CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Caledon

“AREN’T YOUR AUNTS HEALERS? THEY sell salves and teas and such?” Cal asks Shadow when they are alone. He tries to sound casual. He gets up from the chair to get a closer look at the vizier’s house of horrors. He leans toward one of the deep bookshelves, only to discover that the tiny jars lined up on it are filled with preserved primate ears.

First a pouch full of gold coins and now Argonian emerald rings—is Shadow a thief? What kind of name is Shadow, anyway? His earlier suspicions about her resurface in an instant. Who is she really?

Shadow busies herself with brushing nonexistent debris from her dress. “Yes, and . . . ? They weren’t always. In any case, they do well for themselves.”

He stares intently at one of the fish—a dragonfish, according to the label. “Remarkably so, apparently.”

She folds her hands in her lap and glares at him. “What are you saying?”

He shrugs and crosses his arms against his chest.

Shadow bristles in her elaborate dress, flouncing her ruffles. It almost brings a smile to his face but he keeps it grim. What else is she hiding from him?

“Honestly, how I acquired the rings is none of your concern,” she says haughtily. “But I suppose you can’t help making assumptions, questioning everything I say—you know why? Because . . . because you’re a hypocrite.” She looks pleased with herself for saying it.

This time, Cal does bark a laugh, but it only provokes her more.

“You are!” she nearly shouts.

He shushes her; she lowers her voice but continues. “You question everything about me and yet tell me nothing about yourself!”

“I have hardly been so circumspect,” he says. “You are the only one aside from my father and the queen who knows about the blood vow.”

For a moment she looks chastened, but soon sits back against the chair in a huff and crosses her arms. “Just because you don’t know any Deian healers who can afford Argonian emeralds doesn’t mean they don’t exist!”

He knows better than to respond. She’s clearly hiding something and trying to deflect. He’s just glad the tension between them is broken. He’d rather have her annoyed than distant . . .

Even if it doesn’t answer his question about the riches she’s carrying around.

Is she upset about last night? He was very much awake when she pressed herself against him, and it had taken all his discipline to hold himself back, when she was so pliant and soft and close, and he was more than ready and willing. He’d thought about properly rolling her over so that she was under him, so that they could . . .

Hold on. Did she know what she was doing? What she was doing to him? Why are they acting as if nothing happened last night? He can’t take his eyes off her all day, even as he can’t help but notice she spent the entire morning being utterly hostile to him.

Maybe that’s best. They are unsuited for each other, clearly, and neither of them is keen on marriage or a family. She is bent on joining the Guild, and he had made himself believe that the comforts of hearth and home are not his to have until he delivers the Deian Scrolls back to their rightful owner. She is not meant for his bed, or his heart. Yet there is no scarcity of coin, and neither of them thought to let two rooms at the inn. Perhaps he should suggest it, although the thought pains him.

Shadow busies herself by studying the glass vitrines while Cal broods. Not too long after, the door flies open.

“Ah, I see you enjoy my little sea monsters,” the vizier says, voice booming. “My shipmaster is out on the Silvren Sea as we speak, procuring a merman.” He claps his hands together. “Enough of that. Dinner. Tonight. Please! Join me.”

“We’d be honored,” Cal says quickly.

“Just a few friends,” the vizier says. He runs a disapproving eye down Shadow’s dress and then over Cal’s jacket. “Do let me know if you need to borrow something else to wear.”

---

A FEW HOURS LATER, Cal and Shadow are seated at the vizier’s glittering dining room table along with eighteen overdressed members of the Montrician aristocracy, all of whom are pointedly ignoring them. Which is absolutely fine, as they themselves are barely speaking to each other.

The meal began at least thirty minutes before, and the guests haven’t been served the main course yet—although platters of roasted duck, broiled venison, sauced hen, and fried pork have been set at the table. Cal has been to grand banquets before, but it has been a long time since he’s been able to feast like this. He’s stuffed full as it is and yet more keeps coming. Even the most formal meals weren’t this elaborate back home. Shadow was smart; she paced herself from the beginning, only eating a bite or two of each. She obviously knew what to expect. He wishes she’d tipped him off. Maybe he should read Crumpets and Cravats after all.

Now the waiters are bringing in a plate with some sort of fish over a bed of asparagus. For the first time ever, Cal just wants a feast to end.

He notices how Shadow pushes food around her plate to make it look like she’s eaten more than she has, and he follows suit. The whole charade makes Cal resent these people even more—what a colossal waste this dinner is. He pictures the children at the fountain, wonders if there’s a way he can sneak some of this food to them. Maybe Shadow can spare some stolen jewelry from her bag. Or whatever else she might have stashed in there.

The vizier stands up and claps his hands. Voices taper off as people lower their forks and turn their attentions to him.

“As you all have noticed, we have new guests with us tonight.” Heads bedecked with feathers and enormous fabric concoctions swivel in Cal and Shadow’s direction. It’s about time they acknowledge the couple’s presence. He continues. “Please allow me to introduce, from Argonia, the Honorable Lord Callum Holton and his sister, the elegant Lady Lila Holton.” He claps his fingers into his palm; his guests do as well. “The Holtons have graced us with their company, but only for a short time, for they are en route to Stavin, where they must collect the substantial estate of their late grandfather. I had the pleasure of spending some time at his, erm, Bucklam Park house many years ago, and to my astonishment, the elder Lord Holton remembered our brief acquaintance as fondly as I, and willed to me this very fine Argonian emerald ring.” He holds out his hand to display the ring Shadow gave him that afternoon. The dinner guests ooh and ahh. One of the women claps politely and others follow, tapping their fingertips into their palms.

