Broken Veil (Harbinger #5)(22)

Lady Corinne cut Sera from the edge of her jaw up to the corner of her eye before shoving her onto the floor.

The pain in her arm and the fire on her face made her shudder with agony. She couldn’t believe this was happening to her, that she was being tortured by the woman who’d once been her caretaker.

“I will cut your pretty face apart if you defy me again,” Corinne said, the anger building in her voice. “I know how to hurt you, Sera Fitzempress. You vain little thing. When I am done with you, no one will want you. No one will even bear to look at you. If you think I jest, then test me. I have nothing else to lose. Now get up. Get up!”

Sera had never seen Lady Corinne like this. The contrast between the composed, elegant, and unemotional woman she’d lived with and this ferocious creature was staggering.

Sera quickly got to her feet, even though she felt like vomiting. She was afraid of that dagger.

And what it would do next.





The number of victims of the cholera morbus is increasing daily. They are coming to Killingworth in droves, and some die before they even arrive, their bodies lying untouched in the streets because of fear of the contagion.

If we do not root out the cause of this fearsome disease, I fear it could destroy up to half the population of the Fells. The wealthier families are fleeing because they can. Those who cannot leave walk the streets with handkerchiefs pressed to their mouths. The factories are spending more and more to attract fresh workers and to keep those they have from fleeing in fear. The workers have dubbed their journey from home to the shops the Ghost Walk, and their pay is now called Death Wages. Still, many of them have no choice but to take the risk.

None of my staff has been infected, though we handle the corpses all day long. I believe our rituals of washing must contribute to our well-being. It’s not in the air. The cholera morbus is something we cannot see. A silent enemy. A ghost.

—Adam Creigh, Killingworth Hospital





CETTIE





CHAPTER EIGHT

HOTEL VECCHIO



The Hotel Vecchio in Pree was owned and run by Genevese merchants. An ornate structure that rose high above its neighbors, it was both longer and wider than any building Cettie had ever seen—even Pavenham Sky. It looked like a government palace, only larger. Judging from the endless rows of ornate windows, there had to be over a thousand rooms on six or seven levels.

And just as Jevin had said, their commandeered sky ship would not stand out there. A hurricane hovered over it, and a few other tempests were already docked in the landing yards inside the enclosed gardens. Rows of potted trees, each dwarfed and painstakingly sculpted, filled the inner gardens. By the time she and Rand landed beside those other sky ships, sometime before dawn, they had already assumed their disguises as brother and sister.

Cettie was weary but alert as they disembarked from the ship. She locked the Control Leering with a word that would prevent anyone else from commandeering the tempest. Given the hour, the grounds were surprisingly active and busy. Zephyrs streaked up from the ground to the hurricane, which dominated the brightening sky, perhaps bringing provisions for the crew.

“I’ve never seen such a place,” Rand said as they walked side by side across the beautiful garden.

“The Genevese are certainly enamored of their grounds,” Cettie answered. “We flew over other gardens like this one, but the hotel is spacious.”

“At least we can get some rest while we wait,” he responded with a sigh. “I’m weary.”

“As am I. Do you know anything more about the rest of our assignment?”

Although he shook his head no, she felt a little throb of unwillingness from the kystrel. They shared an overall feeling of wariness as they approached the grand hotel.

“There are so many people staying here, we will hardly be noticed,” Cettie said.

He nodded in agreement. Suddenly a small group of dragoons turned the corner, their uniforms having been concealed by the thick hedgerow. Cettie felt an immediate surge of alarm upon seeing their uniforms.

The group hailed them, seeing Rand in his dragoon jacket. “What regiment are you from, Commander?” one of them asked. Was there a hint of suspicion in his voice?

“Falstaff’s,” Rand replied with a shrug. “What about you?”

“We’re assigned to the Duke of Brythonica,” said the foremost officer. “Where’d you come in from?”

“Genevar. Pretty boring. Have you seen much action?” Rand asked.

Cettie reached out with her power to sense their motives. Were the dragoons trying to detain them? How innocuous were the questions? The kystrel revealed they were bored and disdainful of the foreigners around them. They were just seeking conversation with a pair of perceived allies.

“I’ll go ahead, Rand, and get our room,” Cettie said, touching his arm in a sisterly way, as she’d seen Joanna do. One of the soldiers was eyeing her appreciatively, the kind of attention she’d been trained to seek and recognize.

“I won’t be long,” Rand answered, taking her cue.

As she walked past the soldiers, she gave the soldier who fancied her—or rather Joanna—a timid look and what she hoped was a coquettish smile. Though she kept walking, she could still hear their voices through Rand’s medallion.

“Who is that?” one of the soldiers asked.