“But we’re still married! You’re my wife.”
“No. You gave me away when you watched me climb into the cage six years ago. I want nothing from you, and you have no right to demand anything from me.”
Javel opened his mouth to protest—surely marriage could not be dissolved so easily, even in Mortmesne—but at that moment the apothecary reappeared from behind the green curtain. He was a tiny, balding man with spectacles, holding a small box in his hands.
“Here you are, Lady,” he said, offering the box to Allie. He, too, spoke Tear, and this puzzled Javel, who had heard no Tear on the streets of Demesne and had been forced to pick up his tiny smattering of Mort word by word. “Two months’ worth, this is, and you want to make sure to take each one with a substantial meal. They may increase your sickness otherwise.”
Allie nodded, producing a purse full of coin. “Thank you.”
“Come back in two months’ time and I will mix you another batch, but you want to discontinue use after the sixth month, else they may harm the baby.”
At the final word, Javel felt a wave of unreality wash over him. He barely marked Allie handing over several coins and tucking the box into her bag. The apothecary looked between the two of them and then, clearly sensing the tense atmosphere, disappeared behind his curtain again.
“You’re pregnant,” said Javel, not so much to question Allie as to convince himself.
“Yes.” She stared at him, as though daring him to continue.
“What will you do?”
“Do? I will have my baby and raise a fine child.”
“In a brothel!”
Allie’s gaze pinned him like sunlight. “My child will be cared for and then schooled by three women Madame Arneau keeps for no other reason. And when my child gets older, there will be no shame in knowing that Mother was a whore. What do you think of that?”
“I think it’s criminal.”
“You would, Javel. I might once have thought so too. But this city is better to women than New London has ever aspired to be. Perhaps it was brave of you to come here, I don’t know. But yours is a low-risk bravery. It always was, and I deserve better than that. If you value your skin, don’t ever approach me again.”
She swept outside, banging the door shut behind her, leaving Javel still pressed against the wall. Claustrophobia gripped him; the shop seemed suddenly tiny, but he didn’t dare go outside, not until he knew she was gone. He prayed the apothecary would not emerge from behind his curtain, and by some miracle, the man did not. Finally, when it felt as though hours had passed, Javel peeked through the glass-paned door of the shop and saw that the wagon was gone. He took a deep breath and went outside.
The Rue went on just as ever, which seemed strange to Javel; how could the city continue to function normally, when everything had changed? A sweet smell was in the air, pastries from the bakery nearby, but to Javel the smell was cloying, sweetness over filth, just like this entire city. He had spent six years worrying about Allie, suffering for Allie, and now he had no idea what to do. Going back the way he had come seemed intolerable. Going forward seemed worse. And night was coming down.
He stood on the footpath, cradling his head in his hands like a man deep in thought, but his mind was empty. He took his hands from his eyes, looked up, and found everything clear before him.
He was standing in front of a pub.
Even the Mace could not find the two priests.
The Queen’s Guard was supposed to stay with the Mace at all times. They had been charged to do so by the Queen herself, and Aisa could not imagine that any of the others took that charge less seriously than she did herself. But the Mace was the Mace, and if he wanted to disappear, they could not stop him. Yesterday he had gone, and now he reappeared, just as suddenly, through the secret door in the kitchen, causing Milla to scream in fright as she tended a pot of stew.
The Mace’s disappearances were maddening, but even Aisa understood that the Mace tolerated them all by only the barest margin, that he was made to guard, not be guarded. Sometimes he just had to leave, to be somewhere else without any of them around. Aisa had assumed that the Mace went out drinking, or spying, but an overheard conversation between Elston and Coryn told her different: he was out looking for the Keep priest, Father Tyler, and a second priest, Father Seth, both of them bountied by the Arvath.
“The Caden are looking for them too,” Coryn remarked. “They want bounty, ours or the Arvath’s, makes no difference. Who knew that two old men could stay so well hidden?”
“They won’t hide forever,” Elston rumbled. “And every time the Captain leaves the Keep, it becomes more likely that the Holy Father will get wind of it.”