HERO
HERO
HETTY STOOD WITH A KNIFE pressed against her neck, mentally kicking herself for being careless. This was what she got for not taking proper precautions, she supposed. If she was lucky, she could wiggle out of this without harm, but she had no idea what this man might be capable of.
“You weren’t supposed to be here,” the man muttered. “No one was supposed to be here.”
“Did you come here to steal something? Something of Charlie’s?”
The grip tightened, but the pressure of the knife didn’t change. “Is that why you’re here? You a friend of his?”
“Yes, a close friend.”
The man let go. Hetty stumbled away, keeping her hands behind her back.
He was older than her, with bags under his eyes, and crisscrossed pale scars on his face marred his brown skin. He twirled the knife in his right hand, licking his lips.
“Good,” the man said. “Now there are no excuses at all. I thought him being dead would make her see things clearly, but if he had a mistress, that’s even better.”
Hetty stopped in the middle of making the sigil. “Mistress! Certainly not! I’m a happily married woman!”
“You wouldn’t be going through his things if you were.”
“Sound logic,” Hetty grunted, before switching to the simpler Canis Minor. “But not sound enough.”
The flash of magic caught him off-guard, just as Hetty had hoped. The man flew into the wall, and before he could move an inch, Hetty drew Virgo in the air and a woman made of stars stepped forward. Virgo placed a hand on his forehead and the man’s eyes rolled back into his head. He slumped to the floor, already in the thralls of enchanted sleep.
Running through the star sigil, Hetty picked up her skirts and hurried down the hall. Nearly stumbling down the dark staircase, she called out as she ran back into the parlor.
“Marianne, I think the intruder—”
Hetty stopped at the doorway. Penelope and Eunice snored on the couch, both collapsed backwards in positions that were far too uncomfortable to fall into naturally.
In front of them Marianne stood, once more holding her frying pan. This time Andromeda glowed along the metal.
“—is someone you might know.”
Marianne stepped forward. “I can explain.”
“I don’t care.”
“It merely looks terrible,” Marianne said in a rush. “I’m not going to hurt them!”
“And what about me? I had a knife to my throat!”
“Eli wouldn’t have hurt you,” Marianne declared. Her words brimmed with such confidence that it reduced the last of Hetty’s goodwill to ruin.
“Why don’t you tell me the truth?” Hetty snapped. “Did you kill your husband?”
“No!” Tears welled up in Marianne’s eyes, and the pan shook in her hands. “I could never do such a thing!”
“You have a guest snoozing upstairs that suggests otherwise!”
Marianne’s eyes flicked upstairs, and then instead of attacking, she dropped the pan and collapsed into a chair. “Eli is my husband,” she said. “Or was, before Emancipation. I was barely more than a girl when we were forced to marry. Eli said he would wait until I was ready before we started acting like man and wife. But it never mattered what we wanted. I was nearly—” Marianne swallowed, and when she continued her voice was firmer than before. “Eli intervened, and they sold him. I was sent away soon after, and then was freed when my new mistress died. I never thought I would see him again. But he found me last year. I thought he’d accepted my marriage with Charlie and had moved on.”
“Then Charlie died and he reappeared in your life,” Hetty said. “And you didn’t tell him to go away this time.”
“He had nothing to do with Charlie.”
“I believe you.”
Marianne pressed a hand to her mouth, pushing back a sob. The star sigil emblazed on the frying pan faded as Marianne collapsed into her couch.
There were signs everywhere pointing toward Marianne having a hand in Charlie’s death. Motive, opportunity, even means if the secret lover’s ability could be added. Yet, Hetty could not even consider the notion. It was too simple. And nothing with Marianne had ever been simple.
“Did you want him to stay?” Hetty asked.
“I don’t know. After those men came here with their threats, I was terrified. For me. For my children. They’re all I have left.”
“I should have put wards on this house,” Hetty said.
“I wouldn’t have let you.”
“I should have done it anyway.” Taking a deep breath, she said what she should have said days ago. “We found Charlie’s body mutilated with the sigil of the Serpent Bearer.”
