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No smoke rose from the west end of the docks into the ribbons of coral sky. Supporting herself with the balcony’s balustrade, Carolle exhaled a relieved breath and fogged the sunset. Master Popplewell’s face appeared in her mind’s eye again. Her yellow long-sleeved gown served no protection against that chill.
“Carolle?” Rodinger asked, waiting for an answer to a question she hadn’t heard. “I asked if you’d care for a game while we wait for our meal.”
If she acted now, said something, perhaps she could save Master Popplewell. And doom her troupe. The weight of her thoughts must have reached her face; Rodinger frowned in concern.
“A pleasure to defeat you again,” she said, “if that’s what you’re after.”
“A bold claim!” he said.
Carolle kept an eye on the port as they made their way inside. From the upstairs gallery, Rodinger guided her into the odor of pipe smoke lingering in his study. A stout desk in the same dark oak as the wainscoting filled the back of the room. Beyond stood a grand fireplace and shelves laden with curiosities. Snagged instantly, Carolle perused the wonders, running her fingers over the treasures: geodes in sea green, ivory tusks, and ancient weapons far too brittle for battle now.
When she touched a blowpipe engraved with frogs, Rodinger said, “That is a gift from High Lord Swinton’s travels. Many of these baubles come from the first largess he received in his exploration of the desert regions.” He went to a mahogany chess table and arranged its stone figures.
Behind the table, a gold-framed, life-sized portrait of two women hung on the wall. The plaque lured Carolle closer to read LADY MADELINE AND LADY ROSE OF HIGH HOUSE BERNARD, TENTH RING. Both ladies shared her brown eyes. With Lady Rose’s broad lips, she and Carolle could have believably passed as sisters.
Dressed in the pastel fashion of the year, Lady Madeline’s hair had gone white, and Lady Rose appeared older than the queen. Rodinger couldn’t be old enough for them to have died looking like this twenty years ago. “Is this new?” Carolle asked.
Rodinger’s cheeks colored. “I paint them each season, as I imagine they would appear today.”
Her face warmed in sympathy. Leaning in closer, Carolle studied his daughter. “Talented, you are,” she said encouragingly. “If your daughter’s name is Rose, why for is she holding a frost lily?”
“Our favorite,” Rodinger said, holding his finger back from caressing the blue flower with frosted white petals. “They bloom from around her birthday on through Winter Peak.”
“Well,” Carolle said, curtsying to the painting. “Lady Madeline and Lady Rose, I welcome your support in my game against Lord Bernard.”
Bolstered, Rodinger barked, “Ha! You may have the support of my rival, the Lady Rose, but no one shall turn my wife against me.” He pulled Carolle’s chair out from beneath the chessboard.
Moving through a few memorized plays, Carolle discovered that forcing a distraction from her worries wasn’t helpful. Thoughts of Master Popplewell arose whenever Rodinger deliberated on his next move. “Sad, innit?” Carolle asked. “Mathanas has to fall for me to conquer Triumph.”
Rodinger clacked down a wave to distract her from Pliman. Then he heard what she said. His head tilted as an amused smirk appeared. “Are you still imagining characters from your show as the game pieces? Is that why you are so protective of this pawn? A ‘canary,’ yes? And that bard I’ll be taking in a turn or two?”
“I’ll thank you kindly to be leaving my friends alone, good boy.”
Thackeray, Rodinger’s wrinkled servant, apparently the only personal attendant Rodinger had kept on permanently in recent years, marched into the room. “Your dinner is ready, Lord Bernard.”
“We’ll be with you in one moment, Thackeray,” Rodinger replied. To Carolle, he asked, “Shall we end this?” His eyes crinkled with a restrained laugh at her perplexed study of the board. “Remember, you do not have to collect all of the pieces to win.” Rodinger’s forefinger scooted Elysant back three squares, diagonally trapping Triumph between her and his siblings. “Ah, dear me. Bother. Arse. Checkmate for you, it seems.”
Thackeray had vacated the gallery by the time they emerged from Rodinger’s study. As they crossed into the long dining room, Carolle wondered how many of the happy portraits in the gallery Rodinger had painted.
A feast of salmon, crabs, goose, and small plates awaited them between the blackened embroidery of twenty-four straight-backed chairs. Carolle inspected the gallery behind her. “Are we expecting an army?”
“Regrettably detained, it would seem.”
Surveying the table’s offerings, Carolle teased, “Why, High Lord Rodinger Bernard, I do believe you are afraid of me.”
“What makes you say that?”
“There’s not a single roll on this table, man,” Carolle answered. “What am I supposed to toss in the throes of my impassioned tantrum? Is that what the goose is for?”
Night brightened the candlelight while they dined. Conversation served to distract Carolle from her betrayal for a few minutes here and there. But as the meal progressed, it resurfaced, each time with more potency, making it harder to ignore the looming treachery. When Rodinger wasn’t looking, she lifted her hair off her neck and fanned herself with her hand. Her hair had dampened with sweat. She rose from the table.
“Are you all right?” Rodinger asked, standing.
All but running out of the room, she replied, “Oh, aye. Ate too much. Just need a little fresh air.” She forced herself to wait for Rodinger’s escort to the balcony.
The cool air soothed her stomach as she walked directly to the balustrade facing the west end of the bay. Below the moonlit mountains, harbor lamps roughly outlined the dark patch where Popplewell’s warehouse stood. No fires yet; they would surely burn a ship if they meant to destroy it.
