I didn’t know a whole lot about our neighboring kingdom—our Instructors had covered only its infighting, its wars—but I knew materials like these were forbidden in Nenamor. They were seen as proof of the bearer’s allegiance to—or at least agreement with—the Cage. Mere possession of them warranted arrest.
I couldn’t stay here. I needed to move. But now something else was rooting me to the spot: There were pencil underlinings on a few of the pages, annotations in the margins of the text. I tried to make myselfslide the pamphlet back into the compartment and shut it up tight, but with a painful swallow, queasy with nerves, I realized I couldn’t.
This was evidence.
These annotations had to be Catua’s. How would this look to the rest of the Hundred: Shearwater’s own daughter in possession of such a text? Here was a secret the Cage could leverage, one that would damage the Brigant’s reputation irrevocably, not to mention result in his daughter’s arrest. And a secret, unlike Catua’s trysts with Rhianne, that I could back up with something other than my word.
But as I slipped the pamphlet into my pocket, the queasiness morphed into full-blown sickness. That guilt was back, now ten times worse. I’d never had an unkind word from Catua. Was I really going to let the Cage use her for extortion?
I couldn’t decide now. Time was ticking on: The clock on the mantel read close to eleven. I stole from the room and made straight for Emment’s. A new sense of urgency—and my wheeling thoughts—made me rush, my steps thudding loudly on the stone, but I knew these floors would still be deserted, all the guests and servants below.
The door to Emment’s suite was standing open, but it was dim inside and no sounds came from within. I pushed it wider and scanned his first room: empty. Crossing the patterned rug to his bedroom, I saw embers glowing like foxes’ eyes in his grate. A lamp was burning, turned down low. The valets must have missed it earlier.
As I stepped into the bedroom, I stopped abruptly.
The doors of his wardrobes were all flung open. His dresser, with its dozens of gilt-handled drawers, looked as though it had been thoroughly ransacked. In the wavering glow from the lamp, something sparkled in the darkness within; moving closer, I realized it was laconite. A few pieces, items I recognized from before, were piled haphazardly over each other. And a brooch on top…
I crouched, picked it up.
The laconite hummed, but with a very slight stutter. Peering at the stone, turning it over, I saw a barely there network of cracks deep within. I’d have missed it if I wasn’t studying it intently, if I hadn’t just caused the same damage in the sisters’ rooms. But there was no mistaking it.
The brooch had been tampered with already.
A scrape behind me made me drop the brooch and turn. I just glimpsed a figure rearing above me, a pale object raised high in their arms, before I ducked and lurched sideways with a rustle of skirts.
The object—a vase—smashed down just inches from me. I threw up an elbow to protect my face as slivers of porcelain exploded on the floorboards.
As I skittered backward, belly-up, crablike, it took me a second to take in my attacker. Slim figured. Rich tawny skin. Tight black curls and flashing dark eyes. A handsome face I’d only ever seen smiling. Now it was pulled into a wide-eyed grimace.
“Oh dear,” came that silk-smooth voice. “I was very much hoping I wouldn’t have to dispatch anyone. And I rather liked you.” He tipped his head.
It was Avrix Cormorant, in his fine dance clothes, bearing down on me with a jagged shard of vase.
I rolled, scrambled to regain my footing, but my dress was ridiculous: a plumped-up parachute. Then he was upon me, fabric tearing, and I kicked out viciously, eliciting a grunt.
Staggering up, half falling against the writing desk, I fumbled a hand over its surface in the shadows. Quills, papers, and then—a letter opener. I brandished it like a blade, faced him as he straightened.
There it was: that slow, cocky smile. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t let you leave.” This time, as he came for me, he was focused. Intent.
“Wait!” I cried, stabbing out with the letter opener. It looked paltry, absurd, compared to his wicked shard. “Was that you—the laconite? Did you damage it on purpose?”
His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t break his stride.
“I…” It was a risk, but I had no other choice. “I came here to do the exact same thing.”
I dropped the letter opener—his glinting gaze followed it—and dug in my bodice for the hammer and chisel.
“Here,” I said, breathless, holding them out with shaking hands.
When he saw the tools, he went suddenly still. His eyes crawled up to mine, a strange spark within them. After a long, drawn-out moment, he padded to the dresser and placed the porcelain shard on top.
“You wish the Shearwaters harm,” he said softly. “Or at least their heir. Why, may I ask?”
“Why do you?” I returned, eyeing the laconite. Right now I could think of only one reason. But it was mad. It couldn’t be…there was no way…
Creases appeared at the corners of his eyes, and his lips twitched slightly. “You’re working for the Cage.”
I blinked at him. “And you are, too. You’re a…a cuckoo.”
