Raven started to nod, and then winced. She reached up with trembling fingers to explore her bandage, but Eldest caught her hand before she could.
“Eh, eh,” Eldest scolded. “It’s almost stopped bleeding. Touch it, and you’ll start it going again.” After she was sure Raven listened to her, Eldest continued her story. “There were five door guards and fifteen more women inside playing cards, sleeping, and waiting. There were three women that seemed to be running things: walking rounds to the guards, keeping the others quiet, and such. Soon after we heard the drums start, two gentry rode up.”
“Gentry?” Ren asked.
“They were all spit and polish,” Corelle said. “High boots, tan leather riding britches, and broadcloth coats, neat as new. The three in charge all bowed and said ‘yes, madam’ to them.”
Eldest nodded. “As Corelle said, nothing flashy but good-quality riding clothes, both about five foot seven, maybe about fourteen stones. Same build, same walk, like they were sisters. They rode up on bloodstock, a trim bay mare with four white socks, and a black mare.”
“They wore executioner’s hoods,” Corelle added. “One in black silk and the other in red.”
“They were still adjusting the hoods, so they must have pulled them on just as they rode up, before we noticed them,” Eldest said. “They came in snapping orders, not like they were scared, just in a hurry. At first I didn’t see the rhyme and reason to what they were doing.” Eldest frowned, apparently angry at her own lack of understanding. “And then you were nearly on the street and we were hemmed in. We backed out quietly as we could, but they spotted us and we exchanged fire.”
Ren offered up a prayer of thanks that neither one of them had been killed.
“I hit the one with the red hood,” Corelle boasted. “Grandmas told us to always aim for the commanders—you do more damage per bullet that way. I think I nailed her fairly good.”
“Remind me to keep you on our side,” Raven said dryly.
Ren leaned outside and called one of the troops to her. “Spread the word. One of the wounded or dead thieves was wearing a red executioner’s hood. I want her found.”
The soldier saluted and hurried off. The Whistlers continued recounting their adventure, in greater detail. They had found the doors all guarded, but found a broken, unguarded window on the second story. They had moved quietly to a place where they could view the thieves. When the gentry arrived, the action shifted to in front of the doors, out of sight from their original position.
Telling Corelle to stay put, Eldest had worked around to where she could see them.
“Even then, there was a wagon blocking my view of the cannons themselves, or I would have figged to their plans immediately. When I heard them discussing the grapeshot, I realized it was a trap.” Eldest’s eyes went winter cold. “We’d given you our word not to take them on single-handed, or I would have tried to nail them. It felt wrong to just cut and run.”
Corelle took over the explanation. “They spotted Eldest and started to shoot. I laid down some cover for her, taking out one of the commanders to throw them into confusion. After she was clear, I made myself scarce.”
Eldest put out a hand and squeezed her sister’s shoulder. “You did good.” She turned back to Ren. “I came across the rooftops to warn you, Highness. I wish we could have done more.”
“You saved myself and a goodly number of my women,” Ren said. “Thank you both.”
A soldier appeared at the door with the news that the dead red-hooded thief had been found.
The woman wasn’t lying where she had been hit. A trail of heel marks and blood showed where she had been dragged to a back corner of the mill, beside a trapdoor. The red silk executioner’s hood had been peeled back, revealing a smashed pulp of flesh and bone framed by short gold curls. A fist-sized hole had been punched through her chest, leaving her fine clothes a soggy red mass of cloth. Her silk-lined pockets were turned inside out, coins littering the ground like bright tears.
Eldest shifted the woman onto her side, grunting at the deadweight. A small neat hole marked the entrance of the bullet that had caused the massive chest wound. “She was shot in the back, then in the face.”
“I hit her in the back,” Corelle said, and then added defensively, “She was facing away from me, shooting at Eldest.”
“You did right,” Raven murmured.
“She was shot in the face so she couldn’t be recognized,” Ren growled. “Her sister searched her pockets, left the money, but took anything that would reveal her identity.”
Eldest examined the trapdoor, then, satisfied that it was safe, flipped it up. A short drop into gurgling darkness. “Access to the river.”
