It had taken Bennick nearly half an hour to join them, and he’d brought the note. He confirmed that no sign of the killer had been found and he had increased the guard in the hallway as a precaution.
Finally, Venn looked up from the letter. “Well. That’s the fates-blasted creepiest thing I’ve ever read.”
“I don’t understand.” Clare looked to Bennick. “Who is the Rose?”
He exhaled slowly, not quite meeting her gaze. “He’s an assassin. Perhaps the most well-known assassin in all Eyrinthia.”
Clare frowned. “I’ve never heard of him.”
“Well,” Venn said, “you are pretty new to this world.”
He had a point. She turned back to Bennick. “So, this assassin—he targets royals?”
“No.” Bennick’s expression was guarded, and that alone made Clare tense. Because if he was trying to hide his alarm, she probably wasn’t as scared as she should be. “I don’t think the Rose has ever targeted a royal.”
“He killed a distant cousin in the Buhari royal family,” Wilf offered, shutting a closet door on the other side of the room. “That was a few years ago. King Zaire nearly tore Zennor apart looking for the Rose, but he was never found.”
“Royal targets aside,” Venn said, “the Rose is known for killing influential figures, like wealthy merchants, prominent nobles, or even ambassadors. But sometimes it’s just someone who crossed someone important.” His eyes narrowed. “He killed a captain of the city guard a couple years ago. A Captain Olsen. The Rose left notes for him, too.”
“They are part of the Rose’s signature.” Wilf double-checked the lock on a window before turning to face them. “He’s not a typical assassin. He isn’t hired just to kill, he’s hired to taunt, spread fear and panic, and then kill. You hire the Rose when you want to send a message—and he never fails. Anyone stalked by the Rose ends up dead. And he always leaves a rose.”
A chill rippled down Clare’s spine, and her fingers dug more tightly into her crossed arms. Bennick’s eyes flashed, noting the movement. His jaw tightened.
“No one knows which kingdom he hails from.” Venn rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. “He seems to kill indiscriminately.”
“I heard a rumor that he was from Ryden,” Vera said quietly.
Ivonne huffed. “He’s probably one of those demon Kaelin princes.”
Venn looked to Bennick. “What are the chances this is an imposter, just trying to scare us?”
“I’m not sure, but we’re going to treat the threat as real.” Bennick nodded to the note on the table. “I’ll send that to Iden. My father investigated Captain Olsen’s murder two years ago; he should still have the messages the Rose left, and he can compare the handwriting.”
“Hiring the Rose to kill the princess while on her royal tour would have cost a great deal,” Wilf mused. “She’s a high-profile target on a highly publicized tour, well-guarded, with locations changing frequently. Not many could afford him. Especially if a request came to kill multiple people.”
Venn snorted a short laugh. “Maybe the rebels took up a collection and pinched their coins.”
“No,” Bennick said, shaking his head. “They would want to make the kill themselves, not let an assassin claim the victory. If they used the Rose, they’d lose the power of their message.”
“Agreed.” Wilf stepped closer, finally abandoning his search of the room and joining them. “The fact he sent the note at the beginning of the tour is no coincidence. He’s making it clear this is about the betrothal.”
Bennick turned to Venn. “Check in with the house guards, see if they managed to find anything new. And send someone to Camden’s city guard headquarters for their fastest messenger. I want that note in the commander’s hands as soon as possible.” Venn dipped his head and left, and Bennick turned to Wilf. “How long has he been active? Do you know?”
“Not exactly, but several years. Maybe a decade. Long enough to establish a pattern and earn a reputation.” He lifted his gaze and met Bennick’s. “I don’t think anyone in the business of professional killing would have the nerve to pretend to be him.”
Bennick nodded, then gestured to the suite’s door. “Let the guards know what happened and see if they know anything about the Rose. I’ll take rumors and hearsay at this point.”
