Midnight Jewel (The Glittering Court #2)(45)

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.”