Mortal Arts (A Lady Darby Mystery) BY Huber, AnnaLee
For the veterans of all wars, in all times and in all places, who suffered from what we now call PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder). Your cries may have gone unanswered and, in ignorance, your courage may have been questioned. But we hear you now. And we honor your bravery and sacrifice.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing a book is much like the old adage about raising a child—it takes a village. And I would like to offer my heartfelt thanks to the following people for all of their help in creating Mortal Arts.
To my editor, Michelle Vega, for your enthusiasm and your unswerving devotion to making this book better. To all the staff at The Berkley Publishing Group, including Lesley Worrell, Larry Rostant, Tiffany Estreicher, Aurora Slothus, and Kayleigh Clark for your skills and expertise.
To my agent, Kevan Lyon, for being my staunch and dedicated advocate. I take great comfort in knowing you always have my back.
To my writing group partners, Jackie Musser and Stacie Roth Miller, for your confidence in me and all of your invaluable feedback.
To all of the authors and other publishing industry professionals who welcomed me so warmly into their ranks, and showed such kindness and encouragement to me.
To my parents, my siblings, and all of my friends and family for showering me with so much love and support. I’m so incredibly blessed to know each and every one of you.
To my Pita, for being the adorable, fun-loving kitty you are.
To my husband, Shanon, words will never be able to express my gratitude for all you have done, and all you continue to do for me. I truly am the luckiest woman in the world. Thank you for loving me through thick and thin, for sharing this incredible journey, and for being my most steadfast supporter.
To God, for the amazing and wonderful gift of life, and for the drive, the abilities, and the grace to see this dream come true. Every perfect gift comes from above.
CHAPTER ONE
Art is not what you see, but what you make others see.
—EDGAR DEGAS
OCTOBER 1830
It was the groan of death.
Or so one would think. But after five interminable days of listening to my sister moan and carry on as we trundled across Scotland toward Edinburgh, her grumbles and whimpers had lost their ability to alarm me. I had seen death, even if I hadn’t exactly heard its guttural conclusion, and despite the dark circles around Alana’s eyes and her wan complexion, I could tell my sister was far from its door.
Although, with each excruciating hour I was trapped inside the carriage with her the closer she became.
Alana was merely expecting, and the child inside her had decided to protest this journey persistently and forcibly. I had already decided that this troublesome niece or nephew would be my favorite. A child who could so unsettle my sister while still confined to the womb certainly merited my affection.
“Kiera,” my sister whined, rolling her head to the side so that she could see me, “do you have any more of that bread?”
My lips tightened. “Yes.”
Her hand lifted from her stomach and reached toward me. “Give me some.”
“Why? You’ll only vomit again and delay our arrival by another hour.”
A frown pleated Alana’s brow. “Why are you being so cruel?”
“I’m not. I’m simply stating facts. And hoping to salvage my last traveling dress,” I couldn’t help adding.
“You know I didn’t do it on purpose . . .”
“Twice.” I leaned forward to point out. “You got sick on me twice.”
“But that was yesterday . . .”
“And you splattered my boots just this morning.”
Alana pouted and turned to stare up at the ceiling of the carriage. “Well, if you had held the slop bucket for me, I wouldn’t have dropped it.”
“That was how you vomited on me the second time. The next time you begin to retch I’m going to leap out the carriage door. And, as I don’t wish to break my neck by falling from a moving vehicle, I’m going to make certain there isn’t a next time.” I inhaled deeply and turned to stare at the crimson curtain covering the window. When next I spoke, I had managed to banish most of the anger from my tone. “At the last stop, Philip said we would halt for luncheon in a few hours’ time. You can eat then.” Though whether she would keep it down for more than a quarter of an hour after we rolled away from the roadside inn was doubtful.
Alana huffed. “What does he know?” Clearly she was still irritated with her husband after their argument earlier in the day. I was also none too happy with my brother-in-law for abandoning me to my sister’s irritability and illness while he rode alongside the carriages, though I couldn’t blame him for doing so. Had I brought a suitable mount, I might have done the same.
“It could be another hour before we reach our stop,” she complained. “I cannot last that long. I need to eat now.”