Wilf nodded and moved for the door, obeying without question. Sometimes, Clare almost forgot that Bennick was the captain of the princess’s guard. Not because he didn’t take charge, but he was so much younger than the others; Dirk was in his fifties, Wilf in his forties, and even Cardon was thirty. But even though he was only twenty years old, Bennick had earned their respect.
Bennick turned to Ivonne and Vera. “May I have a private word with Clare?”
The sisters nodded, quickly moving for the bedroom and closing the door.
The moment they were alone in the sitting room, Bennick moved to stand in front of Clare, blocking her view of the bloody note. “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice low and intent.
She choked on a weak laugh. “Can I be honest?”
A muscle in his cheek tightened. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”
She blinked slowly, knowing she would never get the images out of her mind. Lady Firth’s sightless eyes. The dagger in her heart. The rose in her mouth.
She didn’t realize she was shaking until Bennick set his hands on her shoulders, steadying her with his grounding touch. His words were quietly fierce as he said, “Lady Firth’s death is not your fault.”
Tears pricked her eyes. She supposed she should be surprised that he had read her so clearly, and yet, she wasn’t. Her throat swelled with emotion she’d been trying to force down. “I feel like it’s my fault. If I hadn’t talked with her, then maybe . . .”
Bennick’s fingers curled into her shoulders with gentle pressure. “You did nothing wrong, Clare. He’s the one who murdered an innocent woman.”
“He was watching me.” She peeked up at Bennick. “He was watching me, and I didn’t even notice.”
The skin around his eyes tightened. “We’ll catch him. He won’t touch you.”
Her stomach rolled. “He’s never failed.”
“Everyone fails. The Rose is only human.”
“He sounds more like a nightmare,” she whispered.
Bennick’s lips pressed together and he tugged her to his chest. She leaned into his embrace, wrapping her arms around his waist. He rested his cheek against the top of her head, his arms completely enfolding her.
His embrace was exactly what she needed. As the moment lengthened, some of the tension in her body eased. Dread still iced her veins, but abandoning hope and trust for fear and panic would only give the Rose another victory. Her heartbeat gradually steadied, and she squeezed Bennick in silent thanks. “Will you promise me something?”
“Anything,” he vowed.
She closed her eyes. “If something does happen to me, please look after my brothers.” It was a promise she’d secured before they left the castle, but after tonight she needed the reassurance.
Bennick’s arms flexed around her, tightening his hold. “Of course.” His lips brushed the hair at her temple. “But nothing is going to happen to you. I will get you to Duvan safely and when the time comes, I’ll get you home. I swear it.”
She did not doubt him.
It was the rest of the world she doubted.
Clare lifted her arms so the seamstress could take her measurements. The poor woman kept shaking her gray head, mortification stark on her face. “I’m so sorry for this inconvenience, Princess. My apprentice must have made a mistake when she read your letter. Everything is slightly off.”
“It’s no trouble,” Clare said, sending a reassuring smile toward the younger girl blushing in the corner. “It was an innocent mistake.”
It had not been a mistake. The measurements the seamstress had received weeks ago were indeed the princess’s—but while Clare and Serene were extremely similar in si
ze, there were differences.
The seamstress—a matronly woman named Sylvie—continued to apologize, but the set of her shoulders relaxed as the fitting went on. The woman was known throughout Devendra for her spectacular designs and talent, and Serene had ordered several dresses from her. She’d been extremely angry when King Newlan had forbidden her to break from her alternate path to keep the appointment.
Sometimes the battles Serene picked with Newlan didn’t make sense, but Clare was grateful this stop hadn’t been canceled. The long afternoon was turning into a much needed break from the nobles who had been crowding her all morning and the terrifying memories that had kept her up most of the night. Even now when she closed her eyes, all she saw was Lady Firth’s body and that terrifying note. The reality that she was being stalked by a professional killer who wrote chilling notes and shoved roses into his victims’ mouths left a pit in her stomach.
Spending hours at a dress shop in relative solitude was exactly what Clare needed.
Ivonne had remained at the Harringtons manor with a headache, but Vera was in the dressing room with Clare, occasionally giving her opinion. The quiet girl had been even more so today; she seemed preoccupied, which Clare could understand after last night’s events.
