four times, so they could question him again. He didn’t know what they wanted. It didn’t stop them.”
“You were coerced.”
“I should have let them kill me.”
“No one wants to die, Miles.”
“They did,” I said. “They begged me. I should have—”
Tristan put his finger over my lips. “You were rescued. You think you didn’t deserve it. You were kidnapped, imprisoned. It’s not your fault.”
How many times had I said that to my patients?
He pulled me into his side and I leaned on him, unashamed that I needed the closeness. He laid my head on his shoulder and went on. “When they rescued you, they sent you home. But you couldn’t be that kind of a healer, so you found another way.”
“Psychiatry.”
“Because you still want to heal them,” Tristan said. “You never give up, Miles. You’re as brave as any healer I know. Braver. My friend Cormac—I wish I could take you to him.”
“Amaranthines need healers?”
“We can be hurt, Miles. Or killed.”
“I thought you were immortal.”
“Only if we live a boring life. He’d teach you what I can’t. You’d probably teach him a thing or two. But he’d have nothing but admiration for you and what you’ve done.”
“I wish—”
“Shh. You don’t have to say anything,” Tristan said. “Where I come from, you’d have a companion.”
“Like an assistant?”
“In a sense. Someone to keep you from killing yourself try ing to save someone else. I can’t imagine how you manage to do this alone.”
“There’s no other way to do it.”
“If I—if you had a companion, he’d tell you what happened wasn’t your fault. You did what you had to do so you could survive. And he’d be glad you were back.”
I lifted my head from his shoulder. “You didn’t know me before.”
“Then I’m glad you wound up where I could find you.”
He was so close. I’d been calmed before, soothed by his nearness. Now I felt more stirring in me.
He put two fingers under my chin and drew me close enough so our breaths puffed together, close enough for his warmth to radiate over my mouth in the instant before he kissed me.
The crisp sweetness of apple soda flavored his mouth, and I fizzed like the bubbles that rose when the bottle first opened, cold shivers and hot tingles chasing over my skin where his warmth didn’t press against me. Dizzy, I opened my mouth wider, and he pulled me tight against him.
We’d been headed for this moment no matter how I tried to turn my back on it, to deny the stupid part of me that didn’t care he was heartless, didn’t care that Amaranthines never loved, didn’t love. And now, with his hand cradling the small of my back, I didn’t care either. I didn’t care for anything but more.
We shoved bright cushions aside, and I rested my head on a padded bolster. A pillow lay awkwardly under my ribs, and I didn’t care. Tristan’s braid fell over his shoulder and pooled in the curve of my neck as he stretched over me. I caught his tie in my fingers and pulled it loose, pinching his collar button open. His heart beat hard in his chest, and he shivered. A warm feeling spread through me. He might be an Amaranthine, but I was enchanting him.
“Miles,” he gasped. “We need a bed.”
“No, we don’t.” I didn’t want him to stop, not even for the half minute it would take to fly upstairs. I pulled him back down to undo another button, to feel his skin on mine.
It was as good as magic. It was magic. I let it seep from my fingertips when I touched him, and Tristan gripped me tight even as he shuddered. I did it again, again. I’d never touched a lover with magic. I had never been myself, even in those most private moments. Always hiding, never free.
Freed, I dragged him down for another kiss.
And then he lifted his head to the sound of the knocker on the front door.
“That could be Alice.” Tristan’s hair slipped loose of his braid. His shirt collar and tie were undone.
I probably looked as rumpled, but I sat up. “I’ll put the water on.”
We left the chaise cushions on the floor as we went our separate ways.
* * *
Miss Farmer perched on the edge of an oval-backed chair, hands nested in her lap. She wore her Restday best, and a scrap of lace netting peeked out of the bag at her feet. She was wide-eyed and frightened at calling on a house with no women.
“Tea, Miss Farmer?” I made a show of pouring my own cup, using the cream as well as the sugar even though I preferred it black and sweet. “Tristan will be with us shortly. He gives his housekeeper two days off. We should have thought…”
Her gaze flicked from my rumpled hair and hastily straightened tie, and she offered a timid smile. “I interrupted you.”
There’s a smart girl. If Tristan were staying, I’d suggest he and Miss Farmer become investigative partners. She would be better at it than me.
“Miss Farmer,” Tristan said, and she nodded over her rattling cup, bark-brown curls shivering. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting?”
He set a notebook and pen next to the tea and sat beside me again. Alice suppressed a sigh of relief as his hand rested on my knee.
“I came because I didn’t want anyone else in the newsroom to know. They would have … asked questions.”
After experiencing a curiosity of reporters all trained on me, I didn’t blame shy, uncomfortable Alice for wanting to avoid such scrutiny. “We’ll have questions too. Is it about Nick’s book?”
“Yes. Nick Elliot was writing a book about the witch asylums.”
All my suppositions shattered. He wasn’t writing about the war? He was writing about witches? What was Nick talking about, then, when he said the soldiers deserved to know?
