I swallowed a knot of revulsion, not only at the thought of my sister and Moran’s endeavors in conception, but at her impassivity to it all.
“What is his work?” I asked, redirecting.
“Influence,” she replied. “For instance, today he and several others are meeting the Grand General to discuss his intention of ousting the Guild from Harrow, followed by the systematic expulsion and eradication of our kind from the entirety of Arrent.”
She spoke this mildly, but each word was pointed.
“He cannot oust the Guild completely,” I replied. “Madge, if you know something about Mr. Stoke’s death, if a Guild mage was involved—”
“Why would they be?” she asked coolly. “And Baffincanevict us, if Incarnadine and the Zealots have turned the entirety of the city against us. I outlined this for you last night.If he is successful, Baffin will be the hero once more, saving a desperate Harrow from the poison of the Entwined. Bring me coffee?”
I looked from her to the tray, to the ornate pot. Deciding against petty refusal, I poured her a cup and brought it to the small table beside her easel.
“Mr. Moran will return from his meeting in the next few hours,” she said, sipping the coffee and giving me a passing, soulless smile of thanks. “I will inquire about your murderous mark and possible culprits, as a sign of my affection for you.”
Affection. The word felt like a wound.
“But why would someone want to murder your employer?” she went on. “Who did he cross?”
It seemed Supfordhadkept his cards close to his chest, and not informed the Guild of the artifact and Lord Stillwell.
That was all very good. I hardly needed the Guild catching wind of the artifact and further muddying the waters.
The thought was a brief one, but it resonated through me, digging in and making space for itself between grief for Mr. Stoke and fear for myself.
I quietened. The Guild certainly would have a vested interest in the artifact and in stopping Baffin’s research, and perhaps, in that, I had found a way to assuage the whisper of guilt inside me. A way to shirk that pesky weight of responsibility.
Of course, a selfish part of me affirmed,this is not about heroics and the greater good for you, is it? It’s about money. That ship. The horizon.
Mr. Stoke was dead, as painful as that was. But if I found the artifact, I could still deliver it to Stillwell. I could still get paid and be rid of Wake. If I kept Mr. Stoke’s portion of the fee for myself, Lewis and I might still be able to afford our new identities and lives—if only just.
Then I could alert the Guild to the dangers of the artifact. They would claim it from Stillwell and stop Baffin, all while I sailed away and… forgot. Forgot Mr. Stoke and the murderous mark. Forgot Harrow.
It was a good plan, if I did not look at it too closely,and ignored the complex tangle of my emotions. And an intrusive memory of kissing Harden in a darkened doorway.
I realized the room was very quiet and Madge was studying me.
“You have gotten yourself into trouble,” she observed, brush poised.
“You found me in prison,” I replied, reflecting her own icy exterior back to her.
“Why,wereyou the cause of his death?” She asked the question so calmly, so easily—as if this were plausible and perhaps even a little expected.
“No.” I recoiled.
“Hm,” she murmured. She slowly took another sip of her coffee, cleaned her brush in a teacup of water, and tapped it out on the leg of her easel before mixing a new shade. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror and went back to work. “Well, whatever you are hiding, I’m sure it will come to light. If it is relevant. You, however, may ask me whatever you wish. I will hide nothing from you.”
I suppressed a snort and sat down in a chair of my own. I forced myself to sit back, presenting a posture of ease and relaxation that I did not feel. I had more questions of course, about Silvers and possible avenues of escape, but suspected that even skirting such topics would not get me far.
So I turned my focus to Madge. To the woman. To my sister.
“How are your children?”
“Well.”
“How many are there now?”
“Five,” she replied. “Willhelm, the eldest, has proved himself to have an exceptional mind. Minerva, my second, is diligent in her studies but distractable. She is too active. Her threads twine towards painting, as mine, but she lacks the patience. I have suggested she be applied to sculpting, so she might work with her hands until maturity calms her.”