Sylvie continued her work, at times asking for Clare’s opinion on a certain aspect of the design or a particular bit of embroidery. The seamstress also wanted the princess’s opinion on several bolts of fabric imported from Zennor, so while the apprentice rushed to gather the final dresses to try on, Sylvie led Clare into the main part of the shop.
Of course, Clare knew nothing of how the silks compared to those found in Zennorian markets, but she sifted the smooth material between her fingers and praised the quality. Sylvie beamed. “Perhaps I could surprise you with a design in one of these silks? You have only to pick the color.”
Her eagerness and enthusiasm made Clare smile. “You’re very kind.” And since Newlan could afford it, she picked a deep purple she liked and Sylvie lifted the entire bolt.
“I’ll just put this in the back.” She started to turn, but instantly twisted back. “I know many do not recognize the sacrifice you’re making for us. For peace. But I want you to know that some of us do. Thank you, Princess.” She dropped into a quick curtsy and—as if worried she’d said too much—hurried off with the fabric in her arms.
The woman’s words were unexpected and touching. Clare promised herself she’d pass them on to Serene, next time she saw her. It was nice to hear something positive, when all around them were threats, anger, and rebellion.
Clare’s eye was drawn to the corner of the room, where Venn stood admiring a length of maroon ribbon. He clutched the end with his good hand, the other still wrapped in the sling. He turned, the ribbon dangling in front of him. “Wilf, this is exactly your color!”
Wilf’s arms were crossed over his chest and his pox-scarred face was set like granite as he eyed the ribbon. “Put that anywhere on me and I will break your arm.”
“Rude.” Venn caught Clare looking at them. His grin widened and he held the ribbon in front of Wilf’s face. “It is his color, don’t you think?”
Wilf snatched the swaying ribbon and threw it aside. But one could only throw a ribbon so harshly, so it fluttered almost gently to the floor.
Clare’s mouth twitched. “We need to get you out of this shop.”
Wilf grunted agreement.
“It’s no crime to want to look your best,” Venn said. “I bet I could convince Bennick to make it a new rule.” He promptly raised his voice. “Bennick! Make it a rule that we each need to wear a ribbon with our uniform.”
Bennick, who was peering out the storefront window, didn’t even bother to throw a glance over his shoulder. “No.”
“Couldn’t we at least put one on our swords?” Venn asked.
“No,” Bennick repeated.
“Thank the fates,” Wilf muttered.
Venn pouted, but then his eyes darted to Vera, who was returning from the back of the shop with the seamstress’s apprentice, their arms filled with the next round of dresses. The way Venn’s gaze both brightened and softened spread a slow grin over Clare’s face.
Vera flashed a smile at Venn before she disappeared back into the dressing room. Clare followed her, and Sylvie—who had returned from storing the purple silk—trailed behind.
Six more gowns were waiting to be tried, and Sylvie apologized once more that the dresses would not be ready to be taken today, though she assured Clare that she would send them to the next tour stop in Tarvin.
Clare was still wearing the final dress—a dinner gown in a light shade of blue that was almost an exact match for Bennick’s eyes, with beautiful silver embroidery—when the apprentice ran out of pins and had to excuse herself to gather more.
Sylvie held the dressing room door for the girl, asking her to carry a few things to the back, since she was going anyway. She then turned to Clare. “We’ve kept you overlong, I fear. Allow me to fetch some refreshments while we finish up.”
“I’m all right, but I’m sure my guards would appreciate something.” If nothing else, Wilf probably needed a break from Venn’s teasing, which she doubted had stopped. He loved riling the giant.
Sylvie bobbed a curtsey and exited the room, leaving Clare alone with Vera.
The seventeen-year-old maid was gathering up swatches of fabric and other items left behind in the chaos of the fittings. Clare picked up a pair of scissors before Vera could, and that was when Vera seemed to realize she wasn’t alone.
