Javel wrapped his cloak more tightly around himself, wishing he could somehow draw into the shadows of the overhanging building. Another Mort street patrol had passed him only a few minutes ago. Sooner or later, someone was going to notice that he was simply standing there, not moving, and assume that he was up to no good.
The address Dyer had discovered sat opposite: a stately brick house, three stories, surrounded by a high stone wall with iron gates. Javel could not even peek in the windows, for two guards stood just inside the gates, opening them only for certain people. According to Dyer, Allie’s buyer had been a Madame Arneau, but that was the only information Javel was going to get. Ever since they had seen the Queen on the Rue Grange, Allie might as well have dropped off the face of the earth. Dyer and Galen had moved their base to an abandoned factory in the steel district, and their evenings seemed to be taken up entirely with unexplained errands and secret nighttime meetings with men Javel did not recognize. These men were Mort and carried steel, but they were not soldiers. There was a rescue attempt under way, and Javel felt like more of a nuisance than ever.
Across the street, an open wagon circled around the house from the back. They must have stables back there, for when men arrived, one of the guards on the door was quick to take their horses around the side. Javel had already seen several men come and go. Two of them had been drunk. An awful realization was growing upon him, turning his stomach and weakening his knees.
It could be any sort of house, he told himself. But that was nonsense. This neighborhood might be cleaner than the Gut, but some things were the same everywhere. He knew what he was looking at. He rubbed a hand across his brow and found that he was perspiring, even in the late autumn chill. He had known that these were the odds, he reminded himself. No one bought a pretty woman like Allie to make her into a servant, and he had done his best to accept the fact that she might be a whore. But now he had begun to wonder if his best would be good enough. When he imagined his wife under another man, he wanted to kick and punch, to break things.
High, merry laughter made him look up. A group of five women had emerged from the front of the house, chattering among themselves. They carried bags on their shoulders. All of them were tarted up, dressed in glittering fabrics, their eyes painted, their hair piled atop their heads.
Allie stood in the middle.
For a long moment, Javel couldn’t move. It was his Allie, all right; he could see her distinctive blonde curls, now gathered in a bunch on top of her head. But her face was so different. Older, yes, lines at the corners of her eyes, but that wasn’t the real change. His Allie had been sweet. This woman looked . . . sharp. There was a tightness about her mouth. She laughed as merrily as the rest, but not the laughter Javel had known: broad and secretive, cold as the skim of ice on a dark lake. Javel watched, astounded, as she climbed into the wagon of her own free will and seated herself beside the other women, still laughing.
A man, tall and burly, had followed them out the door. As he climbed into the wagon, Javel saw the flash of a knife beneath his coat. Another guard, then, although Javel had already noticed in his explorations of Demesne that most prostitutes were treated far better here than in New London. Even the street girls were not molested. He did not know why five high-end whores should need a guard in Demesne, but with both the guard and the driver to take into consideration, Javel could not take the chance of approaching the wagon.
The driver clicked to the horses and left the enclosure of the walls. As though in a dream, Javel followed, forcing himself to stay more than a hundred feet behind. A dark hole had opened inside him. Over the past six years, he had imagined Allie’s life often, many images pouring through his head, driving him into the pub just as surely as a man would drive goats to market. But he had never pictured her laughing.
When the wagon halted for traffic at the next intersection, Javel crept closer, ducking into an adjacent alley, and made a second unpleasant discovery: all five women, including Allie, were speaking Mort. The wagon turned into the Rue Grange and Javel followed, though he was forced to duck and dodge. This was the marketing segment of the Rue, and the street was always busy, crowded with vendors’ stalls and customers for the shops. He was beginning to lose the wagon when, miraculously, the driver slowed, pulling to one side so that the women could alight and spread along the sidewalk. Two of them crossed the street, and Javel realized, astounded, that this was a shopping excursion. Allie went straight into an apothecary.