Blood Heir (Blood Heir Trilogy, #1)(76)
Ana stuffed what she had left of her belongings in a small beaded purse she’d purchased as an accessory for the ball: her sketches of Luka, her parents, her mamika Morganya, and Pyetr Tetsyev. An unused globefire. A map. When she got to the bottom of her rucksack, she paused and pulled out a single copperstone.
It was the last of the three she had given May. Let’s buy ourselves a treat at the next town.
A knot formed in her throat. She blinked, and the phantom of May’s toothy smile vanished into the impending twilight outside.
She had killed the broker who had killed May. But did one life pay for another?
Ana kissed the coin and tucked it into the bottom of her purse before strapping it to her wrist. She found the parchment with the address to the Kerlan Estate that she’d gotten from Ramson several days ago and slipped that, along with her false papers, into her purse.
Then she tossed the rest of her papers and plans into a tin bucket used for collecting bathwater, set it on fire, and watched it burn until there was nothing left but ashes.
Ana pulled on matching silver-white gloves, threw on her fur cloak, and swept one last look around her now-empty room before she left. She was ready. Ramson had secured them spots as mesyr and dama Farrald, a common Bregonian last name that piqued Ana’s curiosity for a moment before she brushed it off. Ramson had his reasons for everything; now was not the time to question them. She would present herself alone as such at the door and make excuses for her husband. The rest of the plan remained the same: find Tetsyev, lure him to the basement that Ramson had made her memorize the path to on a badly drawn map, and escape through the secret passageway. Ramson had hired a carriage to take them far, far away.
Twilight had fallen outside; the last rays of the sun gave way to the violet cloak of night. Storm clouds broiled in the skies. And as the lamplighters ran down the streets, Novo Mynsk came alive with the scintillating shimmer of lights, rowdy laughter, and the distant but ever-present sounds of song and bar music. Whereas the townsfolk of Salskoff would have lit blue-papered lanterns at their windows and sat at home to witness the First Snow with their loved ones, the people of Novo Mynsk took to the streets. Ana passed throngs of revelers singing in Old Cyrilian, dressed in white robes and glimmering blue headdresses that were farcical portrayals of the Deities. They danced and laughed and drank, torchlight lancing off their masks and the coins in their hands.
Ana made quick progression through the streets, her Affinity flared and her nerves set on edge. She’d studied a map of Novo Mynsk; the Kerlan Estate was about a half-hour walk from her inn.
Gradually, the cramped cobblestone streets widened; the dachas grew in size and bloomed into cream-colored mansions; the rotten smells of liquor and sewage shifted to the sweet scent of chamomile, orchids, and roses.
Finally, Ana turned and found herself facing her destination. She drew a sharp breath.
Sprawled beneath a sky of gray snow clouds, the estate was a spread of lush lawns that stretched farther than the eye could see, interspersed with tinkling fountains and marble statues. In the midst of it sat a mansion, a cream-and-gold behemoth that gleamed with torchlight.
Guests were already arriving; carriages rolled through the open gilded gates, past liveried guards standing still as statues. Few guests arrived on foot, yet all were dressed in resplendent gowns, sleek black suits, and fur coats. They filed through the gates, masks catching the light of lanterns spread throughout the gardens that led to the mansion itself.
Ana followed the steady stream of people in through the yawning gates. The Kerlan Estate had some of the most ostentatious displays of wealth she had seen in her life. Cement paths wound through displays of the riches the garden offered: bushes of the most exotic flowers ranging from the Cyrilian iris to Nandjian desert roses, and aviaries with colorful birds of all species and origins. Ana even passed by a small habitat in which several of the rarest animals in the world resided; she thought she recognized a Kemeiran snow leopard, and a pool with what appeared to be a mystical ghostwhale of Bregon.
Unease twinged in her stomach. Alaric Kerlan, it seemed, was a collector.
As she drew steadily closer to the great mansion, she thought she saw a gray tint to its glass windows and felt a slight chill seep through her furs. She wouldn’t be surprised if Kerlan’s entire estate was blackstone-infused and built with the highest security detail in mind. The mansion loomed, menacing now, and Ana couldn’t help but imagine that it was an enormous spider amid its vast web of spies, brokers, and criminals, spinning its secrets and gold.
Light and music spilled from the giant mahogany double doors. Guests clustered up the marble steps, and through it all, Ana caught sight of a line of guards at the front, and a man in a black-and-gold doublet holding a thick stack of parchments.
Her heartbeat fluttered anxiously, and dread slowed her steps. Blood, thrumming in the excited guests all around her, crowded her thoughts. The blackstone-infused walls seemed to hum with menace.
Farrald, she reminded herself. She was dama Farrald. There was no reason for the doorman to turn her away, especially when she already looked the part.
She’d need to act the part, too; she’d con her way in.
She thought of Ramson, of how he could shed one act and step into another within the blink of an eye. So Ana squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and followed the stream of guests up the steps.
The doorman barely spared her a glance. “Name and invitation letter?”