Abi was fascinated to be in such proximity to the Matravers heir. She’d seen pictures of Bouda before, of course, in magazines. She’d even quite admired her. The young parliamentarian was always poised and polished, a cool intelligence evident in her pale blue eyes. She was a woman unapologetically making her way in a man’s world. (Abi was quicker to flip through pictures of her sweet-faced sister, who was invariably papped falling out of nightclubs accessorized with a tiny dog and a gargantuan handbag.)
Bouda Matravers in person was another matter altogether. The intelligence was there, sure enough. But it wasn’t cool, it was ice-cold – the kind of cold that could burn. Not that she’d notice you were there in the first place. Bouda was one of those Equals for whom commoners were simply irrelevant. Invisible. Abi wondered, briefly, what it would take to get her attention. A jab in the leg with a sharp pencil, perhaps. She had no intention of trying.
‘Ignore him,’ Bouda told Jenner, pointedly not looking at Gavar, who had stopped pacing and was now staring morosely into the fire. ‘Justice Council voted this afternoon to send him back to Millmoor tonight. Unfinished business from his last failed trip there. So he’s sulking and half-cut on booze already, in case you hadn’t noticed.’
Abi fumbled with her pencil, catching it clumsily before it dropped to the floor.
Millmoor? Why Millmoor?
Positioned to one side of Jenner’s armchair, she couldn’t catch his eye. But he knew how worried she was about Luke, especially because the communications lockdown meant they’d still had no news of her brother since the day he’d been taken from them. So she could have hugged Jenner when he asked, mildly, what was going on in the slavetown.
‘Nothing, is what,’ said Gavar, rummaging through the drum-shaped drinks chest. ‘Rumours. A prisoner escaped just before Christmas and now there’s been some new intel, so Father and Bouda have got it in their heads that something’s going to kick off tomorrow. Zelston was too gutless to authorize the use of lethal force himself, so yours truly is being sent up there to’ – and here Gavar turned, a rectangular green bottle gripped too tightly in one hand, and mimicked the resonant tones of the Chancellor – ‘make the decision on the ground.’
He unstoppered the spirit and drank straight from the bottle, gulping it down.
‘Lethal force?’ Jenner’s tone was sharp, but it didn’t come close to capturing Abi’s fear.
Please let Luke be safe. Please.
‘The only one talking any sense was Rix,’ Gavar muttered. He wiped his chin with the back of one hand and addressed his future wife. ‘Pointed out that no one’s storming the estates with broom handles and kitchen knives, so why should we intervene. He’s right. The people working in Security in the slavetown are all commoners. Why should it concern us if they turn on each other?’
Bouda threw her hands into the air with exasperation, then almost instantly clasped them and brought them back down to her lap. Her every gesture, every word, was controlled, Abi realized. What would it take to make Bouda Matravers crack? She didn’t like to think.
‘We can’t tell you more,’ Bouda said to Jenner. ‘We’d fall foul of the Quiet. But let’s just say that this is Gavar’s chance to shine, and as usual he’s doing the best he can to throw that chance away.’
‘Because your father really shone this afternoon,’ Gavar retorted. He turned to Jenner. ‘Darling Daddy’ – and now he mocked Bouda’s husky voice – ‘threw a hissy fit at Armeria Tresco for correcting some misapprehensions on the part of my future wife. Suddenly his Skill starts fizzing and he rips the council table in two. It’s some mahogany monstrosity, must weigh a few tonnes. Never knew Lord Lard had it in him.’
Bouda jumped to her feet. Her hands were up again, clutched and twisting in front of her as if one was trying to choke the life out of the other.
‘Don’t,’ she snarled. ‘Not my father. Don’t you dare . . .’
‘Or what?’
Gavar’s voice was sing-song, taunting. He really was exceptionally drunk, Abi realized.
‘Or you’ll regret it,’ Bouda said.
And Abi saw it – saw the moment at which, with a slight clench of her fingers, Bouda Matravers stopped the words in Gavar Jardine’s throat. Gavar gagged and his left hand came up to claw at his collar. His other hand let go of the bottle, which fell heavily, releasing a sickly aniseed smell as its contents spilled across the oak floor. Gavar fumbled at the mantelpiece for support, knocking to the ground a silver-framed photograph of a younger Lady Thalia and three small boys, two auburn-haired, one dark.
‘Now where were we?’ said Bouda, sleeking her long ponytail over her shoulder and sitting back down. ‘I know. Pink roses for my bouquet and the buttonholes, or ivory? I think pink, don’t you, my love? They’ll go so nicely with your complexion.’
The sound that burst from Gavar Jardine was an inchoate roar. A simultaneous expulsion of sound and a sucking intake of breath.
‘Bitch!’ he howled.
And as Abi watched, appalled, Bouda Matravers was snatched up by nothing at all and tossed through the air. She slammed against the wall and there was a sickening crunch as her head collided with the massive gilded frame of a serene landscape of the Kyneston Pale. Abi saw a gash rip open along that white-blonde hairline and bright blood well up as Bouda collapsed to the floor.