Morning arrived, and the treetops disappeared in a heavy fog. The forest was still and silent but for the damp breeze, isolated from the world. Yemi stood wordlessly in it, feeling outside herself, as Shiro cut Dorian Drake’s head free of its body, wrapped it in canvas, and placed it in one of her mother’s hatboxes. His body was thrown on the pile of other traitors. It had been too clear the night before to burn the bodies and give away their presence. The fog would provide cover.
Shiro handed the head off to one of his men. The decision had been made: One of them would accompany Derring back to Chairre to see that it was delivered without harm coming to the journalist and to notify the other half of the Gold Guard awaiting orders at the basilica of the change in tactics. Yemi hadn’t been there for that. She knew it had been Nova’s doing. She watched Nova now counseling Derring beside one of the packards with that serious, unflappable expression that said to trust her, that she knew what she was doing.
Yemi raised the collar of her coat against the chill as preparations began for disposing of the bodies. She crossed the gravel to hand Derring her letter. It was a single page that had seemed to issue forth from her brain like lava, every letter scorching, intentional, and full of thepoison she felt half of Ixia deserved. Derring bowed slightly on her approach and took the paper with some hesitation.
“Your loyalty is of great value to me, Luc Derring,” Yemi told them. Her tone was sincere, if sharp. Where she’d failed was in getting chummy enough with her subordinates that they felt comfortable debating her authority. Never again.
“I’ll get it to the civilian station,” Derring promised, though their eyes were on the hatbox as one of the Gold Guard loaded it into the car behind them. “It’s not something they’ll want to sit on, so news of it could broadcast at any time.”
“We’ll be listening,” Yemi replied. Her eye flicked to where Selah lit her cigar, the old woman’s gaze judgmental but otherwise silent.
The car was loaded, and the match struck on the pile of insurrectionist bodies in the field beside the house. Yemi and Nova waited as the engine turned over, the round headlamps straining to fill their purpose in the mist around them. The gravel crunched as it pulled away, and Yemi’s eyes were drawn beyond the fire to where Cutter stood on the far end of the field, scowling into the flames. He looked weary, as if this had all reached beyond his skill set a while ago. Whatever it was that remained, he had only his own counsel for company.
“He’s having a hard time,” Nova said, catching Yemi’s gaze.
“We all are,” Yemi replied grimly and headed back into the house. The whistles, clicks, and static of a tuning radio emanated from the dining room before being replaced by conversational voices. One of the Gold Guard monitoring the civilian frequencies nodded their preparedness at her as she passed. Nefti, the cook, had placed a banquet of sandwiches along one length of the square table and came out of the dining room humming.
“Thank you, Nefti,” Yemi said.
The old woman bowed. She was small and brown with kind eyes and a constellation of moles on her face and neck.
“My honor, My Light,” she replied. “It’s good to have people to feed again. I hope you’ll eat. You look like your father, just on the hungrier side.”
“When I get a moment,” Yemi assured her. Nefti gave her a pleased smile and shuffled off down the servants’ corridor.
Yemi sighed and turned toward the stairs, where Nova was leaning against the banister. “Are we ready to discuss what the rest of your plan looks like?” she asked.
“Nothing changes for you. The targeted campaign against the Rock stands. I will handle everything else,” Yemi said, angling past her for the stairs. She was eager to be alone. There would be no conversation with Nova today that wasn’t chiding.
“Not to be difficult,” Nova pressed, “but with this…heads-up you’re giving Dahlia, her defenses are going to complicate our mission.”
“Everyone is brilliant at their jobs. You’ll all be fine.”
“Yemi—”
“Nefti’s made sandwiches,” Yemi cut her off. “Make sure everyone eats and gets some rest.”
Nova looked taken aback, but Yemi didn’t stay long enough for a rebuttal. She climbed the stairs and closed the door to her parents’ bedroom gently behind her.
A blink, and she was standing wild-eyed at the bathroom mirror in her underthings, mostly shadow apart from the places the filtered moonlight touched, but steaming and beaded with sweat. Her breaths came in heavy, panicked pants as she watched her own eyes and struggled to remember how she’d gotten here. Her fists were clenched, stacked in front of her chest as if wrapped around the hilt of a sword. Only the weapon was Ursla’s tea satchel.
She was gripping it so tightly, her nails carved little half-moon punctures into her palms. She winced as she loosened her grip. Her hands were dirty. Earthen clods tumbled into the sink from the creases in her palms. She smelled soil and pine. Behind her, the copper tub was filled to brimming with water now cool to the touch butotherwise undisturbed. Had she taken a bath? No, no soap residue or spent washcloth, no damp footprints on the cedar floor.
The chill from a drop of sweat melting down her spine prompted her to find clothes. The ones she’d been wearing earlier lay in a heap on the bathroom floor beside her tall, dirty boots and the unravelings of her subarmor. She rinsed her shaking hands and scrubbed them off on the discarded shirt before rushing to her mother’s wardrobe. Every blouse, vest, tunic, and dress was still lightly tinged with the Bear Queen’s perfume. Yemi inhaled the willow-and-amber scent deeply as she dressed in dark trousers and a detailed barong blouse, in hopes it would calm her racing heart.
She sat on the edge of the bed, legs jittering so feverishly her heels’ rapid thudding into the rug sounded more like a rattle.
What was she doing? Why couldn’t she remember?
The house was silent. The muted ticking of her father’s bedside clock indicated there was barely an hour of night left. She stared down at the satchel. Morning would come soon, and with it, the end of her opportunity to take Ursla’s deal.
An orange light glowed in the distance outside the broad bedroom window, just on the edge of the lake. Yemi took a deep breath and walked over to stand on the spot where she’d killed Dorian Drake and squinted into the night.
A campfire?
The hissing of a voice in her ear startled her, and she made as if to swat at it before remembering this was just something in her head now. A part of her—or someone else—she couldn’t explain. She collected the satchel and her boots from the bathroom, tightened them aggressively around her calves, and opened the bedroom door until it creaked.
She stopped and listened. Gentle snoring could be heard from behind many of the doors in the hallway. Nova was in the nearest room. Yemi knew by now the rhythm of her rattling nighttime breathing. The Gold Guard had likely spread themselves out, too. She walked gently,taking only the newest floorboards to where light was flowing up the staircase from the great room. Cutter’s gruff baritone was evident even in whispers, mingled with a woman’s voice.