Tristan set his teacup down. “Do you know why?”
“He was obsessed,” Alice said. “He read everything about testing and trial, going back fifty years. He kept it a secret—Cully Miller knows her department is full of reporters dreaming of the city desk or current affairs or investigative reporting, even though writing a column is steadier money.”
“Not nearly as much glory as breaking a major story,” Tristan mused. “Do you know why he was so interested in witches?”
Because he was one himself, of course. But Alice didn’t know, and I wasn’t about to tell her. She looked down at her knees, pressed demurely together and covered in sober gray gabardine. “I think it had to do with his mother.”
“Why his mother?”
“She was examined and found to be a witch. There was a notice in the Star years ago. Applebranch twelve, in the fourteenth year of Queen Constantina’s rule.”
The year I had run away to trade seven years’ service to the Queen for medicine. I reckoned in my head. “Nick couldn’t have been more than—”
“Thirteen,” Alice said. “He came here to live with a guardian. He used to live in Bywell before his mother was committed as a patient.”
Tristan glanced at me. “Miss Farmer, do you know if the other towns Nick visited had witch asylums?”
“They all did. Goldenwood Asylum in Norton, established in the thirtieth year of King Nicholas’s rule—”
She watched me wrinkle my brow and took pity on me. “Forty-one years ago. Clarity House in Bywell, constructi
on completed at about the same time. They were all built around forty years ago. May I use your notebook?”
She had round, beautiful writing, and she listed each town Nick had visited, the name of the asylum, and the year it was opened.
“Did you ever see his manuscript?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hunter.” She rubbed at an ink smudge on her fingers. “He never let me see it. I only saw his notes on the construction of the six asylums, and the enormous amount of money approved to build railways to those towns, even though they were remote and expansion of the secondary lines had to wait while Aeland built trains to nowhere.”
I shut my jaw. Every schoolboy learned of the dotty idea of an aging king who didn’t understand transportation planning. But the asylums built at the ends of those lines at the same time?
They had never taught us about the asylums in school.
My next thought chilled me: What if it wasn’t dotty?
Tristan squeezed my knee. “Miss Farmer. I think you were wise in telling us this, and in keeping it a secret.”
She looked hopeful. “Do you know what it means?”
Tristan shook his head. “Not yet. But I will.”
He escorted Alice out, then returned, plunging past me into the room he used as a library. I stood at the threshold as he hunted through his collection.
“Where is it, where is it, how could it disappear, the damned thing’s huge—ah! Miles. Come and look at this.”
“This” was an atlas opened to the page illustrating a map of Aeland. He waved a hand over the expensive plate illustration. “Where are these towns?”
I shook my head. “They’re nowhere. Tiny little places, and even the railway didn’t grow them.”
“Who wanted them built?”
“The King,” my schoolboy reflex said. “No. He had advisers. The Minister of—”
My mouth went dry.
“Miles?”
“The Minister of Transportation and Infrastructure.”
“Which is … oh.”
“My father. Grandpa Miles was still the Chancellor. Father was Minister. He still holds the post.”
I had thought it was Sir Percy. I could blame him for the war, but did Nick’s death lay at another suspect’s feet? Father could be part of it. If he hadn’t wanted those trains running to nowhere, they wouldn’t have been built. Would my father kill to keep a secret?
I didn’t really have to ask. The correct question was: Would Grace? Father had been too sick to rise from his bed a week ago. He’d been easing her into the business of taking his place. The man with the mustache could be Father’s man, but he could just as easily be Grace’s.
Tristan handed me the atlas. “Find those towns, Miles. Please.”
I scanned the pages, but they were fly-specks. The only one of any size was Bywell, near the center of the country. But the book had an index, and soon the map bore red dots circling the land—not quite on the borders, but close. Why would Father want asylums there?
Tristan frowned at it. “Why build there?”
“Distance from home environment—”
“I remember, Miles. You told me. But why this far? Do they all hold witches? What else is out there? I need to know, and I can’t find out.”
I said what I’d been avoiding all this time. “You can’t stay.”
“I can’t. The Grand Duchess will act as if I needed to be retrieved. I expect there will be searchers looking for me on the other side of the stones, and if they cross over to find I’m not imprisoned or incapacitated … Well. Would you want your crown prince displeased with you?”
I didn’t want him to go. “Annoying a prince is a bad idea.”
“Grand Duchess Aife will take a lot of soothing. She doesn’t like it when her favorites are away for too long.”
“You’re a favorite?”
“Ever since I saved her life.” He touched the page, turning it to a map of Kingston at least ten years out of date. “If I come back … will I find you here?”
“Here? In Kingston?”
“In this house,” he said. “Live here. I’ve leased it for two years. There’s money in the chests; I certainly won’t need it.”
I hesitated. I didn’t live at Mrs. Bass’s house because it was all I could afford, but out of inertia. Finding a flat on the west end took more time than I had, working at the hospital, and if I didn’t move, Grace would move me. I had a sum in my bank account that could cushion the cost of Mrs. Sparrow, but Michael? I didn’t need a driver. It was an impractical idea. But I felt welcome in this place, welcome and at home.
