Midnight Jewel

  “She gets to see her options and choose,” said Cedric. “It’s in her contract. No preemptive deals.”

  The two went back and forth, even though the commission from such a match would have gone to Cedric. I wasn’t surprised at this honorable attitude. He’d made it clear at our first meeting and his visits to the manor that he wanted us to be more than commodities. He finally prevailed, though we all knew father and son would have a heated discussion later. Warren reluctantly departed—defeated, for now.

  His offer was the talk of the house that night. Many thought Cedric was foolish for turning it down. And many thought Adelaide should’ve run downstairs and accepted it herself.

  For her part, Adelaide was conflicted. She too wondered if she should’ve jumped on such an offer to such a powerful man. At the same time, she respected Cedric’s insistence that she meet all her choices. She paced our room, ruminating and weighing each side. I had little to offer except an attentive ear.

  “Tamsin would’ve taken the deal,” Adelaide finally declared.

  I couldn’t help a small smile. “Tamsin would’ve called for a priest and offered to marry him on the spot.”

  Adelaide didn’t return my smile. Her face remained bleak. “Tamsin should have been the one getting the offer. She should have been the diamond.”

  I hurried forward and wrapped my arms around her. “Don’t think like that.”

  “I just don’t feel like I deserve this.”

  “Tamsin loved you. You earned your place here.” Grant’s words on the ship echoed back to me, suddenly more meaningful. “And don’t forget that you’re still alive.”

  Warren’s proposal continued to trouble her, but at least guilt no longer factored into it. As for me, I had my own dilemma to deal with that night. What to do about Theodore Craft? It weighed on me through dinner and while preparing for bed. Adelaide went to sleep early, which was a relief. Distracted or not, she would’ve eventually noticed my inner conflict.

  A risky option suddenly presented itself while I was returning from the washroom. A maid carrying an armful of boxes passed me as she walked toward the attic door at the end of my hall. I paused and watched as she disappeared up a small set of stairs. I’d explored that area in my first few days, finding little more than storage. As soon as she returned and headed back to the main floor, I darted forward and made my own climb to the attic. Sure enough—I’d remembered correctly. A large, square window overlooked the house’s sparse rear grounds. The bodyguards rarely patrolled this side of the house, as there were no first-floor windows. They stayed near the front and sides, close to the doors. And since this window was on the third floor, it was even more neglected since there was no way to—

  I moved closer and squinted at the darkness outside. A wooden trellis leaned against the house—a delicate one, but one that might very well hold a girl’s weight. I stared at it, my mind spinning. Waiting until I saw Aiana again was the smart thing. The safe thing. But for all I knew, she had tomorrow off as well. And the next day. When would I ever get this news to Grant? No one had told me what to do in this situation.

  Decision made, I crept back to my room. Fumbling in the dark, I slipped into a light wool dress and pinned my hair back out of my face. On my way out of the room, I wrapped a robe around me, in case I encountered anyone in the hall who wanted to know why I was dressed and still awake. But there was no need. Everyone on this floor was asleep, or soon would be.

  I opened the attic door without a sound. Moonlight shone from above, illuminating the stairs like a magic pathway. I made my way up and forced open the window’s latch to get a better look at the trellis. Old, but definitely sturdy enough to get me down. No guards in the backyard. This was my chance. I took off the robe and put my foot on the window’s ledge, ready to take the plunge. A cold wind made me shiver, reminding me spring wasn’t here yet. In my haste, I hadn’t grabbed any outerwear.

  Luckily, I had stacks and stacks of extra clothing and accessories behind me. I recalled Mistress Culpepper ordering some of our seafaring attire put into storage. Had those heavy cloaks ended up here? One by one, I opened each box, finding hair combs and shoes and bracelets—but no cloaks. I was nearly at the end when I came across a box of wigs. I started to close it as well and then found myself thinking of Grant dressed up as a stooped and grizzled laborer.

