MARIETTA
I looked around frantically as Gabriel did something to the door of number six. No one seemed to be paying us any mind, but it felt as if any minute there would be a caller on the corner yelling for the watch.
Relief hit as the lock clicked open. I hurried inside after him and he shut the door.
“Where did you learn to do that?” Most houses had spells against thieves.
“A good ser—” he fiddled with the tool he had used, closing it. “A good sir always knows how to pick a lock, even one enchanted.”
“A good sir? That makes not a whit of sense. Did you study under a lockmaster?”
He smiled wolfishly. “Only for matters of the flesh.”
I had no response to that other than heat. I followed him as he prowled the front hall. There was a table stand containing an enchanted basket of unopened mail and a ring of keys. The hall had a crisp feel, as if a cleaning spell had been recently run.
“It smells and looks clean, but there are no servants?” It was a big enough place to require at least one, and in a neighborhood that straddled social strata—not quite gilded, not quitenon. Enchanted baskets pulled notes through tubes that connected directly to a slot at the side of the door—no butler or service required—butsomeonehad cleaned.
I knew cleaning spells, because I had made it a priority, knowing I would likely at some point be the one having to do it for all of us, without help. But most gilded didn’t use their magic for things that thenoncould do. Spells were exhausting without a deep well.
Gabriel lifted the key ring. “Housekeepers don’t leave house keys behind. There must have been one at some point. Perhaps on call? I will see if the servant network knows anything.”
Not one to question the value of servants’ gossip, I pawed through the invitations. “Octavia Winstead was a member of society. Not widely connected, from these, but there are a few decent invites.”
She had been in an age bracket that I didn’t have much contact with—already established and off market. If someone established was keeping pace with the marriage market, they were invariably trying to meddle for a family member or protégé. The established kept to each other, just as the younger groups stuck to their own. I had never known Octavia Winstead.
I fingered a gold filigreed invitation with bitterness. “The Shossers didn’t see fit to extend an invitation to us.”
“They can’t allow someone who might know how to vein rip to cross their threshold.”
“As ifweare the family who threatens all.”
“The gilded thrive on secrets. It would not be a stretch to think a family has kept dark knowledge, and only in their downfall are they desperate enough to use it.” He tapped the stand. “Your brothers happened to be in the worst spot for this. If your family had dark spells, they would have tried them. Your family’s desperation is obvious.”
I threw the invitation down. “Some are probably waiting in the wings to offer compensation for our dark spells and learning.” It was something I was going to have to pry out of Ferris.
“My men have intercepted no fewer than thirteen inquiries, discreetly written, of course.” He hummed in agreement and poked through more of the unopened mail. “Shall we see if we can find a writing desk?”
I found the lovely mahogany box with mother of pearl inlay in the sitting room. A jumble of papers packed the inside, as if hastily collected and stuffed within. I unearthed a leather-bound book from the mess, hoping it might contain a more coherent accounting.
“What did you find?” Gabriel was looking through a desk, where items were almost militantly arranged.
“A journal?”
His head shot up. “A personal journal?”
“Yes.” The initials engraved on the cover confirmed it. Excitement built. Maybe it would name her stalker. Maybe we could free Kennen by nightfall.
“Let me see.”
Not a chance. I pulled it out of his range and opened to the front page. “January 2nd, in the year celebrating the hundredth anniversary of the March. M.N., C.F., E.M., I.F., T.R., and I have taken it upon ourselves to indulge in some fun. We have formed a club with the utmost discretion. We—”
The journal was torn from my hands. I gasped. “How rude. Give it back.”
He held it out of my reach and flipped pages quickly. Creases deepened the edges of his eyes.
“Gabriel!”
Page after page flipped as I inelegantly reached for the book—even going so far as to use a chair to stand higher. He simply stepped aside.
