Royce nodded. “Then you’re no longer of value.”
Hadrian saw the man’s muscles stiffen and assumed Royce had slit his throat. It would not have been the first time. When Royce said he had little patience, he meant it, and Hadrian was already wondering what to do with the body when a second later he noticed the man was still breathing.
“You can still save yourself by performing a service,” Royce explained.
“Why? You’ll just kill me afterward.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions before you hear what I have to say.”
“I should warn you, if you kill me the Hand will find you.”
“That’s just the thing. I’m going to save them the trouble. I want you to take me to your guild.”
CHAPTER 7
THE LADY OF FLOWERS
Gwen sat rocking on the edge of the bed, her face in her hand, crying.
Why now? Why did he have to come back now?
It hurt to cry. It hurt to do anything, but the shuddering was especially painful. Two of her ribs were cracked, and they ached whenever she took a breath. Closing her eyes brought images of Avon—her hair dyed crimson, eyes open but not seeing as they stared at the rafters of The Hideous Head. That was the last thing her friend ever saw—that and Stane’s ugly face.
For Gwen, she had been convinced that the porch steps and the beautiful balustrades would be her last sight. They were painted white just like the fancy house in the Gentry Quarter. Just like she had always wanted. She had lain in the street, staring at the porch railings while he kicked her. She couldn’t scream anymore—he had kicked out all the air. She expected to die. A whole year after leaving the Head, after thinking she might have escaped Avon’s fate, it had happened again.
It would always happen.
The girls had done so well. Better than Gwen had ever thought possible. Medford House was the reality she dreamed of, a sanctuary for women like her. They had grown strong over the past year. Medford House had a prized reputation and men came from as far away as Westfield and East March. Over the last few months the clientele had shifted. While they still drew dockworkers and merchants, new faces—men with swords or those dressed in silks and fur—had recently visited. The nobility had discovered Medford House and had liked it enough to return. Names were never given—not real ones. They called themselves Todd the Tinker or Bill the Baker, except the baker arrived in a coach and wore a fur mantle … and the tinker dressed in velvet and silk. Patrons using false monikers is what gave Gwen the idea of changing the girls’ names.
She’d always hoped that the women who worked the House would eventually leave it. That they would find new, better lives, but how could they if their names followed them? How could Jollin, Mae, or even Etta settle down somewhere if everyone knew what they had been? All the girls had picked pretty, exotic, or cute names. Jasmine, Daisy, Olive—Mae had wanted to be called Lily-of-the-Valley, but they had talked her into going with just Lily. The only two who had kept their real names were Rose and Gwen. It just seemed silly to Rose to change her name to a different flower, and Gwen could never imagine leaving Medford House.
“They’ve left the Head,” Abby, now known as Tulip, said. “All three went around to the alley. Royce looked awfully mad. He beat up the fence.”
Gwen brought her good hand to her lips, trying to hold in a sob.
“Do you need anything?” Tulip asked.
With her head down so that the scarf hid her eyes, Gwen shook her head. Tulip lingered, and Gwen heard the faint close of her door and the creak of the steps.
Why now?
Every day since Royce and Hadrian had left, Gwen had looked for their return. In the evening she sat on the porch swing, staring down the length of Wayward Street, imagining she could see Royce riding up or perhaps just walking with that cloak of his rippling in the breeze. She had always known there was no guarantee he would return.
In all the time he had lain on her bed, she never once looked at his palm. The idea felt deceitful, indecent. She was there to help, not rifle his pockets.
Gwen’s entire life had been leading to that single event. Her mother had known. She had dragged her daughter on the road west, then died along the way, but she had made Gwen promise to finish the trip and make Medford her home. She never said why. Gwen might have never completed the journey if not for the mysterious man, in whose eyes she had seen so much and yet understood so little. All she knew was that she needed to save a man who would come in the night, dressed in his own blood. After so many years of waiting, of not knowing if it was true or if the choices she had made had changed her future, Royce had arrived. She had saved him just as foretold. After so long, she finally had the key to the riddle, but she refused to open his palm to look for answers.
After the men had been cleaned and the doctor had finished his work, Royce had lain unconscious, wrapped in white linens. He had looked so serene. She had touched his hand, soft and so unlike other men. Royce Melborn was, in a word, elegant. Her only hint to his identity was the brand on his shoulder, a dark M.
“How is Hadrian?” Those were the first words out of his mouth when Royce finally woke. He had no concern for himself. This, she knew, was a good man.
“He’s fine.” She could tell from the look in his eyes that such a simple answer wouldn’t do. She added, “A doctor tended to his wounds and he’s sleeping quietly.”
“It was you on the street.” His expression shifted from recognition to confusion. “Who are you? Why did you help us?”
In all of her imaginings of that moment, she had always expected him to know who she was and why he was there—he was supposed to be the one with all the answers, filling in the blanks for her. In that instant she realized this man hadn’t a clue, and Gwen smiled at the thought of actually telling him, I’m the daughter of a fortune-teller, and I’ve traveled across four nations to make Medford my home just to be here when you arrived so that I could save your life. But that wasn’t the time; the man was barely alive.
“My name is Gwen DeLancy. I run this brothel. I helped because you needed me.”
This didn’t alleviate his confusion, but he didn’t inquire further. He was still exhausted, still in pain.
“Who are you?” She had to ask. After waiting so long for this foretold meeting, she needed to know. He didn’t answer for a long time, only stared at her.
“Royce,” he finally said. The word had come out reluctantly, grudgingly, handed over only out of obligation.
She let him sleep again after that—she had enough; she had his name.
He was quiet after that first exchange. In the following few days, he asked only about Hadrian, and it wasn’t until she finally helped him walk into the other room to see his friend that he had started to relax.
“You don’t look like you should be walking yet,” Hadrian had said from his bed as Gwen helped Royce stagger into Etta’s room.
“He shouldn’t be,” Gwen replied.
“You all right?” Royce asked, his voice harsh and demanding.
Hadrian offered a lopsided smile. “Last thing I remember, you were knee-deep in a bloody puddle and I was trying to dig you out from under a dead horse in the pouring rain. And oh yes—I had just been shot with an arrow.” He looked around at Etta’s bedroom, which had an excess of lace and an abundance of flowers. “Yeah … I’d say I’m doing better.”
“Okay,” Royce said, and with Gwen’s help had turned to leave.
“You got up and came in here just for that?” Hadrian asked.
“I was bored,” Royce replied.
“He’s been worried to the point of not sleeping,” Gwen said.
Royce scowled. “I wanted to make certain these people weren’t … you know.”