“I’ve no idea who you are,” I lie.
“I find that hard to believe, seeing as you’re visiting Valdemar Montresor. Unless you don’t talk to him during your visits. Is that it, lady? Do you have your mouth full when you go see him?”
His eyebrow arches, and my stomach coils. I’ve heard rumours of corrupt prison guards who, for a price, can arrange for special visits in private rooms, but I hadn’t considered that maybe it’s what Jacinta’s visits were for. Do the Raven Hands share such things?
“What do you want?” I finally ask.
“I want to know why you’re seeing Valdemar.”
“If he hasn’t told you, then it isn’t my place to do so.”
“Fuck, lady, you’re trying my patience.” His words feel like they hit my cheek, and I fight the urge to wipe them off. “I don’t see what the problem is. Any friend of Valdemar’s is a friend of mine.” He opens his arms wide as if wanting a hug.
“Then I’m sure if you ask him, he’ll tell you who I am and why I’m visiting him.” I’m not sure why my allegiance is to Valdemar, but it’s clear he’s not shared our arrangement with the rest of his flock, including his number two—and once they find out who I am, they may see me as a threat. “You’ll have to ask him. Now, if you please.” Easing past him, I catch an earthy scent with a hint of spice.
I march back to my table, my heart racing and my fists clenched.
Whyhasn’tValdemar shared our arrangement with his closest adviser? And if having Jacinta on my case isn’t bad enough, I now have Jupiter Prospero to contend with.
CHAPTER NINE
There aren’t asmany visitors this week, and I wonder if the torrential downpour that’s lasted several hours has put some of them off the treacherous ferry crossing. With only a few of us, it doesn’t take as long to be searched and processed before we’re herded off to the visitors’ room.
Taking the same seat I did last week, I wait for Valdemar to be brought in.
I can’t deny the fear that’s settled in my bones after my encounter with Jupiter Prospero. The risks have always been there. You can’t walk into the lion’s den and not expect a fight, but I hadn’t anticipated tackling the pride as well as the alpha. My anxiety has always been aimed at Valdemar—he’s the one in here on a murder charge.
But he’s caged. For now.
Jupiter Prospero isn’t.
When I’d arrived home from the bar on Monday, I’d recounted meeting Jupiter Prospero to my mother, who was perched on the window seat of my bedroom. She’d listened as she does, her eyes wistful, her skin pale, and even though she’d offered no words of maternal wisdom, she’d smiled, which settled me slightly.
But I’ve been unable to sleep for the entire week, my nights spent scouring the internet for information about the Raven Hands, taking copious notes, and drinking camomile tea. During the past few days, I’ve only managed a few hours of sleep, and even that has been laden with dreams of large ravens with their wings outstretched, their sleek black feathers oil-like in the moonlight, their beaks sharp and shining like razor blades.
My breath is stolen from me as Valdemar is brought into the room by a small but sturdy-looking prison guard. Unsure as to whether I’m reading too much into things, I notice that the guard barely touches him, as if he daren’t lay a finger on him. But I don’t get a sense of fear from the guard. They seem at ease with each other, as if they’re old friends.
I straighten in my chair as Valdemar’s cuffs are removed and he stalks over to our table.
Ourtable.
He’s alone. No sign of my brother. But I feel Ed’s presence, as if he’s in the walls.
“Angel.” A sharp scent like fresh night-time air accompanies him as he lowers himself into the chair.
“Valdemar.”
Sweat beads between my shoulder blades as he stares at me, the intensity of it too much to look away from.
“You’re still not sleeping,” he says at last.
“I’m fine.” I glance away, hoping he won’t pick up on the lie.
“No, you’re not,” he argues.
“We aren’t here to talk about me.”
“You might not be, but I am. Humour me.” He cocks his head to the side, and a small smile graces his lips.
