The Queen's Necklace (11 page)

Taking the lamp with her, Lili spread out the handkerchief in a clear space on the dresser. Closing her eyes to aid concentration, she began delicately sifting the ashes through her fingers. She was rewarded with a swift series of letters and words that appeared in her mind like writing on a page, but all so jumbled and incoherent that it was impossible to make sense of them. Yet she persisted, sifting through the pile a second and a third time, hoping something would appear to provide a key to the message.

“It's no use,” she said at last. “Whoever burned this took every precaution. He tore the letter up into small pieces before he set fire to it, and he mixed the ashes afterwards. I wish I were more experienced at this.”

Just then, there was a thumping in the corridor outside the door. The landlord and two other men came in with the corpse and deposited him unceremoniously on the bed.

When the men went out again, Lili wandered over for a closer look. “I know him. At least—I don't remember his name or where I met him, but there is something about that long bony face—”

On the other side of the room, Allora made a faint exclamation of distress. “Lilliana, I want you to come over and look at this.” She held up a white cambric shirt.

Lili moved closer and put out a hand to feel the material. The cambric was very soft and fine, but something considerably more important had attracted Allora's attention. Around the collar and wristbands there was a delicate embroidery worked in horsehair and silk: a spell sewn into the fabric of the shirt.

“Oh, Aunt—if only he had been wearing this!”

“Yes,” said Allora. “The first blows, perhaps unexpected, would have left him unscathed, and he might have been able to defend himself afterward.” She folded the shirt carefully and placed it back on the spindle-back chair where she had found it. “If he had been wearing this, he might be alive right now, and the Goblin dead in his place.”

Evening shadows gathered in the snowy streets of Hawkesbridge. As the bells in all the myriad city churches chimed the quarter hour, the outer gate of Whitcomb Gaol creaked open, and Wilrowan stepped out, a free man.

A shiny black livery carriage with wheels picked out in scarlet waited for him in the street. Without a backward glance, he sprang inside, slammed the door shut, and threw himself down on one of the red velvet seats, with his hat pulled forward and his arms folded across his chest—the very picture of sulky dissatisfaction.

Lounging elegantly on the broad seat opposite him, Blaise Trefallon cleared his throat. “The atmosphere of Whitcomb, my dear, is—rather distinctive. Fortunately, it does wash off.” He waved a handkerchief liberally scented with civet and neroli in his friend's direction.

Outside, the driver spoke gruffly to his horses; the carriage lurched into motion.

“Do you think so?” Will sat hunched in a corner, and all that Blaise could see of his face under the black beaver was a glitter of eyes and a three days' growth of rust-colored beard. “Yet I wonder, Trefallon, if this time my misdeeds will leave an indelible mark.”

Blaise tucked the handkerchief up his sleeve, raised a shapely eyebrow. “If word of your imprisonment gets out, people will certainly talk, but the ladies, no doubt, will think it romantic. Do you really care? I've always supposed not.”

“I care,” said Will morosely. “Not for the tittle-tattle of tongues at court, but for the opinion of those I respect, yes.”

Blaise continued to regard him with well-bred skepticism. “You amaze me, Blackheart. May I know the names of the favored few?”

The carriage turned a corner. Will braced himself with both booted feet on the floor. Trefallon put a hand on the seat.

“Spare me your sarcasm, please,” said Will. “If I've ever shown
any restraint in my life, it was because I cared for your good opinion, and for Lili's.”

“And you think Lilliana will hear about this and imagine—what?”

“That I fought Macquay over some wretched woman we were both pursuing. What else is
anyone
to think, when I can hardly repeat his vile insinuations?” Will moved restlessly on the seat. “I keep thinking about what you said: that my whole way of life was an insult to Lili. And yet, Blaise, even when I mean well, as I swear I did this time, it comes out ill.” He sighed deeply. “Sometimes, I don't care very much for my own company.”

“Then why,” said Blaise brutally, “do you continue to be so damnably reckless?”

Wilrowan hesitated. “Because I grow bored, I suppose.” There was a glint of white teeth in the shadows. “So quickly, so fatally bored, my dear,” he said, in perfect imitation of his friend's most worldly manner.

