Lucia entered the High Summer Ball dressed to kill.
The style of dress she wore was quite different from the fashions adorning the other guests. Her dress was blood red and tightly corseted. Below, flowing down to her ankles, the material clung to her legs more than was strictly fashionable. A tasteful slash deep into the bust showed off not a little cleavage. Her left shoulder was covered, obscuring the wound she had taken at the Butcher’s hands. Beneath the dress, it was tightly bound in bandages—ones that would last the evening, perhaps, before needing to be redressed.
She earned stares from every passing couple and group in attendance at the ball, but she did not pay them more than a passing thought. She spared just as much on the pain in her shoulder.
Let them look. Tonight, she walked the field of battle. And she would dress for it her way.
Half a step behind her, Richmond moved with the subtle grace of a dancer. The man was a wonder, Lucia thought, as at home in the servants quarters as on the high seas—or, truly, amid the most powerful nobility of the Commonwealth.
Had she a different disposition, and in another life entirely, she realized she might have fallen for him. Here, now, he paled in comparison to Talia in nearly every respect. Richmond was silver to the Duke’s gold, and Lucia would treasure her memories of both.
“To your right,” Richmond whispered, and Lucia flitted her eyes in that direction. She saw the Marchesa ensconced with a small group of other guests, politely laughing at something or other. A gleam of silver on her finger caught Lucia’s eye.
Again, the hatred within the demon rose, but she clung to it carefully, keeping her expression serene and her hands still. The Marchesa was here. This was good. Lucia would see her fall personally.
“Have you spotted our other friend?”
Talia’s most devoted servant shook his head slightly. “At this moment, my guess is that he has the ear of the Prime Minister himself. Look for our host’s appearance, and Lindell will not be far behind.”
The sway of the gathered throng was like the currents of the sea: slow, inexorable, and bubbling—though that last was entirely due to the liberal availability of champagne. Lucia availed herself of the opportunity for alcohol at the closest convenience, downing one and then two flutes of the pink variety in quick succession.
Above, the great glass clock hanging over the archway to the Prime Minister’s gardens proclaimed the final hour before midnight in delicate notes. Lucia regarded the great dial nervously. Timing here was crucial; if the Prime Minister did not show up soon, well … well, he’d better show up soon.
Lucia deposited her second flute of champagne, turned, and found herself directly opposite the Marchesa. She didn’t bother to completely hide her disdain for the woman; and, for her part, Forteza seemed not to care.
“Your little stunt was amusing.” The Marchesa curled her lip. “I haven’t seen the Bishop so excited in years, truly.”
Lucia opened her mouth, closed it, then pondered. What in all the lands west of Calamity could she say to that? Yes, giving up my wife for death was certainly a bold move, I’m glad you noticed? Or was she referring to giving herself up to the man?
Her thoughts settled as she again rested her eyes upon the gleam of the Marchesa’s ring. My, but this woman was pride incarnate. “I’m glad you liked the show. But I have one final act to perform, so if you would excuse me—”
The Marchesa’s hand grasped Lucia’s forearm in a flash, and the demon saw a fire kindle in her eyes. Talia had named her for a Lion well.
“You don’t have a Duke to hide behind, anymore.” The Marchesa’s eyes danced, and Lucia’s stomach lurched. “Remember this. I get what I want.”
Lucia roughly pulled free, and had the sinking feeling that she succeeded only because the Marchesa wanted her to. She did not dignify the woman’s response with anything but a withering look as she marched away against the current.
She nervously checked the clock again. Ten past the hour.
And the crowds parted, a sea of minnows before the great whale. This whale was, indeed, the Prime Minister himself, though the comparison fell short of describing him physically—a tall man, far more imposing than even the Spindle in his best moments, though with an easy smile.
And beside him was Lindell.
Lucia felt the anger in her spike at the sight of the Bishop, then remembered how she was to channel it. The timing could not have been better—assuming Cleft had arrived at his place in time. The thought of him failing almost made her hesitate.
Oh, fuck it.