“So it’s a dead end,” Corelle grumbled.
“Well, depends.” Eldest shrugged. “A dead sister is something. We hurt them, if nothing else.” Eldest glanced at Ren. “How long do you think a noble family could disguise the fact they’re down by one?”
“Forever,” Ren muttered, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Most families have shipping interests. They could say their missing sister is taking a prolonged trip until she’s lost at sea.”
Chapter 10
It had been a fine morning for Jerin, one with the dawn sun pouring rich golden light into the yellow silk parlor. A youngest Barnes brought a tray of hot melted chocolate, triangles of toasted bread anointed with fresh butter and little cups of fruit jams, and the promise of another bath. Jerin rose from his feathered bed with silk-soft sheets, sat in the sunshine, ate of a breakfast he hadn’t prepared, and felt royally pampered.
Did nobles live every day of their life like this? Did they wake like him, reveling in the comfort? Did it fade in time? Perhaps, he considered, if they lived their whole life this way, they couldn’t find the same level of pleasure in it. Surely you had to get up at dawn and cook for forty people to realize the luxury of having the food brought to you.
Barnes came to the door then, saying Princess Rennsellaer wished an audience with Eldest Whistler. Eldest returned a short time later for Corelle, saying that they were riding out with Ren. Summer followed them out into the hall for a short murmured conversation about their plans.
Jerin had raised a cup to his mouth, unconcerned, when thoughts came together in his mind. The royal summons. The cannon thieves leaving a trail of dead behind them. His sister suddenly keeping things from him.
A cloud passed in front of the sun, and he lowered the teacup as the shadow slid over him.
Summer came in quietly, avoiding his eyes.
“Where are they going?” Jerin put the cup down harder than he intended.
“Just out for a ride. Princess Rennsellaer thought they would enjoy a ride,” Summer said too lightly, too quickly. “The tailors will be here shortly.”
Summer was a terrible liar. Jerin wished, for once, she was better at it. Since she had obviously been instructed not to tell him, it would have been more comforting if he had been able to believe her.
The tailors arrived. While they pinned and poked, Summer stood at the window, looking out over the city. Shortly before lunch, there was an odd double clap of thunder.
“Is it going to rain?” the eldest tailor asked, frowning in concern at the window, where clouds raced on the wind.
Summer turned toward her, an odd expression on her face. “Perhaps.”
“I hope not. Rain would ruin this fabric,” the tailor muttered around a mouth of silver pins.
Thunder or cannons? Jerin stepped off the fitting stool and toward the window, only to be stabbed by a thousand tiny sharp prickles as the tailor cried out in shrill dismay.
“No, no, no!” The tailor pushed him back, losing her mouth of pins. “Stay put! This fabric costs a fortune, so we must be right the first time.”
“A fortune?” He froze in place, his voice breaking in nervousness. He lifted an arm draped with the flimsy, shimmering cobalt blue fabric. It was like being wrapped in cool air and nothing else.
“A crow
n a yard.” She gathered up the dropped pins, tucking them between her lips again. “Now,” she murmured, “stand still.”
Summer paced for the rest of the fitting session, stopping often to look out over the city. When the tailors finished, she impatiently herded them out.
“What is it?” Finally free, Jerin hurried to the window. All of the city was laid out below them, running to the river, an endless jumble of buildings cut by streets seething with people. “Was it the cannons? What did you see?”
“Nothing,” Summer said, pulling on her coat.
“Where are you going? What did you see?”
“Nothing, Jerin, just nothing. I’m going out. I’ll be back shortly. You lock the door after me and let no one in, understand? No one.”
“What do I do if someone tries to break in?”
“Ring for help.” Summer opened the door.
“What if one of the Barneses is the one trying to break in?”
Summer stopped with a cry of anger and frustration. “Barnes isn’t going to break in! They’re the Queens’ most trusted servants. Just lock the door and ring if there’s trouble!”
