Gilded Cage (Dark Gifts #1)(77)

Would the Young Master be angry if she asked? Unfortunately, she didn’t really have a choice, because no one else – especially not Jenner himself – seemed willing to talk about it.

‘Your brother,’ she began. ‘You said that your brother . . .’

Ugh. She was making Dog sound articulate.

‘Isn’t permitted to engage with you. Yes.’ The young Equal flapped his hand dismissively. ‘Mother and Father worry he’s half a commoner already, so they come down hard on anything that looks like sympathy for your sort. Is “sympathy” the best word in this case, Abigail?’

His tone was sly and Abi flushed with embarrassment. But she had to persist.

‘And that’s all there is to it? General disapproval? Because there’s an evening I can’t remember. I was worried that maybe I did something, and that’s why.’

‘Can’t remember? Someone’s been doing housekeeping inside your head without your permission? How very impolite. I can take a look, if you like.’

Abi hesitated. What had she got herself into? Those bright black eyes saw her uncertainty.

‘Breaking into someone’s memories is a dangerous and almost always damaging process, Abigail. But it’s much more straightforward – at least, I think so – to discover if an act of Skill has been worked upon a person. And if so, by whom. Each one of us is unique in the way we use our Skill. It’s like a fingerprint.

‘Because I am this family’s gatekeeper, I know the print of everyone who enters our estate. So I’ll be able to tell if anyone has used Skill upon you. Look, you can even sit comfortably while I find out.’

Silyen casually indicated the Chancellor’s Chair. The throne of kings and queens. Her head spinning, Abi complied. She gripped the bone-smooth armrests, then screwed up her eyes until it was over.

He hadn’t lied. It was nothing like as bad as what he’d done at the gate, but there was still that stomach-turning sensation of being handled. It was like Mum checking tomatoes for blemishes at the supermarket. Abi pictured Silyen looking for a spongy brown-black bit, where the sharp corner of someone’s Skill had dug in and done her some damage.

‘Bouda,’ he announced after a few minutes of this. ‘And my mother. Wasn’t difficult to deduce. They both lack finesse. I can tell you exactly what happened, too. Bouda and Gavar had a fight, a ferocious one, which you witnessed. Bouda hates being the subject of servants’ tattle, so she Silenced you. Rather brutally. I guess she was still furious with Gavar.

‘You were left in a bad way, sobbing with the pain of it. So Jenner – my poor useless, Skilless brother – went looking for me or my mother to make sure you were all right. Unfortunately for you, he found Mama first. She performed some inept healing, made another frankly pitiful effort to fiddle with your recollections, and told Jenner that you should never have been there in the first place. Then she gave strict instructions that he was to cease any unprofessional contact with you immediately. Yes. That’s about it. You must have had a headache for a week.’

Abi prickled all over with betrayal, though she shouldn’t have expected any better from Silyen Jardine, with his weird, bright friendliness and his utter lack of scruples.

‘You said you wouldn’t be looking at my memories.’

‘Abigail, you wound me.’ Silyen pressed a hand to his heart – or the place where one should have been. ‘I didn’t look at anything. I know all that because about an hour later, after walking you home, Jenner came and told me the whole story. He was practically bawling with guilt. I told him to get a grip. I mean, it’s not as though he shot you. I’m beginning to think my brothers aren’t terribly good with women.’

Silyen shuddered delicately, like a cat offered dog biscuits.

Abi stared at him, disbelieving. She was gripping the arms of the Chancellor’s Chair so hard she might rip them off. Should she laugh – or cry?

Or should she go and find Jenner Jardine, tell him to stop being an idiot, and kiss him?





19



Gavar



Father was planning a debate. Silyen was planning a resurrection. And Gavar was planning a wedding.

There was so much wrong with that, Gavar didn’t know where to start.

He rattled the ice in his glass and scowled when no footman hurried to top up his Laphroaig.

He could start with Millmoor. He’d handled that well. Even Father had said so. Soldier-boy Grierson had started shooting into the crowd, which might have put an end to that day’s riot but would have stored up worse trouble for the future.

Gavar’s intervention had avoided that – while giving the commoners a little reminder of who their true masters were. So there had been pats on the back from one and all when he’d returned to London, and deservedly so.

But was it childish of him to want more than that? In fact, the only person who’d said ‘thank you’ to him for anything was the slavegirl Daisy, who’d begged him to get her brother out of the place. That had been easy enough to arrange, once he’d found some brute that knew what the boy looked like.

So much gratitude from her for such a small thing, and such scant acknowledgement by everyone else for what he’d achieved: peace in Millmoor. Or quiet, at least. There had been no further incidents since that day.