A Poison Dark and Drowning (Kingdom on Fire #2)(34)

Together, the three of us loaded the weapons. Dee joined us in time to handle the scythe. I got into the carriage, Blackwood following quickly. He closed the door with more force than was necessary.

“See you both tomorrow,” I said.

Magnus and Dee waved as the coach rattled down the street.

Blackwood watched out the window until we’d turned the corner.

“Don’t worry, I’m fairly certain he won’t chase us.” I shuffled through the weaponry papers once more. Blackwood began drumming his fingers on his knee.

“He’s canceled his engagement.” The drumming stopped. “I couldn’t help but overhear.”

“Yes, now you finally have a chance to snag him. Best wishes,” I muttered.

“Does that interest you?”

I looked up, exasperated. Blackwood watched me with a flat, unreadable gaze. He could give the Sphinx lessons in inscrutability.

“This interests me.” I shoved my papers under his nose. “There’s a skinless madman out there who wants us all dead. We’ve a carriage full of otherworldly weapons, and a book that’s supposed to tell us how they all work. At the moment, skinless madmen, weapons, and books are about all I’ve time for. So if Magnus wants to marry a turnip on Thursday next, I will show up for the ceremony in my best bonnet. All right?” With that, I went back to studying some incomprehensible diagram that showed the scythe’s best elevation for attack, and I bloody enjoyed it.

“I’m not sure you were clear enough.” Blackwood sounded bemused. “That’s the last you’ll hear about it from me.” He smiled and took one of the papers. Outside, torrential rain pounded the carriage roof. Lightning snaked across the sky, followed by a startling boom of thunder.

“How do you think it went today?” I finally asked.

“Apart from the blood and pain?” Blackwood didn’t say it with anger, though. He took up the tiny dagger and inspected it. “They could be useful, once we adjust to them. But I feel we’d be better served falling back into our own ranks, not looking outside for help.”

“So we hide under a ward again?” He handed back the blade, which I put on the seat next to me.

“No. The time for hiding is past,” he said, gazing out the window at the storm. “But strength comes from unity. In a strange way, I wish Whitechurch had fought harder to keep us from using the weapons. He let himself be swayed too easily by the queen. By you as well, when you brought him that painting of Strangewayes.”

I frowned. “I don’t understand. You think he’s weak?”

“Definitely not,” Blackwood said. “But when you consider the greatest Imperators of history—John Colthurst in the Wars of the Roses, Edward Wren during the Restoration of Charles the Second—they all understood that a man must not yield to the people he leads.”

“So the Imperator should never compromise?” This didn’t feel right. Blackwood picked up my training sheet once more.

“Good leadership requires compromise. Most of the time.” With that, he read until we arrived home.





Once home, I went upstairs to check that Maria was comfortable. The door to the apothecary was ajar, and I heard murmuring. I peeked inside.

She’d finally put on a dress. The gown was a light blue that had been washed so often it had gone gray. She still hadn’t put her wild hair up and had now even taken to sticking bits of flowers in it. She picked a purple flower from her curls and crushed it in her hands, dusting the petals over a wooden bowl filled with some strange concoction.

Maria muttered to herself in a voice that was not quite her own. It sounded deeper, older somehow.

“That’s it, my love. Now the oil. Quick, don’t let it sit too long,” Maria said to herself in that rich, womanly voice. She took a flask beside her and sprinkled the contents over the bowl. Grabbing a wooden spoon, she stirred quickly, smiling. “There it is. You see it now?”

I pushed open the door, and her trancelike expression vanished.

“Is Rook here?” I tried to look innocent, but Maria was too smart.

“It’s all right. You saw Willie.” She took a jug of water and poured some into the bowl, making a paste of the powder.

“Willie?” I sat opposite her, watching as she took a bit of cloth and spread the paste onto it. Folding the cloth in half, she mashed the top of it.

“I’ve not had many friends,” Maria said. Her cheeks tinged pink as she unfolded the cloth and cut a square of the paste. “I was five when I was taken to a workhouse in Edinburgh. Ran when I was ten. Then on, I survived mainly on my own.”

“You were in a workhouse?” And at five? I knew enough of the appalling conditions children in York had suffered, slaving from dawn until dusk at looms or wheels without proper food or clothing. At Brimthorn, whenever we felt hungry or cold, the head teacher, Miss Morris, would remind us we were more fortunate than most.

“Aye. After I left, I had to live off the land, learn to hunt, fish, protect myself. So you might say I made a friend in my head.” Maria shrugged.

“Why call her Willie?”

“I was never sure.” She placed the square of cut paste on the table in front of me. “She always felt like a Willie to me.”

Well, far be it from me to tell anyone they were odd. “What’s that supposed to do?” I eyed the paste.