Midnight Jewel (The Glittering Court #2)(25)

And their voices, I realized. The laborer had had a heavy Flatlander accent, similar to Ingrid’s, but there’d always been a slight twang in his that differed from hers. Something I couldn’t identify then, just as I couldn’t identify it in Grant’s voice now.

How was this possible? How could one man pull off two completely different people? An accent change was the first way, I supposed. I could imitate any number of them—why not Grant? And how hard was it to fake a hunched back and coughing fits? I’d never been able to study his entire face back at Blue Spring. Mostly I’d just seen his eyes—dark, cynical eyes. Eyes that didn’t miss anything.

I gripped the rail tightly. Okay. They could be the same person. But to what end? Why had he been at Blue Spring, and why was he on our ship now?

And most importantly, why was he so focused on Adelaide?

I had no idea what he’d want with my friend, but it couldn’t be good if it involved disguises and fake identities. I felt a tightness in my chest as I scurried downstairs to check on Adelaide. I would protect her. I would learn what Grant was doing and stop him.

I just had to figure out how.





CHAPTER 7


MY CHANCE CAME A FEW DAYS LATER DURING A WALK with Adelaide and Cedric. Another passenger passed by and offered Cedric an invitation to a card game that night, which Cedric accepted. After the other man left, Adelaide and I demanded more information.

“It’s a thing the men do around here a couple of times a week,” Cedric explained. “The passengers—not the sailors. My father’s not that good at it, but he keeps going back, convinced he’ll get his lucky break.”

“And I’m sure you fleece them all each time,” said Adelaide.

“I’m worse than some, better than most.”

“Do all the men you room with play?” I asked.

“Yes, everyone in my room goes. Some shouldn’t,” he said with a laugh. “Jeb Carson? The old man with the white mustache? He’s even worse than Father. But Grant Elliott’s the one doing the fleecing. He’s a great bluffer.”

“No surprise,” I muttered.

When the card game came that evening, I sneaked out of our wing, evading both Adelaide and Miss Bradley. I found Agostino, the Sirminican sailor, and convinced him to take me to Cedric and Grant’s cabin. “I don’t want to get in trouble if they catch you stealing,” he said. He liked having someone to converse with in Sirminican, but we weren’t exactly best friends. “And why do you need to steal anyway if you’re going to be some rich man’s wife?”

“I’m not stealing. And I won’t say a word about you if I’m caught.”

He dubiously handed over a lantern and closed the door behind me. I stared around the empty cabin, unsure where to start. Cedric’s bed and belongings were easy to spot. Others were less obvious. A couple of trunks were unlocked, and a quick perusal of their contents let me rule them out as Grant’s. Then, I spotted a familiar coat lying on a bunk. It was cut long in the Adorian fashion, made of dark brown worsted wool, and I’d seen it on Grant many times. Under the bunk was a worn black leather trunk. I slid it out, unsurprised to find it locked.

I produced my pick kit from a pocket in my dress. The irony of using Grant’s gift to break into his possessions wasn’t lost on me. The trunk possessed a type of lock I’d never seen, but after some experimentation, I finally clicked it open.

The contents proved disappointing. Clothes, mostly, and ordinary ones at that. A couple of books—high Osfridian literature. A brush. A razor that he apparently rarely used. I sat back on my heels, deflated. I’d been certain I’d get some big revelation here, something that would explain the mystery behind Grant Elliott and—

The trunk itself. There was something wrong with it. I examined it from where I sat on the floor, and then I leaned forward to look inside. The interior and exterior sizes didn’t match. I pulled everything out and piled it up behind me. Once the trunk was empty, I could tell for sure that I was looking at a false bottom. The trunk held more; it was just concealed.

I ran my fingers along the edges of the wooden bottom, searching for some catch. At last, I located a small metal piece that popped up as though it might be used to pull that board out. But there was a keyhole in it, and the false bottom still didn’t budge. I took out the lock picks again, selecting the tiniest one.

Figuring out how to maneuver such a delicate tool took even longer than my first attempt. In the back of my mind, I worried constantly about someone walking through the door. How long did card games go? At last, I heard a pop, and when I tugged on the metal lever, the false bottom lifted to reveal the rest of the trunk’s interior.

The first thing I saw was a gun.

That was a bad start. I gingerly pushed it to the side. A lock pick kit sat beside it, and I recalled Grant boasting he had three more sets. What had he done with the rest? Given them to other vengeful girls? There was a money bag too—a heavy one—but I didn’t count it. Beneath that sat a pile of matted hair, and I wondered if he’d stored some dead animal in there. But when I lifted it out, I recognized it as a false beard—the same beard my “friend” had worn at Blue Spring. A few other wigs and fake mustaches accompanied the beard. There was also a cosmetics set. Some of the creams and pigments were akin to what we’d been trained to use at Blue Spring. Other substances were more mysterious and had strange textures. Textures that might very well look like scars when painted on the skin, I realized.