by C. L. Polk
I crossed the room and sorted through the bangles, then sorted through them again. “None of these are engraved like that.”
“Perhaps it’s in the bath chamber.”
I skirted around Severin to check, but there was no bangle on the vanity, or on the floor, or accidentally kicked under the bath mat.
“I can’t find it.” I left the humid bathing room and started opening drawers, searching. “You’re sure she’d own such a thing.”
“Yes.” Miles swiped a hand through his hair, and all the carefully dressed curls sprang upward in response. “Poorer Laneeri have them in cheap metals, but everyone has them. They’re engraved with the stations of the wandering thrones as they were in the sky at the moment of their birth. They’re said to be the essence of that person’s soul and destiny in this incarnation, and a Laneeri wouldn’t easily be parted from it.”
Severin cleared his throat. “The delegation did kick up a terrible fuss when they were asked to surrender all their possessions for the ceremonial imprisonment, and they fought to have their jewelry returned. You’re saying it was over a bracelet?”
“Yes, sir. They’re supposed to protect the wearer from bad luck.”
“Bad luck.” Severin glanced at Sevitii’s body, then quickly looked away. “So what does it mean that we can’t find hers?”
“I’m not sure.” Miles rose to his feet, wincing as his knees unhinged. “I wish Tristan were here.”
Severin shook his head. “This has to stay secret, for now. I’m sorry. I know you would appreciate his support—”
“Tristan’s a trained investigator. It’s part of his role as royal bodyguard. He’s quite good. I wonder what he would make of this.” Miles indicated the scene and Sevitii’s body with a gesture that swept over the room.
“Tristan’s also pledged to the Grand Duchess,” I said. “Could you ask him to keep this a secret from her?”
“Blast it,” Miles muttered. “I wouldn’t want to put him in a fix. But if we could get his help officially—”
“I don’t think that would be in Aeland’s interests,” Severin said.
“I’m not sure how long we can hide it,” I said.
“Let me discover how she died,” Miles said. “Perhaps that will give us some direction on how much we have to hide.”
“And what, exactly, are we hiding?” Severin asked.
I bit my lip. “Sevitii’s death.”
“Her murder,” Miles said. “I need to know what ended her life. We need to find out who killed her, and what they stood to gain from it. Don’t we?”
Severin gazed toward the ceiling as he mulled it over. “You’re right. Find out what killed her. I’ll arrange to have the body discreetly moved to the morgue. When will you do the examination?”
“Tomorrow,” Miles said. “I’m in no shape to take care of it right now.”
“Very well,” Severin said. “I’ll have her moved.”
“I’ll get the ledger for everyone who has entered this room since we put Sevitii here,” I said.
Severin nodded. “I’ll leave you to your pursuit. We have to find who did this, and quickly.”
Severin left the suite, and Miles grumbled at the room. “Nothing looks out of place. But her star bangle’s missing. I don’t like it.”
“I don’t either.” I moved to the sofa where Sevitii had lounged when she made her bargain for Laneer’s freedom. Nothing had fallen between the couch cushions, and the floor underneath hadn’t so much as a dust ball. “You think she was murdered.”
“Very few things kill a healthy young woman. Fewer still kill her instantly,” Miles said. “I’ll know more tomorrow. And you should go home. Don’t stay here and work yourself to death.”
“There’s too much to do,” I said. “And a murder inquiry on top of that. I need to see Grand Duchess Aife—”
“She can wait,” Miles said. “Go home. Catch up on the meals and the sleep you skipped. The work will still be here when you get back. Doctor’s orders.”
I huffed. “Very well. You’re right.”
We left the suite with strict instructions—no one but the Prince and us could authorize anyone coming in. No maids were to touch anything. And they were to continue to guard the room until we relieved them of duty.
Avia hadn’t sent back a reply by the time I returned to my office. I could have found a reason to stay, to begin our investigation now, but Miles was right. I needed to rest and recover, and so I buckled on my skis and took the King’s Way, my twenty-foot-long shadow falling along the freshly tamped road.