Summer fled. Jerin threw the bolt with trembling hands and went back to stare down at the city. What had happened? What had Summer seen? He scanned the city, still unable to pick out what had set his sister racing out of the room. Frowning, he tried a more methodical search, slowly examining the city block by block, moving east to west. Time stopped as he pressed against the glass, searching without knowing what he looked for.
There was a slight noise from his sisters’ bedroom. At first he ignored it; then, with a spike of cold fear, he realized he was supposed to be alone. He turned and saw a shadow, cast from his sisters’ window, on the floor of the parlor—the outline of someone climbing through the window. He snatched up the fireplace poker, hefting it high, and edged sideways toward the bellpull.
The path to the bellpull, however, took him in front of the bedroom door. He saw, for the first time, that it was a boy climbing through the window. Jerin froze, confused.
The boy looked about sixteen, with dirty blond hair and square, plain features. While cut from fine cloth, his light woolen kilt of green was gathered high about his waist with a horse-blanket pin. One knee bled slightly, while the other sported a scab from previous outings. He started at seeing Jerin, his green eyes going wide in surprise. “Oh! There you are! You gave me a start! Quick, hide me!”
Jerin considered. If a strange woman appeared in his quarters, he knew what to do: flee, fight, or shout for help. But what about a strange man? The boy seemed to lack any malice, and Jerin hadn’t seen another man outside his family since the harvest fair. “Um, you can hide in—in my room.”
The boy needed no further directions. He beamed a happy “Thanks!” and darted off to Jerin’s bedroom. Jerin returned the poker to the fireplace and followed, still confused but now unalarmed.
“What are you running from?” Jerin asked.
“My sisters. Stupid rules. Complete and total boredom.” The boy threw himself onto Jerin’s bed. “ ‘Sit up straight. Smile. Don’t sit with your legs open. Don’t slouch. Don’t talk. Don’t think.’ I’m bored, and lonely, and now I’m whining. Sorry.”
“I don’t mind,” Jerin said. “I didn’t know there was another man in the palace.”
“We got in last night. The Queens invited us to stay. I think to give you someone to show you the ropes without getting your sisters’ hackles raised. But, of course, every time I asked when we were going to meet, it’s ‘later,’ and ‘in good time’ and ‘when there’s time.’ All I have is time! I’ve been sitting sewing wedding linens all morning, with tiny invisible stitches, and no one even offered for me yet.”
“And you are?”
“Cullen Moorland.” A brilliant smile. “I’m the Queens’ nephew.”
Jerin considered what he knew of the royal family. “I didn’t think the Queens had a brother.”
Cullen laughed. “You don’t know who I am? I’m hurt! But I forgive you, since you don’t know better. My mothers are—were sisters to the Queens’ consort, the princesses’ father. We’re old blood, very tah, tah and all that, but we didn’t have much clout until the royal wedding brought us up in the world. Got anything to eat?”
“We could ring for tea,” Jerin stated, and then marveled at how naturally it came to him, as if he always had tea delivered at the ring of a bellpull.
“Then they’ll know I’m here.”
“And you shouldn’t be?”
“Oh, it’s just that it’s more fun them not knowing. It makes being here feel like I’m doing what I shouldn’t be doing.” Cullen took a deep breath. “The air even smells better when I decide where to be.”
“You could stay in here when the tray comes.”
Cullen flashed another brilliant smile. “You’re a great gun! Ring away.”
Jerin went back to the parlor and pulled the bell cord. A tap on the door announced a Barnes sister. Jerin unbarred the door and asked for a tea tray, adding that he felt very hungry, and that his sisters might return in time to join him, so could she make it a generous tray with at least four sets of cups? The Barnes youngest nodded, impassive as always. Was she totally unaware of Cullen, or was she humoring Jerin like a child?
When Jerin returned to his bedroom, he found Cullen kneeling beside the nightstand, jiggling the open drawer.
“This is the best suite in the palace.” Cullen lifted out the drawer and set it on the bed. “We usually have it when we stay here. It put my sisters’ noses out of joint to find you were put up here instead. I don’t know why—we’ve had to give it up before. A case of speaking before thinking, to be sure.”
Cullen reached into the empty drawer hole and fished out a bundle of papers. “My secret stash. Look at these.”
