Thornhaven College for Fine Ladies
1 College Court, Saltcrest, Welkland
There. Now the envelope looked genuine. Retrieving her forged letter, she slid it inside the tampered envelope. She lit a candle and heated the seal over it until it was tacky. Then she pressed it against the envelope firmly, holding her breath as the wax cooled. When she lifted her trembling fingers away, the flap stayed shut.
The sight of the forged letter sent electricity through Poppy’s veins, thrilling and uncomfortable all at once. She swept it into her purse before she could lose her nerve and toss it in the waste bin. She would give the letter to the headmistress tomorrow with a story about their mail getting mixed up, which was not an uncommon occurrence given the number of girls and the sheer volume of correspondence that flowed through the school.
That sorted, Poppy picked up a fresh piece of paper and began a second note, this one intended for a much longer journey:
Dear Mother and Father,
While I am surprised and saddened to hear about Father’s ailment, I am relieved to know that his recovery has been swift. Being away all these years has given me an education in not only manners but in perspective as well. I have been away from home for too long. I intend to return now, my education having achieved its purpose: I am prepared for my future in society. Upon my return, given that Father has recovered well, I wish to select a husband and do my part to ease some of the burden from Father’s shoulders.
Your loving daughter,
Poppy
Poppy’s lips tugged up as she considered the irony of the situation. Her disregard for the rules had been the cause of her exile. Now, it would be the thing that brought her home.
Chapter Two
The Jackal’s Tithe
Marnapur, Viryana
Hasan Devar did not believe in the Welkish concept of hell, but if it existed, the summer heat had him convinced that he was already there. Though it was dusk, the air was blistering. It was the kind of dry, withering heat that made the fingers swell and the tongue shrivel with dehydration. With not a cloud in the sky, the rainy season seemed in no hurry to arrive. It was bad news for everyone, but it felt particularly damning to Hasan.
He dwelled on it as he stalked through the back alleys of Marnapur’s slums. In his state of inattention, he nearly tripped over a scrawny, half-nude child running across his path. Before he could speak, an arm reached out and ripped the boy away.
“Can’t you see the Jackal is coming?” the man hissed at the boy. He bowed his head to Hasan. “I apologize for my son. Please, he’s only seven.”
Now that Hasan was paying attention, he observed the boy was indeed no more than seven, though malnutrition had stunted his growth so badly, he could have easily passed for five. Hasan’s gaze lingered on the boy’s ribs, jutting prominently through his ashy skin. It was impossible to tear his eyes away from that kind of suffering, but the father stepped in front of his boy, fear evident on his face. Hasan blinked, becoming aware of his surroundings again. A crowd had gathered around them, all waiting to see what the Jackal would do next.
“You’re forgiven,” Hasan barked. “Watch where you’re going next time.”
He shoved through the crowd, disappearing into the winding labyrinth of the vasudhakt slums, cursing quietly. Tonight of all nights, he had needed stealth on his side, even resorting to coming without a crew of his men. Now the streets rustled with whispers, all of them asking the same thing:Who is the Jackal hunting?
His prey tonight was a particular man, one who had eluded paying his debt twice now. Hasan had a reputation to uphold, and if he didn’t catch his debtor tonight, people were going to say he was getting lenient.
He stopped in front of the mark’s house, observing it from across the narrow lane. With its dirty walls and battered wooden door, it looked like every other shack in the slums.
Hasan’s eyes roved to where an old beggar squatted farther down the street, smoking and reading a newspaper that covered half his face. He resisted the urge to grin; Vinay had always been talented at disguises. He approached his man casually, putting a coin in the small tin in front of him.
Vinay lowered the newspaper. “Thank you, son,” he said, bowing his head so exaggeratedly, Hasan had to tighten his jaw against a laugh. “May Baghia smile upon you.”
“Is the target in?” Hasan asked, keeping his voice low.
“I’ve been here twelve hours, and I haven’t seen him leave. My scouts haven’t spotted him anywhere else, either. Hemustbe here.”
Hasan turned and eyed the house. Then he saw it, behind the curtain on the main floor?—a moving shadow. Proof that Vinay was right. Darsh Jana was at home.
“Stay here,” he said, “and wait until I come out.”
With that, Hasan strode forward and knocked on the door.
The woman who answered was not Darsh Jana but his sister, Daria. She was young?—barely in her twenties, if at all?—and pretty in a way that was too delicate for the slums, like a wildflower that had grown through a crack in the pavement.
“Hasan?” Daria opened the door a fraction. He caught a glimpse of a threadbare blue dressing robe. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