“Live here, Miles. Let me think of coming back to you.”
“I—”
“Please.”
I wanted to. I wanted to be here. “I will.”
Tristan’s smile warmed my face, now caught in his hands and tilted to meet his mouth. “Miles.”
The knocker rapped four times, sharp and loud.
I stepped back.
“A pox on whoever that is,” Tristan declared, striding across the floor to look out the parlor window. “Twice and twice again! It’s your sister.”
“Grace? What would—oh, no,” I groaned. “She wants me to attend the premiere of the social season.”
“What fortuitous timing,” Tristan muttered. “I’ll send her away, if you wish.”
I sighed. “Let her in. I think I know what she has planned.”
* * *
“I wouldn’t ask, Miles, but it’s so important that people see you before the vote.”
Grace still looked a little pale, but she could still make that face that made me feel terrible for denying her something she really wanted. “What vote is that?”
“The First Ring is holding a vote over who leads the ritual. Sir Percy has convinced his factions that the position of leadership should not be assumed by inheritance.” Grace’s lips were flat, her jaw set hard. “I’m sorry, Miles. I need all the advantage I can get. That means putting you on display.”
And it would tear me away from Tristan’s side. The Return was an all-night party with no consideration for the sleep of the working man. The Hundred Families didn’t pursue occupations or trade, so why not stay up all night?
Tristan would be gone by tomorrow night. I wouldn’t be here to say goodbye. I’d be with Grace as she sung in winter as our father’s proxy, as the successor to the Voice. With her prodigal brother returned and brought properly to heel, she would step higher in the eyes of the Invisibles, secure her hold on the power she’d been born to take.
The secret power preserved by Nick Elliot’s death.
“I haven’t anything to wear.”
Grace nodded at the carriage. “We’ll have to fetch your uniform.”
Of course. It was the perfect costume for this little drama. I sighed and held out my hand. Everyone would stare anyway, why not stand out as a cardinal amongst crows?
“I can’t stay until dawn. I work. You will have to leave early. Say you’re kenning the air. It’ll make sense, if it’s a storm year.”
“I forget you don’t sense much in the air.”
“Enough to guess when I need an umbrella.” I turned to Tristan. “I’m sorry.”
“We have our duties,” Tristan said. “You still have the key. Wake me when you come back.”
TWENTY
The Return
“We have to leave early,” I said for the tenth time.
I’d left my watch on the nightstand next to my bed. I should have brought it with me despite custom. The rest of the Hundred Families had no care for the hours spent in celebration, but the hospital expected me with the sun.
We bounced and vibrated in the carriage as I tried to keep things ordinary. I closed my eyes, mentally scanning every conversation I’d had with her. She was better at keeping secrets than the Grace I remembered. If she wasn’t, she probably had told Father about me before I’d gone there to heal him. If she was, I could be riding in a carriage with an accessory to murder … at l
east. My heart pounded. Was my sister a murderer?
She might have orchestrated our meeting at the benefit, come to the hospital to keep a closer watch on me than the follower she’d set on my trail. Was it Grace, or my father?
I had no trouble imagining my father sending an underling after Nick Elliot. Telling that same underling to follow me. It smacked of his style, of pulling on puppet strings and making them dance.
But Grace would inherit at his death. The money, the property … the power she craved so badly.
Clear skies greeted us as we stepped from the carriage. Returning families strolled into the Hall perched on the tip of the Western Point. Curious eyes glanced back at my jarring scarlet tunic, and mouths sprang into slack-jawed surprise at my face. Here I was, returned. A hero of the war come home, settled into his place two paces behind the sister who really counted, the sister who would be their Voice.
What would she do to ensure her place?
I pushed the thought down and followed Grace into the hall.
Whispers and shock followed me into the five-sided ballroom at the center of the hall, the crowds parting like theater curtains to make a path to the dais at the western point where a gilt and violet throne rested.
An empty throne. Her Majesty had descended. We were late.
Grace stood up straight, turned her head a fraction to the left, then right. Silence rippled to the edges, catching the musicians up in it.
Silence, until a woman in red stepped into the cleared floor. “I’m right here, my girl.”
We bent our heads and knees. Queen Constantina’s scarlet gown was heavy with autumn-turning leaves beaded and embroidered so thickly at the hem I wanted to hear them rustle and crunch as she came closer, hand extended for Grace to kiss.
“Rise, both of you. Dame Grace. Sir Christopher.”
I nearly looked for my father before I stood and bowed over her hand, then looked into her eyes.
Queen Constantina had been beautiful as a young woman, but maturity made her arresting. Her age rested easily on fine bones, her even, golden-toned skin soft on a face that laughed, and frowned, and lived. A fortune of diamonds, topazes, rubies, and emeralds draped over lean shoulders and curved collarbones. Golden oak leaves crowned her upswept black curls, threads of silver glinting without apology.
