humiliating and heartbreaking. The Raven Guard had smelled the magic I’d made and had frightened many people wading through the crowd with their pikes, but with the density of so many people in the room and the sealing of the charm, they’d been unable to pinpoint its source. I had been lucky, I suppose, to escape them. The dark part of me I try hardest to shut away wishes the Sphinx had managed to take my life on that fateful day but a few months ago.
The driving wight takes my carpetbag. I swallow my nausea, thinking of the wight’s true origins, as it helps me and Lucy out of the carriage. A line of servants are waiting. I barely see them, caught between my humiliation and my revulsion at the wight.
But I don’t want to think about all of that, so I give the house all my attention. I will remember the way Virulen Manor looks for as long as I live.
I’ve heard tales of the Manor before, even seen lithographs of it, but none of them did it justice. Domes, cupolas, and scrollwork decorate the roofline like sugar pavilions on a wedding cake. Ivy reaches up toward the blue-tiled roofs. Images of the saints peer from between the arrow-shaped leaves. Here and there, the marble is chipped or a blue tile missing. All about are signs of decay. High on the domes, gargoyles perch like sentinel spirits. One of them is missing an eye; the other a wing. But they’re turned toward the far-away Tower, as if holding congress with the Empress’s ravens. I shiver a little, but the fading majesty of the house remains.
“If you will come this way, Lady, miss,” the Chatelaine says. Her belt of keys jingles as she leads us into the house. Servants follow with the few things I’ve brought from home. The rest is already here.
It’s hard for me not to gawk as soon as we enter the Grand Foyer, but I have been to the Tower now, and I know that gawking will mark me more surely than acting aloof will. I lift my chin and stare at the
Displayed along the walls are the heads of various Unnaturals slain by the previous Lords Virulen. Some of the mounts are better than others. A Unicorn’s glass eyes glare at me; that one is particularly awful. But the Dragon . . . I want to touch its scaly cheek. Even dead, its heavy, earthen power can still be felt. I try and fail not to think of all the Unnaturals, trapped in the Refinery prisons back in the City.
Lucy is greeted by her father, who takes her arm and leads her toward another hallway, eager to discuss nuptial strategies, I suppose. She nods at me as they pass and I curtsy low, afraid to meet Lord Virulen’s steely eye. The Chatelaine takes me up the Grand Staircase, a double-helix monstrosity designed like staircases in antique books. She guides me along an arched corridor; oil portraits of Virulens past stare at me from the everlit gloom. One particular woman strikes me—tall and thin like Lucy, but without that wicked sparkle in her eye. I wonder if she was Lucy’s mother. Thus far, all I’ve heard is that the Lady Virulen died when Lucy was quite young and no one could stomach marrying her widower father after his near-fatal brush with the Manticore. I’ve been too shy to ask Lucy for confirmation; it certainly isn’t a subject of pleasant conversation.
Then I hear the keys jangle, and the Chatelaine throws open the door to my new room.
Or rooms, I should say.
She shows me into a sitting room with peridot velvet settees and a marble mantel held up by winged Griffins.
“Your bedchamber is through there.” She points toward an open door framed in oaken scrollwork. I glimpse old hanging tapestries, more oak, and overflowing trunks as a manservant carries in my carpetbag. He bows, sets down the bag, and makes a hasty retreat.
“My lady will call for you shortly,” the Chatelaine says.
Then she leaves me alone, the door scraping shut behind her.
The rooms are larger than anything I’ve ever slept in. The bed crouches on clawed feet.
I wonder if it will belch when it swallows me. Everything smells like lemon oil with a hint of must underneath. There’s a little toilet room off the bedchamber with a brass bath and a flushing water closet, rather like the one at home but more elegant and rudimentary at the same time.
I wander from the wardrobe filled with new clothes around the trunks of shoes, hats, and underthings to the window. The view is of the formal gardens. The house curves around them. To the right extends a decrepit-looking wing that can’t be seen from the approach to the Grand Entrance. The broken dome of an old house Refinery is overgrown with ivy. All the Great Houses once had their own, but this one seems to have fallen into disuse. Even from this distance, a neverlock shimmers darkly on its doors.
Already, it seems I have something to explore.
A knock comes at the door. I hurry to open it, nearly tripping over a trunk full of stockings in my haste. A maid brings Mistress Lucy’s summons.
I follow her down to the Lady’s Parlor, passing through several rooms, each seemingly grander than the last.
Compared to the rest of the manor, the Lady’s Parlor is cozy, sporting red satin pillows on chaise lounges and a delicately carved wooden mantel. There are portraits here, but none of them as overbearing as some of the vast ones I glimpsed in the ballrooms or the imposing ancestral portraits of the halls. A mirror with a gilded Cockatrice’s head is perhaps the most intimidating thing here. That, or the Yeti skin rug. I recognize the shiver of magic as I step past the rust-red fur.
Lucy sits on one of the chaise lounges, dangling yarn in front of a gray cat.
She looks up and smiles. “Ah, you’ve found me at last,” she says. Something about the way she says it makes me feel guilty that I didn’t find her sooner.
I curtsy.
She waves her hand at my nonsense. “What did I say about formality when we’re in private?”
I look around at the maids. There are at least three of them in the room.
“Oh, they don’t count,” Lucy says. “Most of them are Tinkers. They probably barely understand what we say.” She reaches toward an alabaster bowl full of grapes so purple they’re almost black. She pops one in her mouth as she stands, pulling her skirts away from the questing kitty.
I think of the poor Tinkers I saw in the Imperial Refinery and of Syrus, the Tinker thief. There’s no doubt
Bayne said Syrus would be here to take me to the Manticore. I hope we find each other soon. Keeping the Heart from Charles is the only thing left to make me feel good about myself. Lucy doesn’t know or suspect anything about me and Bayne, and she never shall. But how will I bear seeing the two of them together? I suppose it’s just punishment for what I’ve done. I imagine a little room at the back of my brain and stuff my feelings about Bayne deep inside it.
“See here,” Lucy says. She shakes a slender envelope trailing ribbons and seals in my face to get my attention.
I take it, hold it lightly.
“Go ahead,” she says.
I open it. It’s from Lord Grimgorn to Lord Virulen. An offer of marriage from his son to Lucy. A request to have potential bride and groom meet with the Imperial Matchmaker to determine whether their marriage pleases the saints.
I feel like I might faint and instantly hate myself for the feeling.
“You did it!” she says. She slips the proposal out of my hand, and takes my fingers in hers. For one second, I think she’s going to dance me around the room in her happiness.
I don’t know what to say. All I see is Bayne tearing the mask from his face, his eyes like brilliant blue suns. All I hear are his thoughts cracking with the strain of my enchantment.
“Aren’t you happy, Vespa?” she asks.
I look into her black eyes and somehow manage a smile, but I imagine it doesn’t look at all happy.
She squeezes my hands. “My, you are a somber thing. But I’ve brought something at the request of your father that’s likely to cheer you up.”
For some reason, my stomach turns.
“He reminded me that your birthday is coming soon, yes?”
I nod.
