The storm was much closer when they rode into Demingham at nearly sunset. “We’ll stay the night here,” Sebastian told them, beckoning them close. “The border is only another ten miles away, but I’d rather come at it fresh in the morning.”
“Very well, sir,” Holt said. “If you will follow me, I will choose an inn that will meet your needs.”
“Why does he get to pick?” Fiona said. It was whiny, but Holt’s servility irritated her.
“Because Holt is trained to be security-minded,” Sebastian said, “and it gives him pleasure to use his skills. And because I told him to. Unless you want the burden?”
“No,” Fiona said, feeling more irritated at the back-handed chastisement. Her legs and back ached, she might have blisters where she didn’t want blisters—this was definitely the stupidest idea she’d ever had. “I—” she began, but Sebastian had already moved off down the street after Holt, and Fiona prodded Mittens to follow.
The inn Holt found was the Silver Apple, a quiet three-story building down one of Demingham’s side streets. Fiona gratefully relinquished Mittens’ reins to the stable girl and, carrying her bag, went in the back door to find Sebastian and Holt had vanished. A round-cheeked woman in a cheerful floral dress greeted her with a smile and showed her the way up the stairs to a room that, for a miracle, she wouldn’t have to share with anyone else. It was small, but comfortable, with a window that looked out over the quiet stable yard. Fiona could barely see Mittens’ nose sticking out of her stall. It had a clothes press, and a bedside table with an elaborate lamp Device, and a wash stand with running hot and cold water. Apparently Sebastian’s needs as anticipated by Holt involved a level of luxury Fiona had rarely experienced.
She sat on the bed, which had a brass frame and a patchwork quilt, and kicked her bag, which lay on the floor beside her. Briefly, she wondered if she’d made a mistake. It wasn’t too late to tell Sebastian she’d changed her mind, was it? No. I made him a promise and I intend to keep it. She shoved her bag farther under the bed and left the room, locking the door behind her.
The dining room was rustic, with rough-hewn tables and chairs and a chandelier made from a wagon wheel. Yellow and orange flames in the large fireplace flickered wildly in the draft Fiona made when she entered. Sebastian was already seated near the middle of the room, and he looked up when she entered.
“Miss Cooper,” he said, rising to hold her chair for her. “I hope your room is comfortable.”
“It’s nice,” Fiona said. “Where’s Holt?”
“Holt’s eating elsewhere.”
“You object to having him share a table with you?”
Sebastian gave her his wry smile. “Holt objects to eating with me,” he said. “I’ve tried to insist that he’s not my manservant anymore, that eating separately is ridiculous, but every time we’re within spitting distance of civilization, he’s back to eating in the kitchen. I’ve known the man twenty years, and he hasn’t gotten any less stubborn the whole time.”
“Your manservant?”
“I thought you weren’t going to pry into my affairs, Miss Nosy.”
“You’re the one who brought it up. I hardly think that’s prying.”
Sebastian sighed. “My family hired Holt to look after me when I went away to school. It’s not uncommon to bring a maid or a manservant if you’re wealthy, which I’m sure you’ve worked out my family is. I like to think we’re friends, when I can get Holt to break through that stiff-upper-lip thing he has. He’s more correct than half my well-bred peers.”
“You could always fire him, and make your relationship equal.”
“I tried, when I left school, but it’s my parents who hired him, so there’s not much I can do about it.” He leaned back as a serving girl set plates of food in front of them, pieces of oven-roasted chicken and boiled carrots seasoned with flecks of something green. Fiona didn’t recognize the herb, but she wasn’t much of a cook. Two mugs of beer came next. Sebastian picked up a drumstick and took a large bite, ignoring the grease that dripped down his fingers.
“So tell me,” he said between bites, “why are you in a position to drop everything and travel with two strangers to Veribold’s most closely guarded city within a city?”
“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
“Come now, Miss Nosy, I answered your questions. I think this is only fair.”
Fiona shrugged and cut a carrot into bite-sized pieces. The green flecks gave it a fresh flavor, unexpected at this time of year. “I’d…quit my business and was looking for something different.”
“What was your business?”
“My husband and I were traders.”
“I didn’t realize you were married.”
“Emphasis on ‘were.’” Fiona found it suddenly difficult to meet his eyes. “We divorced about three months ago.”
“Oh. I…don’t know whether to offer you condolences or congratulations.”
“It was for the best, for both of us.” He didn’t sound judgmental, but you could never tell how people would react to the news that your marriage bond was dissolved.
“I see.” Sebastian laid down the bare bone and went to work on another chicken leg. For a wealthy, presumably upper-class man, he had some appalling table manners. “And you had to leave the business? That seems unfair.”
“I could have stayed, but I didn’t want to.” It had felt odd continuing to work with Roderick with the ashes of their marriage between them, like putting on filthy old clothes after a hot bath. “I adopted back into my birth family, stayed with my aunt and uncle for a while, then decided to travel.”
Sebastian nodded. “And have you decided what you want to settle down to? Or is that too much prying?”
“No, I…haven’t thought about it. Mostly I felt like traveling for a while. I was going to the southern continent before you sidetracked me.”
“A polite way of putting it,” Sebastian said with a grin. “Dineh-Karit’s not known for being friendly to outsiders.”
“You could say that of just about anywhere, except maybe Eskandel. There are always exceptions.”
“True.” Sebastian wiped his hands on his napkin—good, she’d half expected him to use his trouser leg—and took a long drink of his beer. “Is it not to your taste?” he asked, indicating her mug.
“No. I don’t drink.”