  What risks did I face by sneaking out? Being caught, obviously. Either by the Glittering Court’s people or some brigand on the road to Cape Triumph. Even if I made it without being detained, I might still be recognized. I’d have a lot of explaining to do and could jeopardize my position.

  I looked down and saw only fantastic pieces. Purple wigs. Orange wigs. Pink wigs. Hardly what I’d want to remain inconspicuous. But then, among the showy wigs, I spotted a long blonde one, a very realistic one—and one very different from my own hair. I seized it and went on to the other boxes.

  At last, I found the one holding cloaks and other outwear. These might be “everyday” to us, but they were probably richer than what most Cape Triumph citizens owned. Nice clothes could make you a target alone on the road, but I had to hope the fur-trimmed black wool cloak I grabbed would be better than silk. Leather gloves and a cold-weather mask of black velvet completed the set. These masks covered the upper half of the face and were common on both sides of the ocean. Some people treated them as a fashion item. Mistress Culpepper disliked them because they could smear eye makeup, but she also said they were occasionally a necessary evil against icy winds that might chap a young girl’s skin.

  By the time I’d scaled down the trellis and stood in the yard below, I was no longer Mira Viana. I was a masked blonde woman, clothed in black, ready to plunge forward into the night.

  CHAPTER 12

  I MOVED SLOWLY OVER THE GROUNDS, KEEPING TO THE shadows and patiently waiting for times when the watchmen weren’t looking in my direction. Although their job was to scan everything, their biggest priority was to stop any rampaging man from busting through the door and taking advantage of the delicate women within.

  The dirt road to Cape Triumph lay right in front of the house, easy to follow to town. Easy for anyone to follow—that was the problem. Masked or not, I was alone at night and armed only with my battered knife. And although it was the preferred road for those traveling from remote parts of Denham, it wasn’t actually a direct route to Cape Triumph. It was as direct as man’s engineering could manage, however. I’d heard the hired guards grumbling about it. All around us in this part of Denham, the land lay like a patchwork quilt. Some areas were cleared, either for future or past plantings. Larger tracts of forest surrounded those, comprised of all sorts of vegetation. One such wooded region stood between Wisteria Hollow and the outskirts of Cape Triumph. Cutting directly across it, the men said, would chop off a third of the travel time. But the land was overgrown and, worse, parts were marshy. Even if anyone managed to clear some of it, it’d be too risky to bring wagons and carriages through.

  But someone on foot might be able to navigate it just fine. And if that someone happened to run into another traveler, it would be easier to hide among the trees than on an open road.

  I plunged into the woods, immediately snagging my cloak and skirt on brambles. The vines had dried up in winter, but their thorns had stayed sharp. They didn’t hurt so much as slow me down—as did stepping over falling branches and other forest debris. It made stealth impossible.

  When I reached the section near the marsh, I found the mud frozen solid. That was one benefit of the cold, I supposed, but the ground was still rough and uneven. A rudimentary trail finally offered some relief, though it was so narrow that I couldn’t place my feet side by side on it.

  I emerged onto another road about half an hour after my trek had begun, torn and dirty, my ankle aching. To the north, less than a mile away, the city’s lights offered a faint glow, and renewed energy surged through me. Packed earth and
wheel tracks confirmed this was a busy road, and two men on horseback thundered by me without a second glance. I followed eagerly, almost as excited about going into the city as I was to deliver my news. A wagon passed me too, and soon, my road joined into an even wider one with more foot traffic. By then, Cape Triumph’s great fort loomed over us, and I realized I’d come to the city’s main entrance. Only two soldiers stood watch atop the barracks. One looked like he was busy cleaning his gun. Or maybe whittling.

  I had to force myself to keep moving once I stepped through the gates. I wanted to stand there and memorize every detail around me. I’d been in cities before—old cities like Santa Luz and Osfro. Cities steeped in history, whose very stones had pedigrees and whose districts were neatly portioned off between the rich and the poor. Here, the lines were more blurred. I knew the history of Cape Triumph’s layout, and I could see it all as I walked the streets and hoped I didn’t look too much like an outsider. The oldest areas of the city bore the signs of early colonization, where settlers had put up whatever buildings and businesses they could defend, with little regard to any cohesive plan. Farther out, the streets had been constructed with greater thought and apportioned into residential and commercial areas. But even among these, the old rules had been broken. A jeweler’s shop next to a tanner’s. An elegant millinery store beside a tavern.