Blaise gave him a weary glance. “I wish to heaven you took life more seriously. You might spare yourself and everyone else a great deal of heartache.”

“Really?” said Will. “You intrigue me, Trefallon. I'd no idea that serious men were immune to heartache. I would have thought they were the very ones most likely to succumb.”

I
n the heart of Hawkesbridge stood a crumbling ancient wall: moated, gated, and triple-towered, part of the city's original fortifications. It had come to be regarded as a remote outer bastion of the Volary palace, though a full city mile lay between, and the iron-studded gates, facing each of the four cardinal points, were always guarded by the elite companies of the King's and the Queen's Guards, who took the duty in turn a week at a time. It was impossible, therefore, to approach the palace on horseback, by coach, or by chair, without first being identified and perhaps interrogated.

To one of these gates, in the early evening, came the shiny black carriage bringing Blaise and Will from Whitcomb Gaol. The job carriage rumbled across a wooden bridge and creaked to a halt. A few words passed between the driver and the men on duty, the door opened, and a trim military figure in the maroon-and-gold uniform of the King's Guard appeared in the gap.

“Mr. Trefallon.” The young lieutenant nodded respectfully. His gaze moved on to the figure slouched in the corner, and he gave a start as he recognized the second passenger.

“Will, you bastard, where in blazes—that is, Captain Blackheart!” He clicked his heels and saluted. “There is a message from
the queen. You are to attend her at the Volary, sir. I was instructed to emphasize
immediately
, before you speak with the king or see anyone else.”

Will frowned, not liking the sound of this. He might have asked for further information, but the officer had already stepped back and was motioning to his subordinates to open the heavy oak-and-iron gate.

As the door slammed shut and the carriage rolled on, Blaise gave Wilrowan a quizzical glance. “‘Will, you bastard'—is that how your men address you? My dear Blackheart, how on earth do you manage to maintain discipline?”

Will pushed back his hat. “Not one of mine, as you should have known by the uniform. Oh, very well, I see what you mean. But it's Lili's cousin, Nick Brakeburn—Lieutenant Kestrel Brakeburn, I
should
say—and I've known the boy since—” He gave an embarrassed laugh. “Curse you, Blaise, I
do
maintain discipline; there isn't a better company anywhere. You can ask anyone.”

The carriage crept slowly down a narrow lamplit avenue crowded with wagons, coaches, men on horseback, and a noisy mob of jostling mud-spattered pedestrians. Twice, the driver was forced to stop completely: once when a sedan-chair overturned in front of him, and again when the wheels of a dray and a pony cart locked together. There was a loud altercation, a shrill, whinnying protest from one of the panicked cart-horses, then the way was clear again.

The job carriage rounded a corner and the wheels began to creak as it moved uphill. Inside, Blaise yawned and closed his eyes; Will continued to brood in his corner. A vagrant breeze spiraled down the street, bringing with it a penetrating wild animal scent that quickly invaded the interior of the carriage. They were still some distance from the Volary, famous for its gardens, observatories, and menagerie, but the wind was in the east and the lion-scent became stronger as they moved along.

Without any warning, Will leaned forward and tapped Blaise on the knee. “Tell the driver to let me off by the dancing school.”

Trefallon's eyes flew open. “Fiend seize you, Blackheart, what are you up to now?” But he obligingly knocked on the roof, and when a panel slid open, relayed the order.

“Nothing you need worry about. I'm going to visit—a friend.”

“And the queen? Young Brakeburn said she wanted to see you at once.”

“You can tell Dionee I'll appear presently, duly chastened and prepared if necessary to throw myself at her feet in an agony of abasement. No?” Will grinned at Trefallon's expression of well-bred dismay. “Then just tell her to expect me within the hour.”

As soon as the carriage came to a halt, Will was out the door and elbowing his way through the crowd. Narrowly avoiding a collision with a sturdy chair-bearer, he ducked down a dark alley. Overhanging stories above blocked out the light from the stars. After two blocks, the alley ended at a rusty iron gate, illuminated by a blue gaslight. Pushing open the gate, he arrived at the foot of a steep staircase.

