The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)

Devon De Luda wondered, and not for the first time, if Genevieve Hargrave, the Duchess of Rochelle, was insane.

“Stop! Stop!” she shouted while hammering her fist against the roof of the carriage.

She shot a sharp look his way and commanded, “Make him stop!” Then she pushed her head out of the window and yelled up at the driver, “Rein in those beasts, for Maribor’s sake. Now!”

The coachman must have assumed an emergency, halting the carriage so abruptly that Devon flew against the opposite bench. The moment the wheels stopped, even a bit before, the duchess launched herself out the door and raced away, skirts hiked, heels clacking.

Abandoned and dumbfounded, Devon nursed his banged knee. As ducal cofferer of Rochelle, Devon usually performed duties revolving around coins and notes. He didn’t welcome his newfound responsibility of looking after such an impulsive whirlwind; he preferred an ordered, predictable existence. But nothing had been normal in the city since the new duchess’s arrival.

Maybe she is, at least a touch, mad. It would explain so many things.

Devon considered simply waiting in the carriage, but if anything happened to her, he would be blamed. With a sigh of resignation, he climbed out of the carriage and followed the duchess.

Darkness had settled in early, the spring days still short; like prosperity, the season of rebirth had been slow to arrive in Alburn. The rain had stopped, but an evening mist crept in from the sea, ensuring that everything remained damp. Cobblestones glistened in the light of streetlamps, and the world beyond the carriage smelled of wood, smoke, and fish. A smattering of puddles created an obstacle course for Devon’s new shoes, and as he picked his path through them, he tugged the collar of his coat more tightly around his neck. Inside the carriage, it hadn’t been warm, but the evening’s air was bitterly cold. They were on Vintage Avenue, both sides bordered by reputable three-story mercantile shops. On the curbs, dozens of carts lined the street, where migrants sold a circus of wares. Colorful scarves, embroidered saddles, and fresh-roasted pig were sold side by side. As always, a seedy crowd had gathered in the chaotic hive of commerce—few could afford to do much more than look at the scarves and smell the pig.

The duchess trotted down the line of merchants. She bustled through the crowd, most of whom stopped short and stared in wonderment at this heavyset lady in satin and pearls chugging down the thoroughfare, her heeled shoes clip-clopping as loudly as a horse.

“Milady!” De Luda chased after her. “Where are you going?”

The duchess didn’t pause or slow until she reached a rickety cart holding up a rack of clothes. There she halted, panting, and stared up at the display.

“It’s perfect.” The duchess clapped. “That vest, the one with the satin front and floret pattern. You see it? It’s not my taste at all, you understand, but Leo will love it. The print is so bold and vibrant. And it’s blue! It’ll be exactly what he needs for the Spring Feast. He’ll definitely be noticed in that. No one could wear that vest without standing out.”

Devon had no idea who she was talking to, and perhaps she didn’t, either. With the duchess, it rarely mattered. While Devon spent more time with Her Ladyship than many, he hadn’t seen her often. The duchess sought him out only when she required advice on ducal economics, which had brought them together only a few times—although more often lately as she had embarked on a new endeavor. Even so, a dozen summonses, a few carriage rides, and a talk or two hadn’t provided him enough information to know, much less understand, the new duchess. Devon doubted even the duke understood the actions of his new wife.

“Hullo! You there!” she shouted to the merchant, a dark-skinned Calian with shifty eyes. They all had the same way about them as far as Devon was concerned. Calians were devious savages who dressed in the costumes of cultured society but fooled no one. “Hullo! How much for the vest? That blue one up there on the rack, the one with the shiny brass buttons.”

The man beamed a lecherous grin. “For you, good lady, just two gold tenents.” His voice was thick with an untrustworthy far-eastern accent, every bit what Devon expected—the sort of voice Deceit itself would use.

“Outrageous!” De Luda balked, shuffling up behind her. That was the trouble with these cart-shop merchants: They swindled the innocent and inexperienced. They talked as if unbelievable, once-in-a-lifetime deals were being offered, but later the swindled buyer would discover the diamond was quartz or the wine, vinegar.

“I’ll give you seven silver tenents,” the duchess replied. “Devon, give this man seven silver tenents and—”

The merchant frowned and shook his head. “For seven silver, I have a nice handkerchief for you. For a gold tenent and eight silver, I could part with the vest.”

“Your Ladyship, it’s unseemly for the Duchess of Rochelle to haggle in the street with a—” He scowled at the Calian merchant, who waited for the slur that didn’t come. Normally, De Luda wasn’t shy, but in the past three months, he had discovered that the duchess took issue when people were insulted in her presence, no matter how well deserved the remark.

“I don’t care. Leo will be thrilled, and oh, how I can’t wait to see him in that vest! Don’t you think he’ll look marvelous?” When the merchant lowered the garment from its hook, she spotted a bright-yellow coat that had been hidden behind. “Dear Maribor! Would you look at that jacket? It’s even more divine!”

Grabbing Devon’s arm, she shook it violently, overwhelmed with enthusiasm. This wasn’t the first throttling at her hands, but he knew a firm jostle was infinitely better than a hug. Her hugs were notorious. The duchess passed them out so liberally, and so violently—even to the staff—that many an individual changed course after spotting her in the halls of the Estate.

“I must have them both. Leo’s birthday is coming up, and that jacket will make him feel young again. He’s turning forty, you know, and no one likes crossing that threshold. I nearly cried the morning I turned thirty. Time sneaks up on one, doesn’t it? Pounces like a wicked cat from the shadows when you least expect it. And thirty is a ditch compared with the canyon that is forty. But I don’t have to tell you that, do I? Leo needs the vest and will love that jacket. These are not the garments of a stodgy, no-account, forty-year-old duke; it’s the attire of a young and handsome man whose star is rising.” The duchess glared at the merchant. “One gold, no silver, for both jacket and vest.”