  I suspected the city’s residential areas would have stronger divides between rich and poor, but here, in the heart of commerce, everything was a delightful jumble. Its people were too, showing the same range of class and wardrobe I’d observed at the docks. Most were out for entertainment at this hour, and most were men. I made a point to walk with purpose, as I’d long discovered that attracted the least amount of attention.

  I passed an older couple closing up a late-night pastry stand and asked if they knew where Grant’s store was. I used a Belsian accent. It hid my Sirminican one but was easy for Osfridians to understand.

  “Lots of those stores these days,” the old woman told me. “Everyone wants to go off into the wilderness and strike it rich.”

  “One of the proprietors is Elliott,” I said.

  Her husband scratched his head. “Oh. Winslow and Elliott. Over on Broad Street. Are they still alive?”

  “Well, their store’s still open,” the woman replied.

  “I haven’t seen a Winslow or Elliott there in years,” he argued. “I don’t think there’s ever even been an Elliott.”

  “There’s an Elliott there now,” I said. “Just returned from Osfro.” Grant had told me a little of the cover story. It was a legitimate business, and Winslow, the original founder, had retired and managed it from afar through proxies. As a loyal subject and friend to the McGraw Agency, he’d made an arrangement with Silas to set up Grant as a faux co-owner.

  “Well, there you have it,” said the wife. “Now just take Central over there two blocks to Broad and turn right. You can’t miss it.”

  “They’re probably closed,” her husband pointed out.

  I repressed a groan. There was a good chance he was right, and if so, how would I find Grant? I thought back to Silas Garrett’s letter. “What about Percival and Son’s Clothiers? Do you know where that is?”

  The man brightened. “You mean Percy the tailor? Oh, sure.”

  They gave me those directions too, but I stopped by Grant’s store first, just in case he worked late hours. The stenciled WINSLOW & ELLIOTT sign stood out prominently—as did another reading CLOSED. Feeling a little less sure of myself, I took the street to the tailor’s shop and hoped for better luck.

  But it too was closed. I sighed. Either Silas didn’t really live there or he was out on the town. Looking up, I saw that all of the businesses had second floors. A few windows were dark, but most were lit up. Like the one above the tailor’s. Mundane businesses open this late? No, I realized, spying a narrow staircase that led up to a walkway around the second story. The lower floor was commercial space, the upper one residential. I followed the stairs up and knocked on the door directly above the tailor’s shop.

  An older man opened it, his hair streaked with gray and skin wizened from the sun. He raised one bushy eyebrow upon seeing me, and I suddenly wondered what I would do if my hunch had been wrong. An outcry from behind the man, however, told me I had found the right place.

  “You have got to be kidding me. Get her in before somebody sees her.”

  The older man grunted and stepped aside, his eyes watchful and shrewd. Grant strode toward me with an expression I knew well. In work trousers and a barely tucked-in shirt, he was a much more casual version of the proper passenger aboard the Good Hope. His hair was about the same.

  “Too late,” I said, as the door shut behind me. “Plenty of people saw me. But no one recognized me.”

  “I recognized you in two seconds. Take that off. You’re a terrible blonde.”

  The other man strolled over, hands stuffed in his pockets. “Always so genteel, Grant. Glad to see Osfro didn’t change you. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

  Grant waved vaguely in my direction. “Yes, yes. Mirabel Viana, Silas Garrett. Silas, Mirabel.”

  A small mirror on the wall showed that I didn’t make a terrible blonde. I could pass for an Osfridian—or a Belsian—more than I’d expected.

  I took the wig and mask off and shook Silas’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you. And you can call me Mira.”

