Page 26 of Wicked Endeavors

Her heartbeat didn’t calm until Noelia turned around, heading back the way she’d come. She sighed in silent relief and then followed her, letting an anxious silence wrap around them. The courtyard had driven all thoughts of time from her head, and that had been far too close.

She could find an empty room on this floor, use it to turn back into Marisol Vinyet, pretend that Juana had given her helpful directions. The chance that this would come up between Noelia and Juana in conversation later was slim, but, if it did, they were likely to blame the morphers of House Cambio rather than her.

Eventually, she would have to figure out how to return to House Muerte long enough to steal a spirits-blessed orange blossom without being caught by any of its witches. But, for now, a carriage ride around the city sounded like the perfect way to celebrate this small victory.

SUMMER HAD BROUGHT WITH IT A HEAT THAT MADE the air ripple like boiling water, and it had only gotten worse now that the sun was overhead. Marisol began to sweat beneath her endless fabrics, her baby hairs springing loose and curling toward the roof. They rode with the carriage windows open, sheer curtains providing the illusion of privacy, and even still Marisol wanted to stick her head into the breeze with her tongue lolling like a dog’s.

“Oh, I got you something,” Noelia said, rifling through her bag until she found a long wooden box. “I know you have the prince and his guard, but you should be able to protect yourself.”

It was the first time that Noelia had so much as alluded to Bas, and Marisol was fascinated by the way her skin didn’t even twitch. She had thought herself a fine actor, but Noelia was an expert. Part of Marisol wanted to finally confront her, to ask how long she and Bas had known each other and what they had been discussing at the regatta last year, but the rest of her preached a level of patience that would make Gaspar proud.

As long as they thought her ignorant, she had an advantage. She wouldn’t give it away out of silly curiosity.

Instead, Marisol peered down at the box. “Did you manage to stuff a personal guard in there?”

“Very funny.” Noelia popped open the box, revealing a rondel dagger with a hardwood hilt. It was a gloriously sharp knife, perfect for piercing through weak spots in armor. “I made a replica of my favorite blade. Maybe we can spar one day.”

Marisol lifted the dagger from the box, turning it in the sunlight to admire the steel’s sharpness. “Hopefully, sooner rather than later. I haven’t exactly had much opportunity since I arrived.”

She already had her daggers strapped to her thighs, but she didn’t need them. They were crutches at best, a sentimental tie to Gaspar at worst. She could take a grown man down without them. But the fact that Noelia had given her one out of a desire to keep her safe was…

Marisol frowned. It was troubling, actually. “Is Rojanea so dangerous?”

“I wouldn’t call it dangerous,” Noelia said, picking each of her words carefully. “It’s a city like any other. However, the Coronet can be… difficult, for those without means. Sometimes, they see visitors as targets rather than guests.”

Since Marisol had no sheath for the gift, she put it back into the box and then placed the box on the floor. It gave her an excuse to hide her face, because she didn’t know how to feel about the picture Noelia was painting of the Coventrians. She’d never robbed someone during the Coronet—the rest of the year was fair game, but there were more city guards in the streets during the social season—and she didn’t think she would need a dagger to fight someone off. Welks were hungry, poor, and unhoused, and instead of doing anything to help, the witches threw themselves a yearly party and treated those without magic as if they were dangerous.

“Well,” she managed, folding her hands in her lap, “thank you. I wish I’d gotten you something.”

“You got me out of the House! That’s more than enough.”

Noelia began talking about the first time she’d learned swordsmanship, and Marisol chimed in with her own edited stories of how often she’d dropped her blade, and she felt it again, that sense of camaraderie that threatened to make her forget that this was all a means to an end.

Noelia was a reaper. Noelia was a spy. Noelia was the enemy.

But she was also hilarious and easy to talk to.

Careful.

They were giggling over Noelia’s first tutor—a horrible teacher who was nonetheless so cute that she didn’t complain—when the carriage came to a sudden stop.

Both of their bags ended up on the floor. Noelia bent to grab them, but Marisol’s ear was to the window, through which she could hear muffled speech. It sounded as if an argument was in progress, but her instincts were screaming that nothing could be that simple.

“Hey,” shouted Noelia, shoving Marisol’s bag onto the cushioned seat. “Why have we stopped?”

Instead of an answer, the carriage door swung open. Instinctively, Marisol pressed herself against the opposite side, her hands hovering near her daggers. The person who stared at her was not the footman who had helped them inside at House Muerte. This figure—male, she thought—was wearing a black handkerchief over the lower half of his almond-brown face, a billowing black shirt with loose laces at the neckline, and black breeches that disappeared into black boots. A wide-brimmed hat, also black, covered his hair and shaded his eyes.

At his side was a sword, half-drawn so the blade glinted as he said, “Anything valuable. Hand it over.”

Three more similarly dressed people appeared behind him, all of them armed and staring into the carriage as if it were a treasure chest. Their bodies moved with restless energy, as though they might start ransacking the interior if there was any further delay. Even before Noelia’s quiet gasp, Marisol knew exactly who they were dealing with.

“Criterion rebels,” Noelia breathed. “Please, don’t hurt us.”

When they dragged Marisol from the carriage, she evaluated the situation. The carriage had stopped at a blockade of logs and bricks. Their footman and horse were still alive, the latter being tended to by one of the rebels while the former had been tied to his own box with his hands bound behind his back. They were surrounded by fifteen members of the Criterion, all of various ages from what she could tell from beneath their hats. The one holding her wrists appeared to be the leader; the others watched him in a deferential way, and no one intervened to stop him from holding her too tightly.

Fifteen to two weren’t great odds, but life was rarely fair.

She let the man drag her one more foot, and then she went limp in his arms.