“Isn’t that—”
“Yes, Ophiuchus, the cursed sigil. He wasn’t the only one. We found another body the night of his funeral, and for all we know there could be more. We’ve been investigating all week, and everything we found just leads to more questions.” Hetty reached into her pocket and pulled out the tiny key. “Benjy found this in the gears of Charlie’s pocket watch. Do you recognize it? Do you know what it goes to? It must be important if Charlie hid it inside one of his most prized possessions.”
Marianne studied the key. After a while, she shook her head. “I can’t help you. I have no idea what it might be, and in some ways I’m afraid to find out what secrets he took to the grave.”
“We can still find something. Tell me: Is there anything you haven’t mentioned before? It doesn’t matter how small the detail might seem.”
Marianne grew so silent, Hetty braced herself for another torrent of tears. But when Marianne spoke, her words were clear and firm.
“We had a fight the day he died. At dinner with the Waltons, Pastor Evans had pulled him aside to speak. Afterward he wouldn’t say what it was about. I wouldn’t leave it alone. I kept asking and asking until he snapped at me. We quarreled and then he left. That was the last time I saw him.”
“Did you ever find out what he spoke to the pastor about?”
Marianne shook her head. “Does it matter?”
“It might.” Hetty slipped the key back into her pocket. “Do you want the watch back?”
“I gave it to you,” Marianne said. “Keep it.”
“Your son might want it one day.”
“I don’t want a stolen watch!”
“Stolen?”
Marianne looked away. “I’m afraid with my husband there’s a strong chance it was. He wanted to rise to the top, and was willing to do so in ways many did not approve of. Before, I didn’t care—I was happy to be pampered and showered with gifts. Who cared if my dresses were purchased from money stolen from another’s pockets? I wasn’t like you, working my fingers to the bone. I thought myself so much better than you. Yet I know if your husband dies you would not run to the next man you see for protection.”
“You don’t have to—”
“What choice do I have?” Marianne waved a hand about the darkened room, at all the beautiful things that belonged to creditors now.
“There are always other choices,” Hetty said quietly. “Charlie’s mother would take you in for the sake of the children. Eunice and Darlene would both lend a hand. I’m also here.”
“You’d help me?”
“We don’t get along well these days,” Hetty said, picking up the friendship album and turning to the first page. “But that hasn’t always been true.”
Although the album had not entered her hands for some time, Hetty’s notes and scribbles filled the first few pages, for Darlene, Penelope, and Eunice had come to the city and into their lives much later. Those early pages were filled with silly notes and remarks broken up only by Hetty’s first trip south. While Hetty scarcely remembered all the things she’d written or charms she’d left on the pages, the first page stood clear in her mind:
To my first friend in my new life, may we always share good times under happy stars.
Marianne closed her eyes for a long moment before she pressed a hand on top of the book. “I’m sorry for the things I said about you. I didn’t think you truly cared, not when the only thing that was important to you was your sister.”
“Why not?” Hetty asked, puzzled and a bit lost at this sentiment. “I lost her and I was trying to find her. You know this, everyone knows this.”
Marianne smiled then. For a moment, she was the girl that had slipped Hetty a book more interesting than the primers Cora Evans allowed her to read.
“You focused so much on what you wanted, you forgot about what you already had. Why are you looking so hard for a sister when you have plenty of family right here?”
“I left her behind,” Hetty said. “I promised to look after Esther, and I failed.”
“Then it’s not about finding her—it’s about your guilt.”
“I don’t feel . . . I’m not . . . I don’t . . .” Hetty protested, but she stopped, unable to argue further.
Marianne gave her a thin smile.
“I should mark the occasion,” she said, tapping the friendship album. “The day I outwitted Henrietta Rhodes!”
Marianne’s laugh did not make up for the past and the many hurts strewn between them over the years. But it eased Hetty’s confusion as she finally understood all the things that had gone wrong between them. Hetty had hurt her friend. Whether it was on purpose or not didn’t matter. That hurt cut deep and festered. But now Hetty could see the ending of this bitter and private war.
Penelope jerked awake with a start. She blinked blearily, confused and rattled.
“What was in that tea?”