“I see,” I said coolly, reaching up to fix my hat. “Let us go to tea. I am starving, and peevish, and in need of something strong. Then you are going to answer all my questions.”
***
Soon we occupied a corner table in the museum’s café. Above us spread a ceiling that depicted the fall of empires and mythological scenes in signature art styles from the last four centuries, from round-bellied and downcast pre-imperial processions to smooth-lined and largely naked interpretations of Old Harrow, and the geometric, bold lines of New Harrow. A great chandelier of stained glass illuminated all, permitting the two dozen diners to consume their tea and cakes—and in the case of a table of boisterous Kessans, heavily laced coffee—in a wash of warm light.
“I do love it here,” Pretoria commented as she eased her willowy frame into a chair. Her gown was a lively mix of oranges and yellows, draped in a style that echoed her father’s Ummani origins while nodding to current Harren fashion. “Now, tell me what it is you think I have stolen?”
The waiter appeared, giving me a moment to think as my older sister ordered me a pot of tea and: “Cake and coffee, like those Kessans. I do enjoy the Continentals, so exotic.”
The waiter nodded politely, no doubt classifying the both of us as decidedly un-cosmopolitan, and vanished.
Once he was gone, Pretoria looked at me promptingly. “So?”
“You stole an artifact from Mr. Stoke’s safe. Now he is missing andIam to take the fall for not delivering it to its owner.” Fatigue beset me like a shifting breeze and I added, “And Madge is here.”
Pretoria’s pleasant expression faltered. That glimpse of the woman beneath her mask, the same betrayed sister that I, too, harbored in my heart, told me she had not known. “Smudgey?”
Pretoria’s use of Madge’s childhood nickname—earned from years of charcoal-smudged fingers as she studied her art—nearly upended me. “Yes. I saw her by the river with a handler, or her current husband. He is an Adept, in any case. I did not recognize him.”
“Odd. Perhaps he is an import. Did she see you?” Pretoria asked, lowering her voice slightly as the waiter produced our order and departed again.
I shook my head.
“A small mercy.” She selected a slice of thick chocolate cake and deposited it on her plate. “She is very possibly here for you, you do realize that? You are making quite a mess of living incognito, Til.”
I reached for my tea and downed half the cup, ignoring the burn and buying time to gather my patience.
Pretoria contemplatively licked chocolate icing off a tiny fork. “I doubt it was me that drew her. I have befriended half of the Continental aristocracy and only been recognized once. But you? I barely had to lift a finger to find out where you live, work, the fact that you have no friends or sensitivity for fashion—”
“Hush!” I cut in, leaning forward across the table. “Be serious. Where is the damn artifact?”
“Impatient as ever.” Pretoria primly took up a forkful of cake, but stopped short of eating it. “And I see you have expanded your vocabulary to the base.”
“Please be serious,” I hissed. “If you do not give the artifact back, you may find me floating in the river by next week. And if the Guild has caught wind that either of us are here… Pretoria, we are in grave danger.”
Her chin lifted and, all at once, she was perfectly sober. “I know that, little sister. I know that very well.”
There was memory in her eyes, painful and sharp. She did not need to speak Emeline’s name for me to know it was her my sister thought of then.
Pretoria went on, “That is why I left a comfortable position in Lorva just to come fetch you. See how much I love you?”
That took me by surprise. “Fetch me?”
A hard note entered Pretoria’s eyes. “Yes. You should not be on your own, not in a city full of Zealots and the Guild’s watchful eyes. Even on the Continent people talk about Grand General Baffin’s hatred of Entwined, and prophesy of escalation, particularly as he now has the wealth of The Sarre back at his disposal. So, come work for me. I have never met a safe that your ilk could not crack. And the Continental Guilds are so political nowadays, they rarely cause us Harren defectors any trouble. A bounty hunter here and there, nothing to fret over.”
I bristled, at first in response to her mention of Baffin, then her invitation and her casual mention of bounty hunters.
“I know there will be more than that. As if theft wasn’t enough!” I leaned forward across the table, delivering my words in a hiss. “You have some scheme, some brick to lob at the Guild, and you will drag me into it.”
Her eyes seemed to glitter then, distant bright stars in a pool of night sky. “I would keep you safe.”
“I do not need you to keep me safe.”
She did not speak, did not so much as flinch, her gaze remained locked on my face. The moment lengthened, and in that stretch of time, I saw so much in the depths of her eyes. I saw passion and courage, rage and determination. I saw a thousand wrongs received, and a thousand more waiting to be returned upon her wrongdoers.
It stirred me in a way I could never pin down. Was it guilt, for not sharing her conviction? Was it discomfort, at the boundaries she was willing to cross to achieve her goals? Or was it simply jealousy, because she had something to devote herself to, something that drove her and fuelled her and filled her eyes with an intensity that bordered on the divine?
I had never felt such a way. I suspected that I simply did not have it in me.