We had to know who’d killed Sevitii. She’d been the only one willing to tell us the truth about Laneer’s plans to counterattack Aeland. She should have been safe. We had kept her a secret, hadn’t we? No one had known she was in my suite—
Not true. The guards knew. Severin and Constantina, of course. But the guards could have gossiped about it, spread the story around all the Queensguards. The maids assigned to clean the suite knew, and the story could have traveled among them as well. And the Laneeri imprisoned in the Tower of Sighs obviously knew that their young leader was missing, but they weren’t reasonable suspects. They couldn’t have done it.
I couldn’t worry myself into circles. Miles would examine her. We had to start there, and speculation wouldn’t help at this point.
My arms ached, but it felt good to ski and get fresh air. I could ask the grooms to put ice-spike tires on my bicycle, and let William and George pick me up in the evenings. Exercise cleared my head, and I hadn’t been doing enough. I peered at the Star as I went past, but luck didn’t bring Avia to me. I scowled at the dark, empty Edenhill Hotel and sped past it.
In all the excitement, I had forgotten about Ray’s ridiculous Cabinet list. There was no way I was presenting his choices to the Queen. I needed him out of the way. I had too much to do and no time to play king of the castle. Ray should have been happy with being Finance Minister, like his father—
I dug my poles into hard-packed snow and sculled along, skis gliding with a soft, scraping shush. What if Ray needed that position? The Blakes had poured millions into the Edenhill, confident that its modernity and luxury would attract not just the Hundred Families and the landed families whose complex lineages traced back to Queen Agnes, but also those who hadn’t the benefit of good birth to go with the fortunes they had built through trade and enterprise. No one could have predicted the disaster of losing aether, but the Edenhill’s finances must be swaying on a high-wire.
I grinned and skiied faster.
I knew how to get Raymond Blake out of my way.
* * *
I unbuckled my skis and strapped them together with my poles, cradled them in the crook of my left arm, and swept open the double doors of First Aeland Savings and Investment precisely five minutes before wicket closing. Every clerk and secretary in line to deposit their salaries gawked as I strolled across alabaster, black, and ochre mosaic tiles to rows of desks manned by account managers and loan officers. The branch manager rushed to meet me before I could find a seat.
“Mr. Fletcher. You didn’t have to put yourself out. I could have waited.”
“Never, Dame Grace, never. It’s always such a pleasure to help you, I stole the opportunity for myself.” He guided me down the long aisle between rosewood desks and furtive looks. “What may we do to assist you?”
I leaned my skis against one chair and took the other. “I’ve come to withdraw certificates for Blake Real Estate Development from my account.”
The hum of voices around us fell to a murmur.
“Certainly, Dame Grace. What figure would you like to withdraw?”
“All of them.”
The room went dead. Mr. Fletcher’s tongue dabbed nervously at his lips. “All of them?”
“Every certificate I own.”
His forehead shone. His imagination ran wild behind his eyes, made small by round black-rimmed spectacles. “I— Yes. Right away.”
There wa
s a game we used to play as children, building towers from waxed playing cards. The children with the steadiest hands and the right kind of cleverness could build towers so tall that they simply couldn’t reach any higher. Miles could construct one that rose from the floor to his chin.
He used to let me topple them because it made me laugh.
“I’ll start the paperwork immediately, but”—Mr. Fletcher pitched his voice to a soft murmur—“if you require funds, there’s no need to deflate your capital.”
Fletcher had to know better than to believe I’d divest capital without a reason. And he had to know that I wasn’t a ninny. That was an invitation to explain my actions, if I cared to, but I wasn’t inclined to spoil the fun this early.
“Oh, Mr. Fletcher. Thank you for your suggestion. It’s lovely of you. But I’m not the one in need of money.”
Fletcher’s face went chalky.
I slipped a hand-carved ivory pen from my inside jacket pocket. “I’ll be happy to sign the release and transit slips while we wait.”