“You should have said something.” He waved at the serving girl and asked her to replace the beer with something non-alcoholic. The girl gave him a funny look, probably wondering why anyone would come to a taproom if not to drink, but did as she was instructed. “Any particular reason?” Sebastian went on.
“Don’t like the taste of alcohol,” Fiona lied. “And you don’t need to go to any trouble on my account.”
“It’s no trouble.” Sebastian drained his mug and set it down, giving her a long, appraising look. “I’m having the hardest time not asking you more questions.”
“Why? I’m not very interesting.”
“Any woman willing to do what you’ve done is endlessly interesting. You do realize what I plan to do is dangerous, don’t you? If the Veriboldans find out we’ve entered their royal city intent on theft, they won’t be gentle with us.”
“They won’t be gentle with you, you mean. I will look like just one more woman attending the festival.”
“You’d throw us to the wolves like that, Miss Cooper?”
She matched him smile for cynical smile. “I might beg for leniency on your behalf.” He was right, they’d all be judged guilty if they were caught, and no one would let her off just because she was a woman. “I suppose we’ll have to make sure we’re not caught, then.”
Sebastian nodded once, slowly. “I’m glad you’re not Lucille,” he said. “She wasn’t nearly so interesting as you are.” He pushed his chair back. “We’ll need to make an early start, so I’m off to bed.”
They walked up the stairs together as far as Fiona’s room, where Sebastian bade her good night. Inside, Fiona undressed and folded her clothes away into her bag, preparing for that early start. She sat cross-legged on her bed in her nightgown and wrote in her journal. S. intrigues me, she wrote. He’s hiding everything about his identity—I’m not even sure Sebastian is his real name—but, surprisingly, it doesn’t worry me. Probably because I’m not telling him everything either.
It surprised her further to discover she wanted to tell him more. He had an air of quiet competence about him that inspired confidence. Not that she would tell him the truth about her inherent magic. That would be suicide. But he listened when she spoke, really listened in a way that said he cared about what she was saying. Roderick had always listened with half his mind engaged in what he was planning to say next. Sebastian’s attention was…refreshing. And he’s handsome, her irrelevant inner voice said, making her scowl. Handsome was well enough, but Roderick was handsome and she’d learned her lesson about being swayed by an attractive face and roguish eyes.
She put her journal away and turned out the light, but sleep eluded her despite her nightly routine. Finally she sat up in bed and amused herself by igniting tiny fires no bigger around than a ten-guilder piece on her palms, then closing her hands over them to extinguish them.
When she was young, when her magic had only just manifested, she’d tried to pretend she didn’t have it. She’d resisted the urge to ignite fires, or touch existing ones, believing that might make it go away. But the urge to make fire only grew stronger, until the first night she’d ignited one in her sleep. No one had been hurt, though she’d been in a lot of trouble for “playing with matches” in her bed, but she’d realized that ignoring her magic gave her less control, not more. Now she indulged it as often as she dared, and spent her nights praying her efforts gave her the control she needed.
She played with the fire for nearly an hour while her body relaxed, then curled up under the blankets and listened to the wind rattling the window until she finally fell asleep.
The storm arrived early the next morning, waking Fiona briefly with the lashings of rain on her window. When the sky outside finally lightened and she left her room, the rain had faded to a persistent drizzle that seeped through the seams of her cloak and left her damp and uncomfortable. She huddled next to Mittens in the stable yard, under the scant shelter of the eaves, breathing in the smell of fresh hot bread from the nearby kitchen and wishing she’d eaten more heartily. Sebastian, checking his horse’s tack, raised an eyebrow at her.
“You look sour this morning,” he said. “I hope it’s not the company.”
“Just the weather.”
“We’ll be out of it soon.”
“You’re far too optimistic.”
Holt, wearing a waterproof rain cape, came splashing toward them across the yard with a bundle in his arms. He handed Fiona a cape matching his and extended the other to Sebastian. “The rain is getting worse, sir,” he said.
“Then we’d better get moving,” Sebastian said, ignoring the irritated look Fiona sent his way.
The rain did worsen, but not by much, and the new cape kept Fiona mostly dry. Mittens tossed her head, shaking rain away from her face, and Fiona touched her wet, coarse mane and wished she could promise the animal a dry, warm bed soon.
It was hard not to look out over the rain-washed plains and wish for a dry, warm bed for herself. Dark clouds massed overhead, grayer to the east behind them, and ahead, to the west, they filled the sky until they seemed to touch the horizon, which was banded with purple and green. Fiona didn’t know where the border was, but that horizon was certainly Veribold. She adjusted her cape and stroked Mittens’ mane again, soaking her hand. Haizea was another two days’ journey from the border. They would need to hurry if they meant to make it to the festival.
“Miss Cooper,” Sebastian said, slowing to ride beside her, “when we reach customs, I’ll do the talking if they’ll let me. If they insist on talking with you directly, you’re my sister Sharon and you’re on your way to the Irantzen Festival. It’s better not to complicate a lie.”
You have no idea how well I know that. “There’s no need. I have my own papers.”
“That’s right. You were planning to travel. Let me hold them, then. It took some doing, these last two weeks, but with Holt’s help I’ve gathered every piece of paperwork the Veriboldans demand foreigners submit. Fortunately for us, everything for the Irantzen Festival isn’t made out in an attendee’s name until the border crossing.”
“The Veriboldans can be fickle. You’re sure you have everything?”
“Very sure. The international travelers’ office in Ravensholm is thorough. And faster than the embassy in Aurilien.”
Fiona, remembering her dealings with Veriboldan government officials on her previous journeys, said nothing. If Sebastian was wrong, they’d find out soon enough.