  Silas’s expression didn’t change much, but that eyebrow rose once more as he studied my face. In a mild tone, he remarked, “The boy’s right for once. That wig is holding you back.”

  “What do you mean, ‘for once’?”

  “What is she doing here?” Silas asked in return.

  “Good question.” Grant’s gaze swiveled back to me. “You know the asset arrangement. You aren’t supposed to come to me.”

  “Asset?” Silas’s other eyebrow rose. “Since when are you running assets?”

  I shot him a nervous glance before answering Grant. “Aiana wasn’t around.”

  “Are you one of those Glittering Court girls?” Silas’s incredulity grew as he kept looking between Grant and me. “Do you have her and Aiana both involved in this? Are you out of your mind?”

  It was the first time I’d ever seen Grant look even a little intimidated. “She’ll run into most of our suspects. She gets the info, Aiana brings it to us. It’s perfect.”

  “Nothing about this is perfect,” said Silas.

  “And she wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t a good reason,” added Grant pointedly. Almost hopefully.

  I swallowed, a bit taken aback as both men turned their attention on me. Silas had a different type of forcefulness than Grant did. A lot of Grant’s just came from his own self-assurance and disregard for social niceties. Silas radiated authority, despite his deceivingly mild exterior. His presence filled up a room. I could understand how he ran the McGraw Agency in the colonies.

  I steeled myself as I met his eyes. “Theodore Craft was in our house today and mentioned that he was going to Bakerston tomorrow. That it was important and couldn’t be rescheduled.”

  Silence fell. Neither man said or did anything, and I began to feel stupid. The words I’d just uttered seemed so trite. So insignificant. I’d just delivered a meaningless piece of trivia.

  At last, Silas threw his arms up in the air and stalked away from us. “Damn it!”

  I looked uneasily at Grant, who was . . . glowing. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Silas is just mad because I was right.”

  Silas spun back around. “I never said that.”

  “You’re thinking it.” The humor faded from Grant’s expression, replaced by something more serious. Intense. “But you were right too. You thought Craft was smuggling out the contraband. And I heard two merchant ships came in yesterday.”

  “Then it seems like I was right to bring yo
u this,” I said.

  Grant regarded me with something shockingly similar to pride. “Yes, you were.”

  Silas began pacing the room. “We’ve got to send word to Crenshaw. Immediately. He can find out who’s meeting with Craft.”

  “I can leave right now,” said Grant. He reached for a heavy leather coat draped over a chair.

  “No, I’ll go,” said Silas. “I can leave tonight. My joints aren’t what they used to be, but I’m still as fast a rider as you. Crenshaw knows me better, and I don’t want your cover questioned. You need to get established here. See if you can learn what Craft’s public reason is for going. And find out if Abraham Miller was the customs inspector on duty. We really need to search his place one of these days, if we can ever get a safe chance.”

  “And what should I do?” I asked.

  “Go back to finding a husband.” Silas came to a halt and turned to Grant. “And you’re going to make sure she gets home tonight. But first—a word in private. Please, have a seat and make yourself comfortable, Miss Viana.”

  Silas jerked his head toward what appeared to be a bedroom. Grimacing, Grant followed obediently. Silas shut the door.

  I settled down on the chair that held Grant’s coat and looked around as I propped up my leg. A tidy kitchen sat off to one side, and the loft’s main space appeared to be a mix of living room and office. From the bedroom, I could just barely hear muffled voices—angry ones. I stared at the door avidly, wondering if my spy career was at an end. Tossing ethics aside, I jumped up and pressed my ear to the oak.

  “—know anything about the Glittering Court?” Silas was saying. “They consider those girls valuable merchandise! The Thorns hire thugs to guard them. It’s not going to go well for you if you’re caught dragging her around at night!”

  “Her position—”

  “Damn her position. Magic isn’t going to happen just because she’s pretty and well placed. Of all the times for you to— Argh. I can’t believe this.” I heard the floor creak and wondered if Silas was pacing again.