There is danger in great beauty, especially in regards to a Golden Entwined.
FROMTHEVIGILANTLADYTRAVELLER:
A GENTLEWOMAN’SGUIDE TO THEWORLD
Present Day
Golden House was tucked between embassies of various nations, in the shadow of Baffin’s glittering, jagged palace in New Harrow. Officially, however, it did not exist. It was on no maps and bore no sign, as stipulated by the Guild’s temperamental concord with Baffin.
The house was not gold, at least not in terms of glittering ore or evident extravagance. The copper roof of fish-scale tiles had just begun to green with age and the building was cut off from the road by a tall iron fence, ornate and austere. Elements of New Harren architecture decorated its façade to a limited degree, enough to mark it, to sully the legacy of the Entwined, but not to lend any real beauty.
The grim effect was softened by moonflower ivy—a tactful and symbolic measure on behalf of the Guild gardeners, as moonflowers were an ancient symbol of the Entwined. The delicate, round white flowers bloomed in the autumn night, resilient to the cold, and lending a thin, sweet scent to the air. The scent was all memory—memory of the academy where I had spent so much of my youth, and of Kesterlee, where I had labored in the Guild Archives and begun to think of Lewis as more than an ally.
The guards at the gate—no doubt Silver Adepts—were mirrored on the opposite side of the street by a pair of Baffin’ssoldiers on permanent assignment. The Entwined guards opened the gate before Madge alighted from the carriage, and bowed as she and I took the short walk to the front stairs.
I did not bolt, however much I might have wanted to. Even without the watching Silver guards and their rifles, there was the looming threat of Madge at my side and Mr. Moran at my shoulder.
I knew I was caught. But that did not mean I could not escape, in due course.
Servants (Affinates of various affiliations) met us in the entryway. They took Madge’s cloak and parasol and Mr. Moran’s outer jacket, and vanished again at a wave of Madge’s hand. They left us in the clock-ticking quiet of a sleeping house.
Where the façade of Golden House might not be noteworthy, the interior very much was. Out of view of Baffin’s watching eyes, the Guild’s full wealth was on display. The floors were delicately arranged parquet that resembled twining threads, glossy and dark and interspersed with lavish carpets. The walls were a veritable museum of treasures, displayed with calculated precision.
I had little doubt that the rooms beyond would be even more lavish. But every door was closed. To the left, to the right, down a short hallway, and up the long sweep of the staircase. Closed doors. Shuttered and curtained windows.
No way out.
Madge exchanged a quiet word with her husband, then led me up the stairs alone. We encountered several more servants, waistcoated or aproned. Every one turned to face the wall as we approached, doing their best to trans form into inanimate objects, and did not move again until we were out of sight.
“A lively reception,” I muttered. “Are there many mages present?”
“A great number,” Madge said. “Come to deal with Baffin’s increasing antagonism. But they are either out or abed at this hour, as we soon will be. Here. These will be your chambers.”
She opened a door and turned the valve for the gaslamps. Their golden light swelled to reveal a comfortably appointedroom, with thick carpets that begged for bare toes and a large bed with heavy drapes drawn back. The walls were a deep plum wallpaper printed with obscure gold motifs.
There were no windows.
Madge returned to the doorway. “This will be locked. There are no servants’ doors or stairs in this room, so it will do no good to search for them. A Silver will be set on guard.”
I registered each barrier and threat she listed, but held them at arm’s length. After the shock of my arrest, of seeing Mr. Stoke’s corpse and finally falling into the hands of the Guild, I was inured to further intimidation.
“Does it not say a great deal about the Guild,” I observed, “that you have such rooms at the ready?”
Madge ignored me. “You cannot escape, and Pretoria certainly cannot reach you here. I urge you to reflect on your situation tonight, little sister, and make your peace with it. It is for the best.”
I might have been inured to fear, but not to anger. It smoldered high in my throat at her words, her tone, her presumption. I wanted to snap at her that I was no child, that I was a grown woman with my own mind and a future that was not for her to conduct.
But she would not care. Already she was leaving, with a gentle, “I will see you in the morning.”
She closed the door, leaving me in a beeswax and lavender-scented stillness, as the gaslamps flickered.
***
The bed was supremely comfortable. I resented this as I lay there the next morning, cushioned in quiet and shadows. The radiator hissed softly and somewhere beyond the walls, a light female voice laughed.
I tried to hold my mind still, suspended in that solitude, with my cares at a distance. It lasted only moments before I thought of Mr. Stoke, laid out upon the table with his face beaten in and a blackened mark over his heart. Lying as I did now, back flat, hands at my sides.
I sat up sharply. The bed creaked, the blankets rustled, and the door opened.