He climbed for several flights up the side of the building, until he came to the sixth floor and an anonymous door with a tarnished brass knocker.

Drawing a large iron key out of one pocket, Will opened the door and stepped boldly across the threshold. Then he felt in the darkness until he found a stub of greasy tallow candle and a dented tin box on a table by the door. The box contained flint, steel, and dry bits of tinder. He struck a spark, lit the candle, and glanced around him.

He stood in a small, shuttered room. There were books scattered everywhere, including much of the floor. Several maps had been pinned to the walls and a crude star chart sketched in charcoal on the planked ceiling. On a scarred table in one corner was a jumble of flasks and braziers, bottles of elixir, essences, and mineral salts, along with a telescope,
a compass, and assorted prisms and lenses. A cursory glance told him that nothing had been disturbed during his absence, though oddly enough the room smelled strongly of smoke.

Will set the candle on a dish already filled with melted tallow. Shrugging out of and discarding the gaudy scarlet coat, impatiently tossing his hat on a chair already piled dangerously high with books, he crossed the room and unlatched one pair of shutters. Throwing them wide, he listened for an answering flutter of wings outside.

There was only silence. He waited for several minutes, then closed the shutter. He was just refastening the latch when someone rapped sharply on the door.

With a frown, Wilrowan started to answer it, then paused to think. That he had taken these rooms was a carefully guarded secret; he was known to his neighbors by an assumed name; he came and went mostly at night. On the other hand, he had never been arrested before or so nearly assassinated. The present circumstances seemed to call for unusual precautions. He opened a cabinet, took out a pistol with a walnut stock and a chased silver barrel, made sure it was loaded and primed. Then he opened the door a bare few inches, holding the pistol concealed but ready.

A slender young woman stood outside. “Wilobie Culpepper, is that you?”

Will gave a sigh of relief, recognizing his landlord's daughter. “Eulalie. Is there anyone with you?”

“No. I'm quite alone. But—” She broke off speaking as he opened the door wider and drew her inside, then slammed the door behind her. She put a hand to her hair, gave the skirt of her flowered muslin gown a twitch. “No need to pull me about like that. My Heavens! You've grown very eager for my company, haven't you?”

She was, as Will had noticed long before this, a remarkably pretty girl. She was particularly appealing now, flushed and still breathless from her climb upstairs.

And Will had never been one to resist feminine beauty. “Willie—” she began, and was again interrupted, when he tossed the pistol down on the table, took her impetuously into his arms, and covered her mouth forcefully with his own.

Eulalie returned his kiss with enthusiasm, molding her slim body against his. But then she seemed to remember why she had come; she gasped and pulled away. “It isn't safe. There was a fire down below that weakened some of the beams, and the house could collapse at any moment.”

Will let her go at once. “A fire—here?” That explained the lingering scent of smoke. Then he reached out again, with both hands, and took her roughly by the shoulders. “Was it an accident, or did somebody try to burn down the house?”

She twisted out of his grip and moved toward the door. “Not
now
, Willie. I told you, it isn't safe.” As if in confirmation, the entire building shuddered convulsively.

Convinced that at least some of her story was true, he picked up his coat and hat, retrieved the pistol, then followed her out the door and down the steps to the alley.

“Now,” he said, when they stood on solid ground. “Tell me exactly how it happened.”

She gave a slight shrug. “A coal from the stove rolled onto the floor; the next thing we knew, the room was ablaze.” Eulalie made a grimace of distaste. “Would you mind putting that thing away? I don't quite care for the look of it. And why on earth should you suspect that somebody tried to burn down the house?”

He slipped the pistol into a pocket of his coat. “Because I have a low mind—as you of all people should know.” He was at least suspicious enough to wonder if she was telling the truth even now.

Though he ought to be able to trust her. They had been sharing a bed together, on and off, for about a year: a pleasant arrangement that seemed as much to her liking as it was to his. Pleasant
and
profitable,
Will reminded himself, remembering some of the expensive gifts he had given her.