He blinked and pushed his rosewood chair back. “The forms are right here. Would you like some tea? Mildred, brew some tea for Dame Grace.”
I sipped tea and dodged Fletcher’s attempts to uncover my motive. A woman arrived with a tall stack of certificates, engraved and stamped on thick cotton-hemp paper. Every certificate in Ray’s development company I owned lay there, taking up much less space than the currency they were worth.
The wrought iron clock suspended above the entrance to the vaults rang out the hour of four. Fletcher craned his neck to read the time, then turned hastily back to me. “I can finish your requests today, my lady. Leave it all to me.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fletcher, but that won’t be necessary.” I finished the last sip of tea and rose. “See it done on Firstday. Have a pleasant evening.”
I shook his hand and left the bank in an uproar.
ELEVEN
Examination in Progress
I spent the evening under the command of my lady’s maid, Edith, who had done two weeks’ work in days by restyling a white gown for the next evening’s ball. I stood on a stool while she inspected every line of sequins and frowned over the seams, pinning last-minute tweaks and adjustments. We sorted through jewels, selecting glittering diamonds paired with more valuable pearls, and Edith set them aside to be cleaned and polished.
After a decent night’s sleep and a hearty breakfast, William and George drove me through the Restday streets of Kingston. People in short white lace veils crowded the entrances to temples that exhaled sweetwood and luckgrass incense. Yellow ribbons fluttered from the elbows of those gathered, their wearers eyeing me and my ostentatious orange sled.
We drove past them and into the empty drive in front of Government House. I strode down empty hallways to my deserted office, where a note from Miles lay half-under my office door and Avia’s response waited in the middle of my desk. I slit open Avia’s envelope and unfolded a page that smelled like lilies and newsprint and read:
Dear Grace,
Thank you for your kind invitation. In spite of the late notice, I would be delighted to attend.
Avia
The page trembled in my hand. A shimmering elation rippled over my skin even as I reminded myself that I had invited her for our mutual advantage, and that she’d miss a chance to scoop the whole country with an interview with the Grand Duchess when they pried the camera from her cold, dead hands. I raised the note to my nose and breathed it in one more time before tucking it into my desk drawer and picking up the note with Miles’s slanted, narrow hand in the script.
Grace,
We’re in the mortuary. The examination will probably take several hours, but I can give you a report when you fetch us for lunch.
Miles
So Miles had told Tristan after all. I couldn’t blame him—who wanted secrets between lovers? Tristan would be discreet. But that could mean that I had some explaining to do when I found Aife.
I sorted through the paper on my desk. There were reports I had asked for, but none of it was reason to delay my visit to the Amaranthines. It could all wait until Firstday, and so I abandoned it and locked the office door behind me.
The glasshouse Aife used as a salon was nearly empty. Aife sat with her long-necked instrument, picking out chords and melody with her nimble hands; above her head, gem-winged butterflies wobbled in the air. Black-and-silver-clad Ysonde stood by a window that let in the chill, intent on the scarlet jay perched on his finger. Tristan stood in a shabby tweed suit and Miles’s Service coat, his long flaxen hair tucked under the collar and covered by a green knit cap, and if Tristan was here, who had Miles meant when he wrote “we”?
I stood quietly. Aife knew I was present, but she didn’t cease playing her instrument. Her music shimmered; every string was its own melody woven around the others in haunting, ethereal harmonies. I could stand there for an hour, just listening.
Warm air billowed into the room as the door behind me opened. I glanced over my shoulder while I stepped clear, and a fully armed Aldis swept into the chamber, his wide-legged, calf-high trousers rippling with his steps. His padded jerkin was embroidered with a crawling rose briar of white blossoms and long thorns along the hem. A leather quiver of arrows slung across his back matched the longbow in his left hand. His single witchmark—the soul of Sir Percy Stanley—hovered near his left temple. He glanced at me for one sneering second as he passed.
“We’re busy,” he said, and the music ceased.
“This will only take a moment,” Aife said. “You have your objectives, gentlemen.”