“Oh, you don’t need to do that,” she said.
“Neither do you.” Clare’s brow furrowed as she studied the girl’s face. “Is something wrong?”
Vera blew out a breath, and a tendril of blond hair that had come loose from her braid shivered from the long exhale. “Ivonne and I had an argument.”
Clare’s eyes widened. “Really?” The sisters always seemed so close; always in agreement.
Vera scrubbed a hand over her brow before dropping to pick up a discarded spool of thread. “It happened the night before we left the castle.”
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize . . .”
The maid shook her head, the spool of thread twisting in her fidgeting hands. “We agreed not to let it impact our work.” She snorted. “But then she refused to come here today, so I suppose she broke that promise.”
“She doesn’t have a headache?”
“Oh, I’m sure her head aches,” Vera muttered. “That happens when you’re hard-headed.”
Clare plucked the spinning thread from Vera’s fast-moving fingers and met the girl’s eyes. “What happened?”
Her mouth pursed as she weighed her words. Finally, she whispered, “I have feelings for Venn.”
Clare’s lips twitched. “I’ve noticed.”
Color touched the girl’s cheeks. “Yes, well, Ivonne doesn’t approve.”
“Why not? Venn is a good man and kind to everyone. Especially you.”
“Venn himself isn’t the issue. Ivonne doesn’t approve of any man in a uniform.” Vera curled the loose strands of hair behind her ear, her chest rising on a breath. “About a year ago, Ivonne fell in love with a member of the castle guard. He was handsome. Charming. And then she learned he charmed many of the maids, all at the same time.” She shook her head. “She was devastated. She had given him everything and he . . . well, he took it and never gave her anything real in return.”
“Venn isn’t like that.”
“Of course he isn’t. But Ivonne won’t see that. The night Venn was injured, I refused to leave his bedside. That must have been the moment she realized I had actual feelings for him. She had noticed his flirtations before, but I’d never acted on them, so she thought I felt nothing.” Vera met Clare’s gaze. “She thinks he’ll hurt me. Maybe not like she was hurt, but she fears he could be killed, or reassigned . . . that something will force him to leave me.”
“You can’t live your life in fear.”
/>
“I know. And I told her that.” She bit her lip. “For a long time, I was afraid of what I felt for Venn. I thought he did just flirt with everyone, but . . . not anymore. I think he truly cares for me, and I care for him. Ivonne will have to learn to accept my decision.”
“I’m happy for you,” Clare said with a smile. “And Venn.”
“Thank you.” Her cheeks pinkened. “Don’t say anything to anyone—especially not Venn. I may not be afraid, but . . . I’m not ready to declare anything to him.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t say a word.”
Vera still seemed a little embarrassed to have shared so much, so when she offered to quickly take the box of scraps she’d gathered to the apprentice, Clare let her go.
She returned to tidying the room. The simple act reminded her of home, and she felt a sudden pang in her chest. She had been taking care of her brothers since Mark was an infant. Mothering them had been the sole focus of her life for so long, it was still difficult to be away from them. Knowing they had a wonderful caretaker helped, but she hated to think of all she was missing. Fates, she even missed mediating their fights.
And then there was Eliot. She had not left Iden on the best terms with her older brother, and she regretted that. She’d sent a letter, but it wasn’t the same. If only she could have told him about being the princess’s decoy . . . But in truth, Eliot had been more upset by Clare’s proximity to Bennick than he had been about her leaving home to work at the castle.
Clare crouched to pick up an errant piece of lace. It had fallen by the dressing screen, which had been pushed to the back of the room during the fittings.
As she stood, a hand shot from behind the screen and snagged her wrist.
Clare jerked back, a scream trapped in her throat. Before any sound could escape, the man holding her arm darted from behind the screen and clapped a hand over her mouth, pushing her back until her shoulders thumped the wall. Her throat burned and panic clawed her insides, making her body freeze. The only thought that flashed through her head was that this was him—the Rose.
Royal Spy (Fate of Eyrinthia Book 2) Page 3