Though they’re still irritated with each other, Cal looks to Shadow so he can catch her eye at the vizier’s phony story involving their supposed grandfather and the hilarity of his “Bucklam Park” remark. But her face is turned away from him, and she ignores him even when he nudges her with his foot.

“Yes, thank you, thank you,” the vizier says, bowing slightly. “Please make the Holtons feel welcome, and enjoy the rest of your meal. I believe we still have a few more plates before dessert.” He sits down and arranges a napkin on his lap.

Now’s Cal’s chance to get Shadow’s attention. But the woman seated on her right addresses her first.

“I see you packed lightly,” the woman is saying, looking up and down at Shadow’s new gown.

Cal feels a flash of anger. How dare she be so rude? Shadow is beautiful, much more beautiful than the overly primped ladies of Montrice. They remind him of plucked chickens in satin and diamonds. He keeps his attention on his food to avoid saying something he might regret. Last time he rushed to Shadow’s defense, she was angry with him for interfering. And anyway, this is what he tried to warn her about. Montrice’s nobility is known for their vanity.

The woman continues, smiling wide. “No doubt you didn’t expect a formal dinner invitation while traveling. Don’t get me wrong, I completely understand. But older is wiser, and that’s why no matter how my husband hounds me to stick to only five trunks, I don’t listen. I would die—simply die—if I had to meet a monarch in last year’s afternoon gown.”

“Mmmm . . .” is all Shadow says back. Cal wonders if the woman understands how close she is to being throttled.

“I know for a fact it’s not your fault anyway, dear. There isn’t a single wimple to be found in Argonia, let alone proper pannier hoops. I’ve seen it for myself. Such a . . . relaxed people. I really admire that about Argonians. They just don’t pay any mind to the fashions or what anybody else thinks of them.”

A woman to Cal’s left hears this and leans over him to join their conversation. Up close he can see she’s much younger than he first thought, around his age, with a pretty face under all the thick white makeup the noblewomen wear. “This type of social disaster has happened to all of us, Lady Lila. Don’t you worry about a thing. I can help you get everything you need—a lovely wimple, a court gown, furs . . .”

Shadow begins to protest, but the woman holds her hand up to stop her. “It’s my pleasure.”

“Thank you,” Shadow says. “But I’m afraid we don’t have an invitation to the palace.”

“Of course you do,” the lady says. “Why do you think you’re here? This is how the vizier evaluates your worthiness, and judging by that speech, I think it’s safe to say you’re in.” She winks.

Cal and Shadow share a glance at last.

“Oh! Silly me, I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Gertie, the Duchess of Girt. Everyone calls me Duchess Girt, which I suppose is better than Duchess Gertie. The lady to your right is my dear friend, the Duchess of Aysel; her husband, the duke, is beside her. Mine has, unfortunately, passed.”

“I’m so sorry,” Shadow says.

Duchess Girt waves her off. “Oh no. Don’t be. I prefer spending my meals alone so I can converse with eligible bachelors.” She forces out a high-pitched giggle.

Cal has the urge to plug his ears.

“So, if you know any eligible bachelors . . .” She glances at Cal. “I like the handsome, brooding type. Sort of like your brother here. In my experience it’s the quietest ones who have the . . .”

Cal hides a grimace. But perhaps the duchess’s interest in him will be useful, as women’s attentions have been in the past.

A glass clinks. The vizier stands to get everyone’s attention again. Cal is relieved for the interruption. He notices a small step as the vizier gets up this time; he’s standing on another stool. The vizier, swaying a bit, says, “After dessert, please join us in the library for libations.” He’s up to his neck in libations already, Cal thinks.

The duchess turns back to them. “Where was I? Oh, I don’t remember. Here, I have it!” She reaches across the table to grab Shadow’s hand with her pale, thin one. Her nails are long, filed sharp, and painted the same shade as her red rosebud mouth. “You two are coming home with me. Yes, yes, don’t protest; it’s been decided. Where are you staying?”

Shadow tells her and the duchess looks confused. “I don’t think I’ve heard of it? No matter. From now on you’re both staying with me.” She releases Shadow’s hand and pats it, as if Shadow were her pet or a child. Cal sees a flicker of annoyance cross Shadow’s face.

“I’ll send for your things. This way we can get the lovely Lady Lila all ready for the king. I think she’ll clean up rather nicely. And perhaps I can do something with her little brother too.” She runs her eyes up and down his body, stopping to raise an eyebrow right in the middle. Then she looks around for her footman, snapping her fingers when she sees him. He rushes over and she begins relaying a list of tasks: Collect the lord’s and lady’s things; see to it that their rooms are ready at the house . . .

“Excellent,” says Cal. “We would be honored to stay at your residence.”

Shadow looks alarmed, and when Duchess Girt turns to her other side, she whispers in Cal’s ear. “You don’t mean for us to stay with that strumpet?! And what about our horses? We can’t bring them with us.”

Cal pretends to be absorbed in the food on his plate as he answers her from the side of his mouth. “We’ll pay Garbankle to keep the horses until we need them. Meanwhile, she is a duchess, a high-ranking courtier to the king, which means we will be part of the inner circle. And we need to be appropriately dressed to be welcomed at court. We don’t have time to get a new wardrobe otherwise. It sounds as if we’ll have a much nicer room, and I, for one, won’t miss the bugs, will you?”

“You won’t miss a pest in your bed, if that’s what you mean,” she retorts angrily.

He looks up from his plate and catches her eye. It’s the first time they’ve spoken about last night. “No, that isn’t what I meant at all,” he says sincerely. He would spend every night at that flea-bitten inn if it meant he would lie next to her again. But of course he doesn’t tell her that, as much as he wants to, and as much as he wants to know how she feels about all this.

Shadow saws into her meat, the color high on her cheeks. “It doesn’t matter. Sleep well, my lord.”