The Blood Spell (Ravenspire, #4)(21)
EIGHT
DINAH COULDN’T DRAW a single breath without panic scraping at her thoughts. None of her plans had worked. The businesses she’d hoped her husband hadn’t known about were mortgaged, the documents forged with his signature. Her contacts in Akram refused to extend the massive credit she needed because the economy in their own kingdom had declined sharply in recent months. Her contact in Súndraille had offered a much smaller loan than she needed but had pressed for assurances that she had collateral to back up the debt.
She didn’t.
And while she’d yet to hear from her contact in Ravenspire, she had to assume they would demand collateral as well. She certainly would in their place. No one asked for the kind of loan she needed unless they were on the cusp of financial ruin.
She was running out of time. The estate, along with its debts, would go before the royal magistrate for review in less than two weeks unless she paid back every bit of it, according to the papers Mr. Dubois, the creditor, had filed with her solicitor.
She didn’t have any coin.
She didn’t have any resources.
And so far, Mr. Dubois had been smart enough to thoroughly secure his home and walk the streets heavily guarded. He hadn’t underestimated the lengths Dinah would go to reclaim what was hers. Under different circumstances, she would admire the ruthless cleverness it took to assess the value of the Chauveau empire, exploit its weakest link in her husband, and sweep the entire thing out from under her feet, all while staying safely out of reach of her dagger.
Dinah’s back was to the wall, but she wasn’t giving up. She’d sworn an oath to herself sixteen years earlier when she’d been alone on the streets of Falaise de la Mer, friendless, penniless, and powerless, that she would never allow anyone to put her in that situation again.
She intended to keep her word.
Pulling her black cloak close to her body, she tucked the hood over her head and looked at the ground as she walked briskly beneath the iron arches that led to the Gaillard quarter. Short of robbing every merchant in the city—a sure way to gain the notice of the queen and all the magistrates, especially when Mr. Dubois could then testify that she’d miraculously come up with a way to pay off her debt just after the robberies—Dinah had no way to get her hands on the coin she needed.
But someone in the city did. Someone was creating gold. She’d seen it herself a week ago when she was arguing with that old skinflint Maurice at the open-air market. The alchemist girl had tried paying for her purchases with it only to have Maurice realize the gold wasn’t real.
Maybe it hadn’t been real, but it had been close. And that meant whoever was creating it might have already perfected their methods.
Of course, it could have arrived in Balavata from another kingdom, either through the port or with a traveler who’d crossed their borders. But Dinah didn’t think so. The girl—Blue, Maurice had called her—had seemed nervous when Maurice pronounced the gold a fake. Almost as if she already knew what he was going to say but had hoped to fool him anyway. And when Dinah had visited the girl’s shop to inquire about the complaint the shop owner must surely have lodged with his local magistrate, he’d responded strangely. Freezing in apparent shock at the question and then quickly brushing her concerns away.
No merchant who’d been cheated out of coin would ever ignore the crime. There should’ve been a complaint filed with the magistrate in the Gaillard quarter, and there wasn’t. Dinah’s solicitor had checked.
Turning west, she walked quickly past a cathedral, the iron chimes that hung from its gate tinkling merrily in her wake. The moon hung fat and heavy in the sky, a pale orange ripe for the picking. Few people were still out on the streets at this hour, but Dinah took no chances. Ducking down side streets, crossing through alleys, doubling back over her tracks, she made sure no one was following her as she finally reached the Mortar & Pestle.
The door that led from the alley into the shop was solid, the lock secure, but Dinah had come prepared. Removing a metal crowbar from the deep inner pocket of her cloak, she pried, hammered, and smashed her way around the lock until the doorjamb was in splinters and the doorknob hung uselessly in its socket.
The streets might be deserted, and the shop might be surrounded by businesses rather than homes, but Dinah couldn’t take the chance that someone could’ve overheard her efforts and even now be on their way to alert the quarter’s magistrate. She had to move quickly.
Pulling the door closed behind her, she quickly lit the candle she’d brought with her, found the closest lamp, and used the candle to bring the lamp to life. Soft golden light filled the storeroom, and Dinah swiftly examined the room.
Well-stocked shelves. A worktable, chairs, a sink, and a small stove. What would someone need to create gold besides a hunk of metal? Fire? Acid? Some sort of magical concoction of herbs and minerals?
The thought that magic instead of regular alchemy was being used to create gold sent a shiver down Dinah’s spine, and her gaze sharpened, searching the room for spell books or wands.
At a glance, the room looked free of any of the obvious trappings of a witch, but anyone using magic would be careful to hide the truth, even in their private storeroom.
Moving briskly, Dinah stalked past the shelves, muttering the names of the ingredients she recognized as she passed.
Bolla root. Tryllis weed. Beeswax. Minorate rock.