She grabbed another flute of champagne, downed it in one go, and then dramatically threw the fragile glass to the floor. Then, before anyone could react, she marched forward and shouted the single word that had lived upon the tip of her tongue since seeing Talia’s death—
“Murderer!”
There was a silence as hallowed as the grave.
Her accusatory finger outstretched towards Lindell, Lucia supposed she looked exactly as hysterical as she felt. But that was part of the point.
It was the Prime Minister who broke the silence.
“Why, my Lady, I don’t know what you mean—”
“I was there, you snake!” Lucia continued to ignore the imposing figure of the Prime Minister, hurling her invective at Lindell. “You killed her in cold blood. My wife, the love of my life. The very Duke of Fallmire!”
Lindell had the gall to look amused at this, even as the whispers began among the gathered guests. His next question could not have been better if Lucia had scripted it herself.
“And why would I do such a foolish thing, Lady Fallmire?”
Lucia laughed, then. A touch dramatic, but such was the time for drama. “Oh, you know very well.” She pushed aside the few hands that were trying to pull her away from this improvised stage. She would not leave. No, not with all of the Commonwealth as audience.
“You know well enough the depth of your vile plot, Lindell. A plot to topple the very Parliament whose Prime Minister you even now whisper honeyed words to in private! Oh, my Duke knew of your schemes. She was a loyalist to the end.”
And Lucia buried her head in one hand, for a moment, letting the tears cut off her accusation. They came from a genuine place—she almost lost herself, realizing afresh the full import of Talia’s decision.
She couldn’t truly be gone, could she?
That was enough for now. Her feelings were again boxed away, awaiting the time when this business was finished. Through blurry vision, she saw the Prime Minister lean down at a whispered message from one of his advisors. The demon blinked, and her vision sharpened.
She felt the thrum of fear enter the Prime Minister’s heart. He stepped away from Lindell almost instinctively, and motioned to a corner of the room.
It was happening. By the dead god, it was happening.
“You speak nonsense,” Lindell said smoothly, but Lucia wouldn’t let him slither away just yet.
“She spoke to you just this morning.” Lucia let a quaver enter her voice. “Pleading with you not to do this. The very Bishop of Cavaline, in league with the Lion Prince! But you would have none of it. She was to expose you—”
“Enough!”
The vehemence behind Lindell’s shout shocked even Lucia. The man moved forward, then, crossing the distance between them in a heartbeat, grabbing her arms roughly and pushing her into a table, throwing her down—
Strong arms caught her. She looked up into the patient, furious eyes of Richmond, who gently raised her back to her feet.
Lindell’s anger had not abated. “You slander me, Lady Fallmire. And I will be satisfied!”
“It’s not slander if it is the truth.”
Another silence descended, for these words came from the Prime Minister himself.
Lindell turned, and for the first time since she had laid eyes upon the Snake’s heart, Lucia saw fear stir within it. “My good man—”
“Tell me.” The Prime Minister was now inexplicably surrounded on all sides by bodyguards. One guard had dragged the Marchesa into the fray. Oh, her look of fury was so sweet to observe.
“Tell me, Lindell,” the Prime Minister repeated more quietly, “would you have plunged a knife into my heart before or after your friend detonated an entire cartload of black powder on the very steps of Parliament House?”
Lindell was speechless.
“Take him away.” The Prime Minister made a violent motion with his hand, and Lindell was so stunned, he did not resist as bodyguards shackled his wrists behind him on the spot.
The Prime Minister turned to Forteza, and his eyes dipped down toward the gleam Lucia had spotted earlier. He pulled the ring from the Marchesa’s hand as she growled, then held it up to the light.
“Wearing the seal of the royal house openly, my Lady? Even I would never have known you to be so bold … or so foolish.”
And with another snarl from the Marchesa, who was beyond words at this point, the Prime Minister made the same violent gesture to take her away.
Lucia lay in her path, and as the guards manhandled Forteza past her, she couldn’t resist leaning in and whispering, “You don’t get what you want, but what you deserve.”