Still kneeling beside the bed, he untied the bundle and spread seven tintypes out onto the bedspread.
Jerin looked at the pictures, then looked quickly away, blushing. “Where did you get those?”
“Lylia gave them to me. Of course my sisters would have a fit if they knew she was corrupting me.”
Jerrin frowned. He thought at first Lylia was one of Cullen’s sisters, but now it didn’t sound like it. Who else would have access to a noble male? A servant? “Who’s Lylia?”
“Gosh, you are an innocent! My cousin, Her Royal Highness, Lylia.” Cullen rooted two cigars out of his bundle and handed one to Jerin. “She doesn’t see the point of keeping boys ignorant. Accident of birth does not make us less human or less intelligent. We’ve got a vow that whichever of us has sex first, we’ll tell the other everything. One time”—he dropped his voice to a whisper—“we practiced kissing.” He shrugged, propping one elbow on the bed and resting his chin in the palm. “But it was like kissing your sister. Well, your own sister. I’m sure kissing your sister wouldn’t be the same.”
Kissing Lylia’s sister certainly hadn’t been the same. Jerin picked up one of the tintypes and found himself burning with embarrassment. He had done the pictured act with Ren.
Cullen put a finger on the top of the picture and tipped it down so he could see. “I always wonder why you would want to put your mouth there.”
Luckily, there was a knock on the door. Cullen dived down behind the bed. Jerin dashed toward the door, slammed to a stop halfway, ran back, and swept the pictures from the bed to snow down on Cullen. He ran back and jerked the door open. The Barnes sister stood with the tea cart.
It wasn’t until Jerin barred the door after the Barnes had left that he realized that he had the cigar still in hand. He collapsed into the chair beside the cart, giggling. “You can come out.”
Cullen peeked over the edge of the bed. “What are you laughing about?”
Jerin waved the cigar. “I forgot about this.”
Cullen laughed and vanished behind the bed. “One last thing.” He popped up holding a bottle. “Wine!”
“Lylia?”
Cullen no
dded, breaking the seal. “A truer cousin is not to be found.” He produced a cork puller and fumbled through the opening of the bottle. He made a show of splashing wine into the dainty teacups. “A toast! To Lylia!”
“Lylia.” Jerin picked up the cup and raised it high.
“And to our friendship, may our sisters allow it to prosper!”
The tea had come with sandwiches of roast turkey with spiced mustard, slices of chilled cucumber in a dill vinaigrette, and raspberry tarts.
They talked as they ate, sounding out each other. They compared sisters first. Cullen had far fewer in number, partly due to an outbreak of yellow fever. His father, a young brother-in-law, and five out of ten elder sisters died then. His middle sisters died in the same blast that killed the princesses. His youngest sisters ranged from late teens to early twenties, making Cullen the baby of the Moorland family.
“Actually, I was born after my father died,” Cullen admitted. “My mothers married him in the olden days, when men were only thirteen when they wed, something they thank the gods about every chance they get, since he died so young. Personally, I’m glad I didn’t have to act the blood stallion at thirteen. What?”
Jerin had bitten his tongue on the news that his Mother Elder would also bear a child after his father had died. It would be unlucky to talk about that before the baby was born. Cullen still looked at him, so he volunteered a different family secret. “I have three younger brothers.”
Cullen’s eyes went wide. “You’re joshing! Four boys?”
Jerin nodded, slightly embarrassed by Cullen’s impressed reaction. He, himself, had done nothing toward the feat except be born.
“What’s it like,” Cullen asked, “having other men in the house?”
Jerin had never considered this. “It’s—nice. A lot of time, it’s no different than having girls around. Well, at least with my little brothers, except everyone’s more careful with them. I loved it when my father was alive. He had to shave his face with a razor every day, or he would grow whiskers. His voice was deep; when he was in another room, he rumbled like a distant storm. He was always patient, but he never talked to me like I was a child, like my elder sisters do. He would say, ‘You’re almost a full-grown man. You need to act like it.’ He told me all sorts of stuff about being married, like how to make sure your wives aren’t jealous of each other.”