I was not sure I believed him on either point, but a little of my caution drained. I frowned, recalling the events and the mirror maker’s shop.
“Mayfair. I see… You were going to the mirror shop and I happened to be there. Harden is your alias, for criminal enterprises.”
“Emrys Harden,” he corrected. His face caught the light of a nearby lamp and my heart stuttered in my chest. His gaze was direct and perceptive, and though I could not see his threads in this light, I knew they twined.
For the first time, his being Entwined struck me as a bridge between us, rather than a barrier. He knew what I was, if I recalled the events after the bombing correctly. We were kin, in a distant way.
“All right, then. Emrys Harden is a smuggler and Separatist,” I observed. “And Mr. Mayfair is a mirror maker?”
Harden-Mayfair abruptly took my wrist—his grip round like a manacle, barely touching my skin but solid as iron—and tugged me into a doorway.
I pinched my lips closed, smothering a startled noise, and surveyed him with my back to the doorpost.
“You are a Rogue Adept,” he stated, enunciating clearly, though his Harren accent was strong as ever. “What isyourreal name, Miss Fleet? What threads are you hiding?”
I did not bother denying it. “It seems we both know something we should not. Shall we blackmail one another? Betray one another? Or agree to simply forget and move on with our lives?”
He glanced out into the street at distant voices, sniffed, and frowned. “I’d be more forgetful with a drink in my belly.”
I paused, searching for his meaning. “Are you asking me to bribe you with alcohol, or have a drink with you? I will do neither.” I held up my left hand and pointed to the outline of my engagement ring, beneath my glove. “Lewis. I am engaged to your colleague, Lewis. Also, I require sleep. It is very late.”
“Colleague? The man’s a brother to me,” Mr. Harden scoffed. “You misunderstand. I know of your and Illing’s arrangement. You’re no more lovers than me and Stewart.”
“That is good news. Stewart seems like the unreliable sort and I would feel obliged to dissuade you,” I quipped, to conceal a rush of conflicted feelings. Not only had I not known how close Lewis and Mr. Harden were, but Lewishadapparently told him our engagement was a façade. What else had he said?
I opened my mouth to ask, but caught myself. This line of thinking would not do, and I needed to silence Mr. Harden. I could think of no other way to do so save murder, which seemed a rather brash escalation. And considering Lewis’s lack of interest in me, what harm was there in taking a drink with Harden? His attention was unexpectedly appealing, and a pleasant distraction from the looming threat of meeting Mr. Wake.
“A drink, then,” I relented.
He smiled, slow and genuine and warm, and I felt a flush rush from my cheeks all the way down to my toes.
I pinched myself, hard, through my skirt. “Had you somewhere in mind?”
He stepped back into the street and offered me an arm.
I did not take it, but we set off together in a companionable silence, and I feared no shadows as we passed through the cobbled streets.
A NOTEUPON: THESARRE
The most adventurous Lady Traveller may desire to visit The Sarre, and here the authors of this guide must express reserve. Though The Sarre is a land of ancient ruins, myriad cultures, and great wealth, it is also the most disputed territory in Ceste. In recent history Seau, Kessan, and Arrent have stepped in to broker peace within its tremulous borders, but its governance remains unpredictable.
The Vigilant Lady Traveller must exercise all caution in this uncertain land.
FROMTHEVIGILANTLADYTRAVELLER:
A GENTLEWOMAN’SGUIDE TO THEWORLD
We shouldered through the press of a drinking establishment on the periphery of Old Harrow. I was familiar with the place, as the reader may be. Called The Three Trees, it is named for the ancient trees (the remnants of an imperial orchard) which battled for purchase in its narrow courtyard. Their rattling limbs and half-barren branches reached over the heads of those gathered outside as Harden and I passed through, they smoking and drinking without mind for the old fruit crushed beneath their boots.
That fruit filled the air with a sharp scent, just on the edge of rot, overriding even pipesmoke and beer. It gave way as we entered the main door and made our way to a corner table. The inside of The Three Trees, through some trickery of the proprietors, smells eternally of pine and rosemary and sparecrust (that is, the baked dish of bread, bacon, and buttery onions).
Harden sat with his back to one wall and I the other, each surveying the room from our own vantages. He saluted someone, presumably one of the other patrons—I could not see the fellow, or lady, whoever they were—and turned in towards me.
“Does Mr. Stoke know what you are?” he asked.
“No pleasantries or talk of the weather, then,” I observed.
“Why waste time?”
