Rook(71)

“Is this where you try to prevent me?”

But he’d only shaken his head. “Tell me your plans, Mademoiselle.”

And so she’d told him, about the Bellamy fire that should already be inside a cell, and the free landovers Allemande was providing for La Toussaint, taking the people of the Lower City to the Upper, and out the gates to the cemeteries. And René had listened, first with elbows on knees, and when his tea was gone, on his back beneath the stars, flipping his weighted coin while the highmoon made the lane a luminescent ribbon, twisting through the trees along the sea cliff. There was a darker circle on the skin around his neck.

And when she was done he took her plan and expanded it, adding detail, changing the timeline. They’d argued over it, and it had taken him some time to convince her. But in the end, René was to go back and set the firelighter when the prison yard was clear, after she’d gotten everyone away, including herself, eliminating her need to stay and play cat and mouse with LeBlanc.

“After all, Mademoiselle,” René had commented, “you are no good to your family dead. Can we at least agree on that?”

And that had started her thinking. If she could rescue Madame Hasard, if she could take down LeBlanc, if she came back in one piece, what would stand in the way of a marriage fee, then? Unless René had completely decided against her. If. If. If. But at least there were possibilities.

Orla tied down her last lace, and Sophia turned and gave her one brief, ferocious hug. Orla kissed her cheek—which with Orla was not a particularly tender gesture—then pushed her away with a tiny smack.

“Now then. Don’t you have a boat to catch?”



They left for the ferry in the dark, Cartier at the reins of the landover, driving around the ruts in the lantern light, and on the way, they passed Mr. Halflife’s landover in the lane. Sophia peeked through the curtain of the back window, watching the sleek vehicle rattle away in its own sphere of yellow light. He was going to Spear’s. In the dark before dawn. Poor Mr. Halflife. It would be a long time before there was a place wide enough for his driver to turn around, and by that time he would have no way of knowing which direction they’d gone. She let the curtain fall, and turned back to the Bellamy landover’s slightly worn interior. None of them even mentioned it.

It was odd to see everyone in their finery after nearly two weeks of linen shirts and breeches at the farm. Even Benoit was in his more formal servant’s attire. Sophia was wearing a navy dress Orla had altered for her, demure in color but with a cut that was a little more daring, the white underskirt—firelighter sewn in—underneath. The revival of Ancient voluminous skirts had made Sophia happy for very different reasons than other girls in the Commonwealth. They’d decided on natural, ringleted curls, and a small amount of paint around the eyes, all of it engineered to evoke a Commonwealth girl trying to assimilate into Upper City society, where being ostentatious was not in fashion. Unless, evidently, you were René Hasard.

He was back in the gold jacket, like at their Banns, and now that she could look at him without such trepidation, she could see what his gaggle of women had. If Spear Hammond was a marble statue precisely carved, then René Hasard was an Ancient painting out of Wesson’s, foreign and yet so striking it was hard to look away. Or maybe, Sophia thought, it was because she knew there was a russet-headed daughter stealer underneath the hair powder.

And he made a scene at the Canterbury dock. From the moment she stepped down from the landover, they were engaged. He introduced her to the captain, whom he did not know, explaining his fiancée’s specific need for a journey without many waves, chided Benoit about the baggage, was loud with his opinions about the cleanliness of the boat and overzealous in the arrangement of her cushions until the steward was exasperated. There was no one on the ferry who was not aware of their presence, and a man in the corner of the windowed cabin appeared to be scribbling down notes. It was very well done. When they finally settled on one of the bench seats, René pulled her close, arm around her waist, cheeks nearly touching, turning her to him as if they were in a constant state of whispering.

“I think the man behind us wonders if you are a victim of kidnapping, my love,” he said, voice low and still gruff in her ear. “So you may want to act as if you are enjoying this.”

She would have been offended if she had not heard the tease in his voice. She’d been trying hard not to show just how much she was enjoying it, this feeling of being held while they rode the waves, the smell of the soap he’d used to shave, the sun rising just beyond René’s shoulder, making the salt spray sparkle on the glass. She lifted her hands to the white cravat around his neck and began to adjust it, so the edge of his bruising did not show. She was also enjoying the fact that he was not dead on Spear Hammond’s floor. She made long, slow work of the cravat.

“Ah,” he said, the breath on her cheek almost a sigh. “Now my uncle émile will not have to be ashamed of me.”

“And why would your uncle émile be ashamed?” she asked.

“To have not taught me better, of course. This is his, how should I say … his area of expertise. You will meet Uncle émile soon, when we get to the city.” The arm around her tightened, voice a gritty whisper. “I have some advice for you, my love. Never sit next to my uncle émile.”