Page 58 of Tempest

“That can be arranged!”

* * *

ONLY WHEN THE door was safely shut behind her, the sanctuary of the townhome welcoming Cat with open arms, did she slump. Or at least she tried to. Ms. Moseley caught her before she could collapse entirely, a weeping Derry on her heels.

“We went to the fort. They said you were . . .” Derry snuffled, red-faced, her eyes swollen from crying.

“It doesn’t matter what they said,” Moseley said, her stern manner somehow comforting. Cat could not help but lean into her grasp. “She is home now. I told you our mistress would sort it out.”

Much as she wanted to let Moseley take a little bit of the burden, Cat forced herself to stand. She tried not to remember what it felt like to sit in a cell, with nothing but ghosts to keep her company.

“I’m fine, Derry,” she said, even as her knees trembled.

Moseley dropped her hand but did not leave Cat’s side. “See, nothing to fuss over,” she said sharply. “Now go prepare a bath, she’ll need it after a night in the cells.”

While Derry bobbed a curtsy and hurried away, Cat shot Moseley a grateful look. Derry was a kind girl but emotional, prone to hysterics. And while the situation certainly called for hysteria, it would not aid matters at all.

Moseley pushed Cat along, away from the front door and into the small parlor.

Gleaming glass windows looked out on Keystone Street, and light spilled across the intricate Anticlean carpet, worked in green and gold thread. Oil paintings, porcelain vases, silk-edged curtains. Her fine things would suit a Meridian lord, though they were acquired through less-than-lordly means. Years ago, Cat had wanted her house on Keystone to look like a little bit of Meridia, like a corner of the country estate she never truly had. Now as she sat, surveying the fine wallpaper and woven rugs, the useless hearth and lacquered paneling, she hated it all. They were the trappings of the Empire, the stamp of a king far across the ocean.

Far across the ocean for now, she thought sharply. Already the clock ticked in her mind, counting down the days until the sovereign himself would arrive.

She started as a glass was pressed into her hand, two fingers of dark-brown liquor sloshing in the crystal. Not rum but good whisky, judging by the biting smell.

“Put it back and set yourself right,” Moseley commanded, standing over Cat like a wolf over her pup.

“You would make quite the nursemaid,” Cat replied, taking a steady gulp. She drained the glass slowly, but without stopping.

The whisky burned a sweet line down her throat and pooled in her belly. The warmth of it anchored her a little, holding her steady against the waves of fear and anger crashing in every direction.

“I doubt I’ll have time to bathe properly,” Cat muttered, casting a rueful glance at the door. As much as she wanted to scrub off all remnants of the fort, the cells, and the governor’s deadly bargain, there were more pressing things to address.

Moseley raised a thin eyebrow. “No time to bathe? This is very unlike you.”

At any other time, Cat would have laughed. Instead, she turned to look out the window, the street beyond warped by the thick glass. Captain Fell’s carriage was long gone.

“Have Derry lay out some clothes for me,” she murmured.

The maid’s brow disappeared into her hairline.

Cat sighed. “For travel.”

When Moseley collapsed into the seat next to Cat, she looked her age for once. The sun glinted in her gray hair and cut across her worn face, filled with wrinkles hard-earned by a life of work beneath the tropical sun. She ran a hand over her scalp, smoothing back a few silver strands. Meticulous as Moseley was with the townhome and the estate before it, she was always disheveled herself.

“Is it finally time, then?” the old woman whispered, her pale eyes wavering around the room. Then she grimaced. “I don’t know if you have anything warm enough for the crossing.”

In spite of herself, Cat laughed.

“I’m not going back to the Empire,” she said. “I’m not leaving.”

Moseley’s expression tightened, her lips pursing. “I see Jasper Fell’s hand in this.”

Sighing, Cat wished for another glass of whisky.

“Indeed, his hands are all over my predicament,” she admitted. “But he is also the reason I’m still alive and not strung up in Hargrove Square.”

She could not help but feel some begrudging loyalty to Fell, even now. It was a difficult habit to break, after all they had seen.