Ink, Iron, and Glass (Ink, Iron, and Glass #1)(55)
“What?”
“That phrase is an idiom. Not one you’re likely to have heard in the short time since you learned Italian. So how did you know to say it?”
Elsa shrugged, uncomfortable with the intensity of Porzia’s gaze. “I must have overheard…,” she started to say, realizing even as the words left her mouth that she didn’t know how that phrase had popped into her head.
“You know things you shouldn’t know. You can do things you shouldn’t be able to do. You don’t play by the rules the rest of us follow here in reality,” Porzia quietly said. “They should fear you, not the other way around.”
Elsa remained doubtful that the way she dressed would change anything, but she didn’t want to seem dismissive of Porzia’s efforts. She abandoned the comfort of the settee to stand and let Porzia help her into the new outfit.
First came a cream-colored linen work shirt, loose and comfortable. Over this went a leather bustier, which laced up the back like a corset but lacked the too-rigid boning that Elsa had found so constrictive. The bustier was decked out with brass loops and chains, compartments and pouches, all the attachments she would need to comfortably carry an arsenal of gadgets with her. A gun holster to hang at her right side, with a strap to anchor it to her thigh so it wouldn’t bang about. Molded leather cases for her portal device and her books.
There were yet more pockets in the thick, heather-gray trousers. Trousers! Veldanese women never wore trousers. And even the tall leather boots had secret compartments for stashing tools—or knives, as Leo kept in his, Elsa supposed.
Porzia steered her over to the mirrors, and Elsa inhaled sharply at the sight of her own reflection. She did look different—and feel different—as if she were a distilled version of herself. Her reflection looked like someone who was born for the laboratory.
“We’ll have to decide what to do with your hair,” Porzia said, brushing a few black strands over Elsa’s shoulder. “Something practical, of course, if you’re going to be crawling around inside machines.”
“Why are you being so kind to me?” Elsa asked.
Porzia fussed with Elsa’s sleeves, straightening them. “You don’t have much experience with friends, do you?”
“No, I suppose not.” There had only ever been Revan. Even if he wasn’t dead, he probably thought she’d abandoned Veldana and him with it. Revan alive and hating her was the best scenario Elsa could imagine. She swallowed, her throat tight. “Not much experience.”
“Well,” Porzia said primly, “you ought to get used to it.”
Elsa felt a sudden desire to embrace the other girl. Would Porzia think it improper? She wasn’t well versed in the ways of affection. Just do it, she told herself—she threw her arms around Porzia’s neck, squeezed, and then immediately retreated to a safe distance.
“Thank you,” Elsa said, feeling heat rise in her cheeks, but Porzia didn’t look embarrassed at all.
“I don’t mean to interrupt,” said Casa, “but a hansom’s pulling up outside. I believe Signor Trovatelli has returned.”
*
By the time they reached the foyer, Leo was already inside and closing the front doors. He had with him an older woman, tall, thin, and dour-looking in dark-gray men’s clothes.
Porzia tried to intercept him. “Where did you run off to? And who’s this, may I ask?”
“She’s here to identify the body” was all Leo said, and then he strode quickly past Porzia, the older woman at his side.
Elsa couldn’t believe it. After all his prying into her affairs, all the secrets she’d shared, now he wanted to leave her and Porzia in the dark. “I’m alive, by the way!” she called after him, thoroughly annoyed. “Thought you might care to know.”
Leo stopped, the mystery woman already a few steps down the hall that would lead to the library. He turned to look at Elsa, his expression inscrutable, and then hurried to catch up with his guest.
Porzia said, “What in the world has gotten into him?”
Elsa frowned. “And if everyone from his past is supposed to be dead, who’s that?”
Porzia tugged her skirts straight, as if she were mustering her courage. “Come on, then. We’ll not get any answers out of him if we keep standing around here.”
When they reached the library, the closet was open, and the older woman was crouched over the body. “Yes, I recognize him,” she was saying. “He’s one of the Carbonari who went missing during the Venetian rebellion. Presumed dead—wrongly, it seems, until now of course.”
Leo was standing with his back to the door and did not turn at the sound of their footsteps, seemingly unaware they had followed. He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it. “At least there’s no room left for doubt.”
The assassin’s body drew Elsa’s gaze like a magnet, and she abruptly forgot about being vexed at Leo. The attack flashed through her memory, making her pulse jump and her palms dampen. This man had come perilously close to killing her.
Porzia planted her hands on her hips and cleared her throat. “Leo, what is going on? Who is this woman you’ve brought into my house?”
Leo finally turned to look at them. His throat worked and his lips parted, but the words didn’t come. The older woman stood, stepped around the corpse, and filled the silence for him. “Rosalinda Scarpa,” she said to Porzia. “I looked after Leo when he left Venezia, before your people laid their claim.”