My panic begins to subside. At least, it does where the prefect is concerned.
“The margrave requested Prefect Klemens.” Adalbrecht’s messenger says it like an accusation.
The boy bobs his head in apology, shoulders hunching. With the pearls on, I can nearly look him in the eye. Ithinkhe’d have a couple of inches on me if he stood straight, but his primary goal seems to be taking up as little space as possible. “Y-yes, sir, he was held up in Lüdz. I was sent ahead to begin the preliminary investigation.” He produces a small journal and a stick of paper-wrapped writing charcoal from another pocket. “I’d like to begin by taking statements—”
Komtevon Eisendorf holds up a hand. “I doubt anyone here is sober enough to give you a useful account of what happened, Prefect. Won’t you celebrate with us tonight, and save the questions until morning?”
I see the boy mumble an aggrieved “junior prefect” under his breath before he offers a shrug. “If it suits you. Sir.”
It certainly suitsme, considering that somewhere on this estate, Hans the manservant is unwittingly returning a satchel full of stolen Eisendorf jewelry to my coach.
The next hour and a half are a blur. I’m only half there as we sit down for supper, but it’s not hard to keep up the Gisele act, bubbly and glowing and still half drunk as she fields felicitations. All the while my mind whirs like a clock. A few brave souls attempt to strike up a conversation withJuniorPrefect Emeric Conrad from where he’s glumly rooted himself at the other end of the table, only to give up in short order, looking almost as miserable as he does.
For once, it’s easy for me to slip away with relatively little fanfare after supper. The rest of the guests are either too busy buzzing about the upcoming wedding, or too gorged and wine-fuddled to notice me quietly asking for my cloak and gloves. (Even Ezbeta is nodding off in an overstuffed damask armchair.) My coachman has been summoned, and a detachment of the messenger’s escort will accompany me back to Minkja, capital of Bóern. All that’s left is to wait in the foyer for the coach to pull around.
Or so I thought. I’m standing at a window in my cloak of positively angelic mink-lined frost-blue velvet, staring out into the moonless night, when a reflection in the glass shifts behind me. I whirl around.
Junior Prefect Emeric Conrad hovers a few yards away. This close, it’s easy to see how he’s practically swimming in his oversized uniform. He lets out an awkward little cough. “Apologies if I startled you, er . . .Prinzessin?”
I nod, gracious. “Can I help you?”
“I wished to offer my congratulations on your upcoming marriage,” he says very quickly, pushing his spectacles up a thin nose, “and to ask if it would not be too much trouble to take your statement tomorrow morning. The Penny Phantom has stolen from you in the past as well, have they not?”
“Indeed,” I say, and by that I mean I made sure everyone saw me wearing a couple of Gisele’s most valuable baubles, hosted the kind of party thePfennigeistkept infiltrating, and then immediately sold the jewelry to my fence. “I will be happy to tell you everything I know,” I lie. Then I let a beatific smile unfurl over my face.Gisele’sface.
I know what that smile does to people. I was there the first time the enchanted pearls were strung around the real Gisele’s throat; I saw what they made her into. I saw the way her smile seemed to light up the room and break your heart all at once, in just the way you liked best.
Years ago, while I was mending Gisele’s winter cloak and she was off on a hunt in the woods, I refined a theory about desire. In the world I knew, there were three reasons a person would be wanted: for profit, pleasure, or power. If you could satisfy only one, they used you. Two, they saw you.
Three, they served you.
From what I can tell, the pearls complete the trinity. They find what you might want, what you didn’t know you wanted, and make you believe only the wearer can give it to you. You desire their friendship, their company, their approval, and for many, their bed.
And judging by Emeric’s faintly stunned look now, I surmise even a prefect of the Godly Courts is not immune.
The wheels of the coach clatter outside on the drive, and the manor door creaks open. That’s my cue. I toss a shallow curtsy Emeric’s way. “Prefect Conrad.”
As the door closes behind me, I catch an uneven “junior prefect.”
No, I don’t think he’ll be a problem.
The footman helps me into the Reigenbach-blue coach, and I glance to the corner. The satchel is there, ceramic jars clinking quietly as the coach rocks from my weight. I seat myself nearby, sweeping my skirts over it, and accept a steaming waterskin from the footman. It’s been filled with boiling water for heat, and I settle it on my lap as the door shuts, then draw a soft, heavy fur wrap over myself to make a cozy cocoon against the chill. It’s going to be a long ride back to Minkja, but at least it will give me time to think.
The coach lurches forward, and I burrow deeper into the fur.
The way I see it, I have three problems.
First: I don’t have enough money to leave right now. A thousandgildenis enough to last a spendthrift countess five months, a shrewd laborer five years. It’s enough to get me out of the Blessed Empire of Almandy, through one of the borders thatisn’ta bloodbath, and it will buy . . . I don’t know what. A ship? A storefront? A farm? All that matters is that it will buy me a life far from here.
And it must be far, if I am to escape my godmothers. Far enough for them to lose their claim to me.
Death told me once that she and Fortune are different beyond our borders of the Blessed Empire. That the Low Gods and their believers are like rivers and valleys, each shaping the other over time. In other lands, she is a messenger, a black dog, a warrior queen; Fortune is a horn of plenty, an eightfold-goddess, a serpent-headed titan. They wear different forms, abide by different laws.
So maybe, outside the Blessed Empire, they will no longer be my godmothers. It’s the only way I can think to be free of them. Right now, I have just enough to get past the border as is, but I will be a commoner again, alone and friendless and without a penny to my name, and I know what happens to girls like that. I’d planned to solve this problem, with another theft, but . . .
Now that Adalbrecht’s on his way back, I have two weeks to handle the money issueandfigure out how to flee from my second problem: Gisele’s husband-to-be.
Ordinarily, the only trouble with solving a problem like Adalbrecht would be deciding between arsenic and hemlock. But that route is cut off by my third problem: the prefects. Well, not Junior Prefect Milksop really, just the impending Prefect Klemens. A full-fledged prefect will be able to trace Adalbrecht’s murder back to me, and convene the Low Gods themselves to decide my punishment. I don’t think even Death or Fortune could save me then.
