The Cerulean (Untitled Duology, #1)(51)

“Six.”

“Six and fifty.”

“Done,” Agnes said. Vada held out her hand and she took it. Her palms were calloused, her grip steady and sure, and her smile was a clever one full of salt and schemes. Agnes found her mouth suddenly quite dry.

“You have a deal, Kaolin lady.”

“Agnes,” she corrected her.

“Agnes,” Vada said. Agnes quite liked the sound of her name the way Vada said it. “We leave in eleven days’ time.”

“What? No, that’s far too long!”

Vada pulled another cigarette out of her vest pocket. “It is not up to the lady when we leave. She is lucky enough to be buying passage.”

Agnes knew the truth of this and could not argue. But eleven days felt like a lifetime. She wanted to be on her way now.

“And I will be needing the payment up front,” Vada added, striking a match on the bottom of her boot and lighting the cigarette.

“I will give you half by the end of the week.” She wasn’t about to let this girl steal her money and run off to Pelago.

“You will give me all or the agreement is off.”

“And how do I know you will hold up your side of the bargain?”

Vada touched the fang around her neck. “Every Pelagan woman gives her daughter an endexen, a . . . how you say it, a token, at birth. This is mine. It was my grandmother’s and hers before her. Verini Murchadha chased a great blue-finned shark deep into the northern waters of Pelago and killed it with a single harpoon thrust. This is one of the beast’s fangs. It is more precious to me than anything in the world. I swear on the soul of my great-great-grandmother and the monster she killed, this ship will not leave without the daughter of Alethea Byrne on board.” Her voice held such passion as she made this vow that Agnes did not realize her body had inclined toward Vada until the girl grinned and said, “Or we could kiss to seal the deal. It is your choice.”

“What? I . . . no, I . . . that vow will do nicely,” Agnes stammered, her cheeks burning. She glanced around to make sure no one else had heard the offer.

Vada shrugged. “Suit yourself.” She tossed her whittling knife in the air and caught it deftly. “It’s a shame. A pretty lady should be kissed well and kissed often. Or at least that is what my aunt says.”

Agnes was confused—was Vada flirting with her or mocking her? She’d never been flirted with before, so she couldn’t tell. And no one had ever called her pretty. She felt it best to leave while the deal was still in place.

“I shall return by week’s end with the money. Will I find you here?”

“At the Wolfshead Tavern,” Vada said. “Their ale is passable. Better than the piss most of the places around here serve.”

Agnes had never been to any of the Seaport taverns, nor had she ever tasted ale. “I will take your word for it,” she said. “Good afternoon, Vada. And . . . thank you. Um, feados na thaeias dul leatsou.”

Vada raised one eyebrow. “Feados na thaeias dul leatsou,” she replied. It was a typical Pelagan farewell that meant “May the goddesses go with you.” “Your chauffeur teaches you well.”

Agnes hurried back along the docks, not daring to stop until she saw the green motorcar. She could still feel the rough warmth of Vada’s hand on her skin.

“All right then, Miss Agnes?” Eneas said. He was leaning against the hood of the car with the Old Port Telegraph in his hands. “Did you find the bracelets you were looking for?”

She’d forgotten all about the bracelets and took them out to show him, along with the walnuts, which he accepted eagerly and shared with her on the ride home.

They arrived back at the brownstone on Creekwater Row to find the house in utter tumult. Mrs. Phelps was ordering Hattie and Janderson around, Swansea kept bustling from room to room, and there seemed to be a slew of new servants cleaning everything from the carpets to the banisters to the lamps.

“What’s going on?” Agnes asked as a flustered Hattie came rushing up to unpin her hat.

“There’s to be a party here tomorrow evening,” she said. “A private party for some very important people. Your father wants the place spotless. He’s ordered food from the finest shops in Old Port, and wine too. He was very particular.”

“A private party? For what?” Agnes couldn’t remember the last time her father had held a party in his own house.

“I don’t rightly know,” Hattie said. “But miss, I’ve got to polish the silver. . . .”

“Of course. I’m going to retire to my room for a bit.”

“I’ll come to dress you before dinner,” Hattie said before scampering off to the dining room.

Leo was standing at the railing, looking down at the hustle and bustle in the foyer below. His face was pensive, his mood almost brooding. Agnes thought that strange—Leo loved social gatherings more than anyone else in the family.

“What’s this party for?” she asked him.

He started, as if he hadn’t even seen she was there, and touched his cheek, an odd gesture Agnes didn’t understand.

“Her, I think,” Leo said, and he sounded distracted. “The silver girl.”

“A party for Sera?” Why on earth would her father be throwing his captive a party?