*
“Hmm.” The merchant woman—who called herself Calla—chewed her lip. “Are you certain you wouldn’t prefer something with a corset? Or a train?”
Calla had tried to lead Lila to a rack of dresses, but her eyes had gone straight to the men’s coats. Glorious things, with strong shoulders and high collars and gleaming buttons.
“No,” said Lila, lifting one from the rack. “This is exactly what I want.”
The merchant looked at her with strange fascination, but little—or, at the very least, well-concealed—judgment, and said, “Anesh. If you’re set on that direction, I will find you some boots.”
A few minutes later, Lila found herself in a curtained corner of the tent, holding the nicest clothes she’d ever touched, let alone owned. Borrowed, she corrected herself. Borrowed until paid for.
Lila pulled the artifacts from her various pockets—the black stone, the white rook, the bloodstained silver watch, the invitation—and set them on the floor before tugging off her boots and shrugging out of her old worn cloak. Calla had given her a new black tunic—it fit so well that she wondered if there was some kind of tailoring spell on it—and a pair of close-fitting pants that still hung a little loosely on her bony frame. She’d insisted on keeping her belt, and Calla had the decency not to gawk at the number of weapons threaded through it as she handed her the boots.
Every pirate needed a good pair of boots, and these were gorgeous things, sculpted out of black leather and lined with something softer than loose cotton, and Lila let out a rare gleeful sound as she pulled them on. And then there was the coat. It was an absolute dream, high-collared and lovely and black—true black, velvety and rich—with a fitted waist and a built-in half-cloak that gathered at glassy red clasps on either side of her throat and spilled over her shoulders and down her back. Lila ran her fingers admiringly over the glossy jet-black buttons that cascaded down its front. She’d never been one for baubles and fineries, never wanted anything more than salt air and a solid boat and an empty map, but now that she was standing in a foreign stall in a faraway land, clothed in rich fabrics, she was beginning to see the appeal.
At last, she lifted up the waiting mask. So many of the faces that hung around the stall were lovely, delicate things made of feather and lace and garnished with glass. But this one was beautiful in a different way, an opposite way. It reminded Lila less of dresses and finery, and more of sharpened knives and ships on the seas at night. It looked dangerous. She brought it to rest against her face and smiled.
There was a silver-tinted looking glass propped in the corner, and she admired her reflection in it. She looked little like the shadow of a thief on the WANTED posters back home, and nothing like the scrawny girl hoarding coppers to escape a dingy life. Her polished boots glistened from knee to toe, lengthening her legs. Her coat broadened her shoulders and hugged her waist. And her mask tapered down her cheeks, the black horns curling up over her head in a way that was at once elegant and monstrous. She gave herself a long, appraising look, the way the girl had in the street, but there was nothing to scoff at now.
Delilah Bard looked like a king.
No, she thought, straightening. She looked like a conqueror.
“Lila?” came the merchant woman’s voice beyond the curtain. She pronounced the name as though it were full of e’s. “Does it fit?” Lila slid the trinkets into the new silk-lined pockets of her coat and emerged. The heels of her boots clicked proudly on the stone ground—and yet, she had tested the tread and knew that if she moved on the balls of her feet, the steps would be silent—and Calla smiled, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, even as she tsked.
“Mas aven,” she said. “You look more ready to storm a city than seduce a man.”
“Kell will love it,” assured Lila, and the way she said his name, infusing it with a subtle softness, an intimacy, made the merchant woman ruffle cheerfully. And then the bells chimed again through the city, and Lila swore to herself. “I must go,” she said. “Thank you again.”
“You’ll pay me back,” said Calla simply.
Lila nodded. “I will.”
She was to the mouth of the tent when the merchant woman added, “Look after him.”
Lila smiled grimly and tugged up the collar of her coat. “I will,” she said again before vanishing into the street.
II
Colors blossomed over Kell’s head, blurs of red and gold and rich dark blue. At first they were nothing more than broad streaks, but as his vision came into focus, he recognized them as palace draperies, the kind that hung from the ceilings in each of the royal bedrooms, drawing sky-like patterns out of cloth.
Squinting up, Kell realized he must be in Rhy’s room.
He knew this because the ceiling in his own was decorated like midnight, billows of near-black fabric studded with silver thread, and the queen’s ceiling was like noon, cloudless and blue, and the king’s was like dusk with its bands of yellow and orange. Only Rhy’s was draped like this. Like dawn. Kell’s head spun, and he closed his eyes and took a deep breath as he tried to piece his thoughts together.
He was lying on a couch, his body sinking into the soft cushions beneath him. Music played beyond the walls of the room, an orchestra, and woven through it, the sounds of laughter and revelry. Of course. Rhy’s birthday ball. Just then, someone cleared his throat, and Kell dragged his eyes back open and turned his head to see Rhy himself sitting across from him.
The prince was draped in a chair, one ankle across his knee, sipping tea and looking thoroughly annoyed.
“Brother,” said Rhy, tipping his cup. He was dressed in all black, his coat and pants and boots adorned with dozens of gold buttons. A mask—a gaudy thing, decorated with thousands of tiny sparkling gold scales—rested on top of his head in place of his usual crown.
Kell went to push the hair out of his eyes and quickly discovered that he could not. His hands were cuffed behind his back.
“You’ve got to be joking …” He shuffled himself up into a sitting position. “Rhy, why in king’s name am I wearing these?” The cuffs weren’t like those ordinary manacles found in Grey London, made of metal links. Nor were they like the binds in White, which caused blinding pain upon resistance. No, these were sculpted out of a solid piece of iron and carved with spellwork designed to dampen magic. Not as severe as the royal swords, to be sure, but effective.
Rhy set his teacup on an ornate side table. “I couldn’t very well have you running away again.”
Kell sighed and tipped his head back against the couch. “This is preposterous. I suppose that’s why you had me drugged, too? Honestly, Rhy.”
Rhy crossed his arms. He was clearly sulking. Kell dragged his head up and looked around, noticing that there were two members of the royal guard in the room with them, still dressed in formal armor, their helmets on, their visors down. But Kell knew Rhy’s personal guard well enough to recognize them, armor or none, and these were not them.
“Where are Gen and Parrish?” asked Kell.
Rhy shrugged lazily. “Having a little too much fun, I imagine.”
Kell shifted on the couch, trying to free himself from the cuffs. They were too tight. “Don’t you think you’re blowing this a little out of proportion?”
“Where have you been, brother?”
“Rhy,” said Kell sternly. “Take these off.”
Rhy’s boot slid from his knee and came to rest firmly on the ground. He straightened in his seat, squaring himself to Kell. “Is it true?”
Kell’s brow furrowed. “Is what true?”
“That you have a piece of Black London?”
Kell stiffened. “What are you talking about?”
“Is it true?” persisted the prince.
“Rhy,” said Kell slowly. “Who told you that?” No one knew, none except those who wanted the stone gone and those who wanted it reclaimed.
Rhy shook his head sadly. “What have you brought into our city, Kell? What have you brought upon it?”
“Rhy, I—”
“I warned you this would happen. I told you that if you carried on with your deals, you would be caught and that even I could not protect you then.”
Kell’s blood ran cold.
“Do the king and queen know?”