“Do you know how to get into Father’s rooms?”
“I’m not allowed to go in there without him.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He hesitated. “Yes,” he said in a low voice.
“Without being seen?”
He looked apprehensive, and she smiled at him again, trying to seem motherly.
“A … clever boy like you,” she said. “I’m sure you know a way.”
After a beat, he blinked, and his outline seemed to tremble and blur. He was there, and then he wasn’t—or not quite. There was a sensation of movement, of shape, but even when she squinted she couldn’t make him out. An affinity! Father would be horrified. It did explain how he was able to sneak so much food from the pantry, however.
“Very good,” she said with feigned approval. “There is a book I need from his study. If I describe it, can you bring it to me?”
“I … I think so,” came a voice from the shadow.
The girl smiled.
Chapter Eleven
The Rose
‘A deceptively simple stitch that in reality requires complete mastery of the needle to express its complexity. For the expert seamstress, it supplies a pleasing and sophisticated addition to any design.’
—An Exhaustive Compendium of Stitches
Both Holy and Base, 4th Edition
We arrived at Milady’s mansion late that night. I had watched Quell disappear behind us and then stared out the window at the little hamlets we passed through until all the light had drained from the sky, leaving nothing but blackness and the whispered presence of a few clouds, subtly lit by a hidden moon. I felt equally drained—empty of emotion. Empty of thought. I knew that later I would grieve, but for now, I was content to rest my forehead on the cool glass and stare through it, glad for this short reprieve.
For a time, Milady and I had talked, as she asked me questions about Mother and our life together in the Tower, but we had been silent for a while now. Milady appeared to be asleep,but I could not rest—and by the sounds of his little claws scuttling on the roof above, neither could Baldbeak.
My fingers itched for my embroidery. It had burned in the bookshop, of course, along with everything else. I had the handkerchief containing my mother’s hairs stuffed into my pocket, but that was all that remained of my worldly possessions—aside from the yellow dress I wore, now smeared with ash. I thought of the porcupine mask, which I had discarded on the ground outside the crematorium when I rushed in. Mieka had said it was expensive, and I felt a brief pang.
I wished I had never joined her for Plaguenight. The destruction of the bookshop and the death of the Book Man—and I felt that he must be dead, despite the fact that I hadn’t seen his body—felt like a judgement on me for choosing to leave and enjoy the frivolity of the festival with my new friend, rather than stay behind and ready myself for the journey to Spire.
If I had just stayed at the shop, I felt, I could somehow have prevented everything. Maybe we could have left for Spire tonight, and I would be sitting in a carriage with the Book Man beside me, smelling his scent of old paper and glue rather than Milady’s flowery perfume that threatened to become cloying before long. Mother had been right, I thought—magic needed to be kept in check, caged with rules and structure. Look what happened when it was allowed to run free.
I racked my brain to think of anything, any small clue, that Mother might have let slip that would tell me what her all-encompassing ‘great work’ was. I felt very stupid, now. Mieka wouldn’t have put up with not knowing. She would have demanded answers and, if denied them, would have stormed out of the Tower long ago. But my whole world had been Mother, and her whole world had been her work. Everything I knew before leaving the Tower, I knew because she had taught it to me. Even Baldbeak had known more of Virelith than I did.
I shifted in my seat, trying to get comfortable. The showers of sugar during the festival had left me sticky and stained, my skin a patchwork of pastel colors. The rain and the floating ash from the fire had melted into the sugar and created a sort of gray paste that collected in the crooks of my elbows and every crease in my wrists and hands. I hoped that I would be able to take a bath when we reached the house, but I also felt that my discomfort was just, even earned. In that moment, I felt like I didn’t deserve to be comfortable ever again.
The rumble of the carriage wheels over the packed dirt roads turned into a sort of churning rattle.We must be on loose gravel, I thought.
Milady roused herself, yawning prettily, and smiled at me.
“We are here,” she said. “Edevane House. Your home.”
My home.The words felt strange. I wished it were light still, and I could see the place, but I had to make do with the scrunch of the carriage wheels and the dim glow of a couple of glims up ahead. We paused as someone jumped down to open a gate—a loud scraping sound—and then drove at a reduced pace down a long driveway.
Finally, I could see something of the house—but all I could really tell was that it was very large. Glims lined the driveway at intervals, leading to a darker square against the night sky, lights burning in a few of the windows. The carriage wheeled about and came to a halt.
“Come along, my dear,” said Milady.
A footman helped her down from the carriage, then took my arm as well. I flinched back from the touch instinctively, then muttered an apology. His face was completely blank. Baldbeak fluttered down from the roof and landed heavily on my shoulder. I could feel his fatigue.