“Coffee, my lord?” Thackeray asked from behind them.
“Splendid idea, Thackeray,” Rodinger answered. He explained to Carolle, “A delightful remedy for languid spirits.” While Rodinger went on about the origin of the coffee, another of Lord Swinton’s finds, Carolle drank in the cold. Perhaps Gaines had chosen to stand up for decency? For peace. She hadn’t. Her fist pounded the balustrade.
Thackeray set cups and a pot covered in silver acanthus leaves on a small folding table and retreated to the archway. Rodinger poured the steaming dark liquid. As he held out her cup, his face slackened. He dropped it. It shattered. “What in the world . . .?”
Orange light flickered in the bay. Flames danced high. They doubled. Carolle’s heart sank as the blaze spread through the docks. Bells pealed.
The alarm swelled, ringing up Verdict Hill. Rodinger said, “I’m afraid our evening must come to an end, Carolle. I’m needed on the docks.”
“No, Rodinger, don’t,” Carolle said to his surprise. “You’ll make yourself a target for the vandals.”
He waved Thackeray over and sent him away to bring back Carolle’s cloak and fan. “I must know what damage has been done and report to the queen. That jolly well could be Popplewell’s warehouse. Best to get you back to the theatre before this commotion wakes the whole city.”
She dug her fingers into his cambric sleeve to stall him. Shouts joined the ringing from down the hill. Rodinger gripped her arm tightly and said, “Do not fear for me. I shall bring the guard.”
“Then take me with you,” she replied, unable to conjure an excuse to hold him longer. Reluctantly, he agreed, though she could tell he worked on an argument to talk her out of it. Good, she could still slow him down.
He returned her hand to the balustrade. “Where is Thackeray?”
Carolle let him go on alone, scheming on how to keep him in his High House. Her thoughts jumped to hope for Master Popplewell’s rescue. An unwelcome notion reminded her the engineer made a better target than his construct.
A sinewy blue line coiled out of the bay’s depths. Trône d’Argent’s mighty water dragon crested his green fins down his back. A great breath from Harishnu’s bearded maw propelled a cloud of mist and jets of water onto the hungry flames. Within seconds, the light extinguished. Cheers rose to challenge the bells until the ringing ceased altogether.
Carolle loosed her own wild cry in celebration. “Rodinger!” she shouted. “Harishnu doused the fire! Come see!” Blithe hope consumed her. There was a chance! Hope for Master Popplewell.
She ran into the High House. Upstairs, she cut off her call to Rodinger and froze. Behind a pink settee, an arm lay outstretched from beneath her cloak. Crumpling the silk brocade, Carolle threw it aside. Thackeray. He breathed but his arm had been badly broken. Blood stained his sleeve around the fracture. In stockinged feet, Carolle checked the dining room, then crossed the gallery to the study.
The chess table had been scooted away from the portrait of Rodinger’s family. Between the golden frame and the wall was a sliver of darkness. Goose-pimpled and cold with fear, Carolle crept toward Lady Rose’s gleeful portrayal and eased the frame outward, revealing a portal to dank blackness. A tunnel? “Rodinger?” she whispered into the dark. Carolle stood away from the portrait as she listened. No one answered.
Picking up a large tome from the desk, Carolle considered fleeing but dismissed the notion. She inched into the gallery, hunting for the slightest hint of Rodinger. A muffled cry set her feet running downstairs, leaping down steps past the balcony and into the residence of the High House.
At the entrance to Rodinger’s bedchamber, she froze. Five hooded men in gray cloaks circled Rodinger before his lit fireplace. Rodinger clutched his knee on the plush rug and tried to stand with the aid of a chair. Gold leaf shone on the round heads of the maces blocking Rodinger’s escape.
One of the men kicked over the chair, sending Rodinger to all fours. His attackers wore large-nosed gray porcelain masks, identical to the one she had seen in the alley across from Popplewell’s. Her body tingled, urging her to do something. No matter Gaines’s warning, she refused to flee. She wouldn’t desert her friend.
Rodinger spotted her and moaned. “Run!”
“Run?” one of the men asked. “Lady Ysbryd kept you exactly where we needed you.” Rodinger studied her. His denial faded quickly to hurt accusation as she tried to deny it beyond shaking her head. Without warning, the masked man swung his weapon.
“No!” Carolle screamed.
The men broke their circle and backed away from Rodinger’s prone body. Carolle ran to him and dropped to her knees. Red drained from his brow. His exhale coated her arm in a warmth that faded with the wisdom in his blue eyes. He was gone, forever believing she’d betrayed him wittingly.
The cloaks skirted the walls, slinking toward the hallway. Carolle shielded herself with the tome and rose. “Mask yourself all you like; I know your form, Barimor Gaines!” The taller man next to him flinched. “Chester Fellows.” The other gray masks swung to look at them. Slowly, silently, the three strangers backed away while pointing at Carolle. They entered the hallway and blocked the exit.
Carolle slung the tome at Gaines, cracking his mask over his bruise. He snarled and tore off the broken porcelain. “You stupid woman! We waited until he was alone, for your sake!”
“What do we do, Gaines?” Chester whined as he circled Carolle. “She said our names.”
“I know! Shut up!” Gaines shifted his weight and acknowledged the men outside the doorway with a slow nod. “No loose ends.”
Carolle pounced for Gaines, but Chester struck first. She hit the parquet floor hard. Her ribs felt sharp. Wind stirred her hair. Darkness reigned.
