She learned that Lord Avon had inherited the marquessdom at twenty and then died from an undisclosed illness at six-and-thirty, little more than sixteen years after becoming the 16th Marquess and inheriting Weavingshaw. There was little information about his wife other than to say she had died within a few years of their marriage. He had left no living heirs.
All throughout Leena’s research, she could find nothing that could account for St. Silas’s desire to locate this particular ghost. There seemed little to distinguish Lord Avon from any other blue-blooded aristocrat who had lived and died in the last century. Granted, Leena thought in annoyance, firmly shutting the extraordinarily outdated copy ofPeerage Reviewin disgust, this library’s newest copy was above two decades old, so any amount of useful information could have been printed since then that she had no way to access.
Then there was Weavingshaw.
While the tattered page inPeerage Reviewheld no picture of Lord Avon, a book onLanded Estatescarried a black-and-white ink drawing of the grand house.
Leena peered closely at it, the depiction of the place juxtaposing with her mother’s voice as she begged Leena to be wary of the manor.
Here, in this single printed image, Weavingshaw did not look like any estate she’d ever seen in drawings before. It was not a house but a fortress, built to withstand the salt-laden grit of the northern sea, enclosed by ancient stone walls, resisting and enduring.
Leena scanned the accompanying text. Weavingshaw had been the last defense of the north nine hundred years ago, against both the wildness of the ocean and the invading marauders from Casland, the isles east of Morland. In the ensuing raids, the estate had been burned seven times and rebuilt anew.
Leena knew from her school lessons that the wars between Morland and Casland had ended in a treaty three hundred years ago, meaning that Weavingshaw no longer had a need to defend itself. And yet, Leena thought as she stared hard at the picture, Weavingshaw looked as if it had not forgotten its war-torn past, and behind its show of aristocratic gentility and remote beauty it looked ready to survive a siege even now.
Leena was disappointed when the book shifted to discuss the scandalous past of the House of Marlborough, thanks to the 5th Duke and his not-so-discreet nightly activities. Just as her attention wavered, she noticed she’d missed a section pertaining to the Avons. Half the page was dedicated to their familial crest, drawn in painstaking detail in the darkest of ink: a snarling wolf battling a Deathgrip—a predator and its poison. Between the flower and the wolf lay a vacant circle, quartered diagonally by a cross. Etched at the foot of the crest were the wordsI complete what is mine.
Beneath was a rare footnote by the author himself describing the unknown origins of the Avon crest and its unusual defiance of traditional heraldic rules. The author did not go into any further details as to why this might be—likely, Leena thought, because he did not know.
Leena was surprised to see a Deathgrip on the Avon crest. Something about the dream of her mother wavered behind her eyes, something familiar, but it was too distant for Leena to grasp. She shook her head, battling a headache that struck sharp pains through her temples.
There was also a short newspaper clipping she found that was more up-to-date than thePeerage Review,stating that the Avon ancestral home had been lost to the family line as there was no Avon to inherit it. It had instead been purchased by a Mr.Martin—no title.
Leena knew the name at once. Mr. Martin was the most well-known tradesman in all of Golborne. He had lifted himself up from the same poverty Leena had grown up in, and was now a manwhose name was emblazoned on half the factories in Ridgeways. He produced both the medications Leena had used to treat the Sweeper’s Cough: the expensive one she’d traded her secret for, as well as the cheaper alternative she’d purchased at the market. It felt almost wrong; Mr. Martin’s reputation seemed too modern to own the ancient lands of Weavingshaw.
No—Leena thought to herself, staring back at the ink-drawn picture of the estate—Weavingshaw seemed much too wild a thing to be owned by anyone.
—
On the day before her contract was set to begin, Leena had one final task, which she tackled with determination if not apprehension. Yet again she left Rami to a more restful sleep as she made her way through the bazaar, this time not in search of food but a dagger.
It was a rainy day at the market. The tents, their cloth made thick to withstand the change of seasons, had a dusty, oppressive scent, filtering what little light slitted through. Leena was not a novice when it came to haggling. Teeth clamped in stubbornness, nose wrinkled in tenacity, most of the time she managed to bring down the asking price by half. Yet all her efforts were in vain this morning. Several vendors even laughed outright at the price she was willing to offer just for a small blade.
Leena, who was accustomed to having a safety plan for most problems, hated the knowledge that she was going to work and live with Mr. St. Silas without so much as a knife to keep her protected. The only one they had at home was a large butcher’s knife that had grown rust on the metal—hardly something that could be easily concealed.
Thepittanceshe offered, as the vendors had mockingly called it, did not even stretch to cover new fabric to make a modest dress. She could not bear the disgrace of being looked at askance by his customers or, worse, byhim,should her own garments be deemed wanting. If she had nothing else of value going into this contract,she at least had her pride—although that rarely proved to be a comfort on cold nights.
Indeed, it would have been cheaper had she bought fabric to sew herself a dress in the Algaraan fashion—flowing skirts, cinched waistline, embroidered sleeves. But she knew, all too well, that to climb her way up the ladder in Morland society she had to speak like a Mor, dress like a Mor, and, above all else, think like a Mor. Still, her meager wardrobe held more Algaraan dresses than Morish—the only sentiment in her life she still clung on to with great affection.
Leena tried to fight the dejection she felt as she walked back home. Even with a knife, she comforted herself, there was very little chance of fighting off the Saint of Silence should he choose to attack her. It would serve her well to find other means to protect herself, butwhatthose other means were, she had no idea.
—
Leena wore her best, and therefore least comfortable, Morish dress as she stood on the steps of the Saint’s house. She tried not to think about Rami, of how she had purposely concealed from him her indenture. He would find out about Leena’s contract to the Saint of Silence soon enough, but she wanted to delay that moment for as long as possible, until his health improved.
She told him instead that she had managed to secure employment as a nanny and would temporarily take other accommodations on the outskirts of the city. If Rami had been fully back to his usual self, he would’ve caught her lie, but he merely gave a drowsy nod in acknowledgment.
She was apprehensive about leaving him alone, but he’d improved to the extent that he could now walk to the cupboards—which she’d used nearly all her hard-earned savings on stocking to a fullness they had not seen in months, even years—for sustenance.
On the other hand, Leena’s farewell to Margery had bruised her heart.
She’d gone to see the old woman to say goodbye, her eyes flickering to the ghost that always trailed at Margery’s elbow—a man who had been stabbed in the abdomen with a dagger. The phantom was likely Margery’s infamous husband, whom the old woman only ever mentioned in tandem with a curse. Leena had never known who killed Margery’s husband, though a part of her wondered if it was the old woman herself who had done it. But Leena didn’t want to confirm it, afraid that it might change the way she saw her friend.
The old woman, tears dotting her rheumy eyes, had insisted that Leena take a token to remember her by. Despite Leena’s pleas that she didn’t need a gift to remember Margery, the old woman had thrust a timepiece into her hand. Surprisingly, it was of exquisite make, molded in gold, with the nameFrayetched on the lid in elegant strokes.
Fray.That was likely the name of Margery’s husband.
Inside, the clock mechanism was broken, and there was a mistake on the clockface as well. Rather than counting up to twelve hours, it counted to eighteen, with only one hand, stuck at the starting position. Perhaps this mistake had made the timepiece harder to barter—Margery had sold nearly everything else in her life to pay for her Tar habit—although the gold alone should have brought a pretty penny.
