Amberlough(67)

“I’m here from Aristide,” she said. “I got a letter for—”

“Of course you do. Right now, of all times, and he had to send a new girl.” The scorn in it left Cordelia gaping. “Upstairs. Marto, show her.”

Cordelia was ready to smack the envelope into Zelda’s palm and be done with it, but Marto took her arm and drew her through another door, into a narrow hallway, and pointed her at a set of stairs that kinked ninety degrees halfway up. He jerked his chin at the steps, and then left her standing at the foot of the runner.

The attic was crammed with dusty artifacts and cobwebbed chandeliers lying at odd angles on the floor. A stuffed leopard growled from behind an ironbound sea chest.

At the far end of the room, where a grand brass bed was pushed against the wall, two women sat in deep conversation. One, dark skinned and heavy around the hips, perched on the bed with her legs crossed. The other had tucked herself into the dormer window, a plain white pyjama shirt pulled over her knees. The curtains were drawn, but billowed in the soft night air. Cordelia was willing to wager open windows were against Zelda’s rules, but the stuffy attic smelled powerfully of mold.

“Hello?” She stepped onto the first creaking floorboard.

The women both looked up, startled. Their faces were vaguely familiar, and Cordelia wondered if maybe they were punters. Ari’s clients came by the Bee sometimes.

“Who are you?” demanded the woman on the bed. Her northern burr was even thicker than Tory’s. “One of Zelda’s people?”

Cordelia took a step forward, and both women flinched. She held up her hands. “I got a message, from Aristide Makricosta.”

They didn’t relax. If anything, they wound up tighter.

“What does it say?” The woman in the window stood and came toward her, bare feet silent against the plain wood. “Is it about Taphir?”

“I didn’t open it, all right?” She took the envelope from her pocket and handed it to the younger of the two, who tore the paper with shaking hands. Her companion hurried over, crowding her.

Inside the envelope was a postcard of a hunting party, hounds gathered around the heels of horses. As the woman flipped the card over, Cordelia got a glimpse of Ari’s decorative scrawl.

“Charming day yesterday,” read the woman in the nightshirt. “Though utterly a wash. The hounds gave good chase and cornered him, but he slipped them in the covert.”

It didn’t sound good, but the women were smiling. The younger covered her mouth with a delicate hand.

“Oh, blessed stones of the cairn and temple. Oh, Mab, he’s out.” She threw herself into the older woman’s arms, sobbing. Cordelia looked away, embarrassed.

But she wasn’t going to get out that easy. The crying woman dragged herself up, leaving wet splotches on Mab’s shirtfront, and turned to Cordelia. “Thank you. Oh, thank you so much.”

“It’s all right,” said Cordelia. “Really, it ain’t no trouble.” She took a step back, angling for the stairs, but the woman put a hand on her arm.

“‘The bringer of joy must be given joy in return.’”

Queen’s sake, the woman was quoting scripture at her.

“Mab,” she went on, “Mab, what have we got left, from mummy’s jewels?”

“There’s the pearls,” said Mab. “But Sofie, that’s a bit … well, they’re a mite showy, nay? Even Zelda said she’ll have half a time moving them.”

Sofie nodded. “But the earrings, the citrines…”

Mab took Sofie’s arm and bent to speak in her ear—not even quiet enough to save Cordelia an insult. “She’s just gwine to pawn them, Fee. Might as well give her a wad of cash.”

But Sofie waved Mab off, and the older woman went to rummage in a knapsack by the bed. “They’re not worth much, but won’t you please accept what little we can offer?”

Mab returned and opened her palm, revealing two pear-shaped citrines set in yellow gold, topped with tiny … diamonds? Not worth much. Where did this girl come from?

“I really … I don’t think…” Cordelia backed away again, but Mab pressed the stones into her hand.

“It’s like Sofie says. You brought brightness to us when we saw dark. It’s only an even trade if we return the favor.”

So Cordelia took the earrings, with intent to wear them. They sounded like hooky. Pawning stolen goods was stupid unless you knew the right shops. Cordelia did, but her pride was stung and she aimed to prove Mab wrong.





CHAPTER

TWENTY

Insistent pounding on the door forced Cyril’s head deeper into the cavern of his folded arms. The top of his desk smelled strongly of leather, and his own rancid breath. He’d spent three days scrounging in the ACPD secretarial pool, looking for scraps he could use on any of the four assistant commissioners. He’d won over Harlee, and Karst was wobbling. Tembu and Eronov he hadn’t even tried—they were Taormino’s through and through.

His nights he’d spent awake, and largely drunk. Inspiration had not come. Müller remained beyond his reach. His midsummer deadline was a scant few weeks away. He didn’t want to find out if there was a penalty for missing it.

Who in the Lady’s name could be banging on his door at this hour? He groaned and pulled himself upright, dragging his palms across his face. The clock told him the hour was reasonable; the only thing untimely was his own disarray. He’d shaved last night, at least, at his own peril. His hands had been less than steady.