Tristan pressed his fist to his chest and bowed. “I will verify Ysonde’s findings, if I can. Are you ready to survey the damage, Aldis?”
Aldis cast another withering glance at me. “I am.”
“Then allow me.” Tristan extended his arm over his head, describing a spiral that smudged the air as if I peered through foggy spectacles. As the path of his hand spiraled tighter, the distortion in the air grew more intense, sparkling like the aura that clouded my vision when a bad storm triggered a dazzle-headache. But then Tristan’s hand retraced its spiraling path backward, and—
—Sunlight poured into the room from a hole in the air, afternoon-bright and blazing like a summer’s day. It lined Tristan in gold as he opened the hole wider, and a scent like sweet running water and moss swept over my face.
I stood before the portal that led to the Solace. A brook babbled at my feet, the sunlight now filtered through the dappling shadows of leaf-laden tree branches. As I watched, the land turned from moss-covered stones bordering running water to a flower-strewn meadow, blossoms nodding in a breeze that flowed over our faces. Hills mounded upward, and saplings grew wide and tall, their papery white bark striped by black.
Ysonde watched the melting, transforming landscape with his brows knitted together. “That’s not a good sign.”
Aife glanced at me, then set her hand on Ysonde’s elbow. “That is the Solace, Grace.”
It was mesmerizing, but it made my skin shudder. “What—why is it changing like that?”
Tristan answered. “This land is unanchored. No one is here to believe in it.”
The forest withered, thinned. Dry, golden grass clung to sandy ground, but the sand won and stretched across my view. A ruined city of shining white stone rose, making me wonder if its people had survived, if they had found safety. A river ran through the sand, turning golden ground to good black earth, sprouting grass once more.
“It’s beautiful.”
“It’s dangerous,” Tristan said. “Especially here.”
“Why?”
Tristan glanced over my shoulder toward his Grand Duchess. She slid off the guitar stool in a whispering of skirts to stand next to me. “Stay safe. Come back in time for the ball.”
Aldis’s gaze softened when he looked at his liege. “I shall.”
Aldis stepped into that other world, now a towering, misty wood, noisy with birdsong
. Tristan followed, and the passage between our world and the Solace sighed shut.
“Aldis is maintaining a patrol of the Solace here. Tristan is going to follow up on a lead in the city.”
They had stepped out of this world and into another without using Waystones. How had Tristan done it? “Why does it do that? Why does it change like that?”
“Tristan told you. No one dwells in this part of the Solace. The land shifts because there is no one to believe it is still.”
“You mean that no Amaranthines live near here?”
“That is also true,” Aife said. “I’m sorry you didn’t have time to talk to me yesterday, but I am glad you’re here now.”
So the business of the Solace was off-limits, then? I could ask Tristan later. He might give more than the Grand Duchess, whom I couldn’t wheedle. “I understand you have questions about the storm.”
“Yes.” Aife returned to the guitar stool and picked up her instrument. It was strung with gut rather than wire, and its soft tones rose in the air, conjuring butterflies with every note. “This cyclonic blizzard. This is normal for your land?”
“Not exactly,” I said. “I’ve faced a cyclonic blizzard before, but they don’t usually come until we’re deep into Snowglaze—next month, I mean, after New Year. Still, they’re nothing like the storm we faced the other night. This one broke snowfall records.”
“So too early, and too powerful,” Aife said. “I’m sure you want to know who helped you that night. I did. And Ysonde.”
Ysonde nodded and closed the window, having banished all but his roost of black doves to the outdoors. They billed contentedly within a wooden cote, the music of their murmuring calls blending with the circling, three-beat tempo of Aife’s song.
Ysonde crossed the room in a fluttering of smoky black. He wore the same voluminous calf-high trousers Aldis had been wearing, but with an embossed black leather kilt and jerkin, his wrists bound by sturdy leather armguards meant for working with birds of prey. He waved at one of a matched set of chairs in invitation, and I settled into a heavy armchair padded in red satin.
