Rook(20)

She lifted her other hand to the candle, ready to grab the telling light and blow it out if a key went into LeBlanc’s lock. But the moments passed and there was no other noise. The old wood settling, most likely. She went back to the papers, scanning each one quickly. She needed to be gone.

The letters were written in Parisian, just like the rest of LeBlanc’s papers. One was from Allemande, making LeBlanc aware of governmental minutiae, and one was from Renaud, his secretary, with the city’s most recent list of traitors. None of her relatives or childhood friends were on the list this time, but seeing the names made her fingers itch for a set of picklocks all the same.

The next letter was an ill-written report from Gerard—the Gerard of the Tombs, she realized—giving LeBlanc a somewhat sketchy description of the Red Rook. Young, medium to smallish height, and in the robes of a holy man. Sophia cursed once beneath her breath. The holy man was not her only disguise, but it had been one of the most useful. She wondered what Gerard had promised the poor wretch who’d told him this. Freedom? The freedom of his family? But promises or no, now that Gerard knew he hadn’t just been bribed, but bribed by the Red Rook, whichever prisoner had given this information would surely go straight to the Razor. The fact that Gerard was even mentioning it to LeBlanc made her feel certain this was already a truth.

She shifted the papers. The last letter was half-finished, and written in a hand that had to be LeBlanc’s. Small, precise, and somehow ferret-like, just like him. Her eyes widened, nose moving closer to the paper as she read.

My dear René,

I am certain your instincts are correct, and your ingenuity is appreciated. But let me suggest yet another step in your plans. Gain the young lady’s trust; befriend her. Use your charms as you always do and I am sure you will get the information we seek. I will try to do the same. Taking the traitor Bonnard back to the City of Light is preferable, but as you say, it is the Red Rook that must be snared. The divine authority of Allemande and the Goddess cannot be questioned. I am happy to know that you are willing to sacrifice so much for the cause if this comes to marriage, but do not take such drastic measures too soon. The Red Rook is close. Write as soon as you have information. And tell your mother I …



Sophia stared at the words, barely resisting the urge to crumple the paper. Instead she put the letters in the same order inside the false bottom and pressed it closed. She replaced the stack that had been on top, shut the lid, and set the box exactly where she’d found it. Then she stood, breath coming hard, candle held high to check the room. Her hand was shaking. Not from fear, or even a bout of temper. This was rage.

René and his cousin had planned this from the beginning, never intending to have René marry her at all, or at least not for the reasons they had assumed. René had come for the Red Rook, and was using her father’s financial circumstances to do it. LeBlanc must have already had his suspicions before the night she’d rescued the Bonnards. And then he’d played her from both sides, actually threatening her with the loss of René’s fortune when he knew she was never going to get the marriage fee in the first place.

She took a long breath. How ironic to be so angry that there would be no marriage, when marrying René Hasard was what she had so desperately not wanted in the first place. She thought of him playing games in the sitting room—what a time to give in to pique and spout all those things about Mrs. Rathbone!—and the way he’d been looking at Tom’s leg, as if trying to judge its fitness. And LeBlanc thought the Red Rook was a man. Sophia bit her lip. A net, indeed, and it was closing tight around her brother.

She blew out the candle, replaced it in her vest, unwrapped Mr. Lostchild’s glove, and dropped it on the floor below the window. Then she gathered up the rope and stepped out onto the casement. The night sky was still overcast, very dark, a stiff breeze gusting as the remnants of the storm passed. She left the window open, climbing hand below hand down the rope, her mind going much faster than her descent.

With the rain gone, Cartier should be on the run by now. He would have a decent start before the glove was found and they set the foxes on the scent. That was good. But would it be enough to divert suspicion from Tom? It should be easy enough to prove Tom hadn’t gone anywhere near the Holiday. Especially since he hadn’t. She thought of that subtle trap on the chessboard. Did René think he had engaged himself to the sister of the Red Rook, or could he have the first inkling that he was actually engaged to the Rook herself? And what were they going to do about it if he did?

A soft swish startled Sophia from her thoughts, a whisper of metal slicing through the air. The swing of a sword. She kicked at the wall and pushed off, turning half around, gasping as she caught what should have been a hack through her spine as a glancing cut to one side. The rope swung crazily, spinning the world in circles around her head. She let go and dropped beneath the next swing of the sword. The blade struck the wall of the inn with a dull tang, severing the rope, and Sophia hit the muddy ground as if she’d landed on ice. Her stockinged feet flew forward and out, the back of her head slamming hard into the limewashed stone, and suddenly the cloud-black night was full of stars and fire and lights that exploded in red and green before her eyes. Like they had in the Sunken City, confusing the gendarmes, making the mob around the bloody scaffold panic and scatter. Then the lights were gone, and it was black.



Sophia came back to herself in the dark, mind as thick and slow as the ground she could feel beneath her. The Holiday. LeBlanc’s room. Someone had tried to kill her when she climbed down the rope, and now the foxes were barking. Her eyes snapped open. She must have been out for only an instant because a candle or lantern was just beginning to glow from a window above her head, spilling out in a pool of curtain-filtered light. A form lay beside her, prostrate in the shadows, a man with a face she’d never seen. He was flat on his back, very still, sword in one hand, a knife handle-deep in his chest.