“Would it bring her back?”
Sullivan shook his head. “No more than it would stop this flood. If I thought it could, I would try. I wish there was a grand gesture to make that would mean something, but I think perhaps that would be too easy.” The captain said nothing, but his stony face was damp despite the tarpaulin hat. Sullivan hesitated, then asked gently, “How many souls, Commodore?”
Frost’s chin rose a fraction of an inch. “Two hundred, between the battle and the storm.”
“How long ago?”
The captain looked at the young man at last. “Should that matter?” he asked curiously.
Sullivan tilted his head indifferently. “Some would say yes, but I imagine only the ones who’ve never been responsible for the death of another.”
In the doorway of the tavern, Madame Grisaille stood under the cover of the inn’s porch roof, watching the backs of the two men. She considered calling, debated going back to the kitchens for mugs of warm coffee or chocolate, and decided at last that time and solitude were what was wanted. She slid one thin, patchy hand from the white fur muff, then reached out and touched the twisted old iron lamppost beside the porch for a moment. A shivery vibration thrummed through the iron and into the ground. Then Grisaille watched as, down beside the road, camouflaged by night and rain and the old, old pain of the two men at the edge of the floodwater, stems of dark iron reached up out of the soil and stretched skyward into the torrent.
Unnoticed—or ignored—by Sullivan and Frost, the iron stems grew and branched and arched over their heads, fronds reaching for each other from either side of the lane and twining themselves together into a canopy wrought of irregular braided and knotted metal tendrils. Here and there broad iron leaves sprouted like roof tiles, diverting most of the rain away from the men below.
Madame Grisaille nodded, satisfied, and went back inside, where she found Maisie returning from the water closet. “A dance before bed,” Madame said. “The telling is finished for tonight, I believe.”
They returned to the parlor. Negret now lay sprawled on the sofa, humming to himself and gazing out into the rain with one hand tucked in his vest pocket and his glass of sherry forgotten in the other, but Reever, still staring moodily into the half-hour glass, had not moved from the chair by the music-box cabinet, and the castle, of course, stood precisely where Tesserian had told it to stay.
“I would hate to knock it over,” Maisie said, eyeing the castle. “It’s not finished.”
“The beauty of castles made of cards is that they are temporary, meant to be built and rebuilt,” Madame replied as she reached for the door of the cabinet. “But I do not think Mr. Tesserian’s castles fall until they are ready.”
“Shall I find Sorcha for the key?” Maisie asked.
At this, Reever roused himself enough to chuckle. “The lady needs no keys.”
Maisie frowned. She had not realized that the twin gentlemen with the decorated faces had particularly noticed Madame at all, beyond holding doors for her and waiting, as they all did, for her to sit first at meals.
The old lady’s body blocked the lock and handle from the girl, so Maisie couldn’t see what she did to manipulate the mechanism—but she remembered Madame’s secret, so she was able to guess. Sure enough, the door opened easily, and Madame took down a box shaped like a teapot. “No sad songs tonight.” She wound the teapot and lifted the lid, and a joyful melody Maisie didn’t know spilled from the spout like steam.
Madame offered Maisie her hands. The girl hesitated, glancing at Reever, the nearer of the twins. She beckoned the old lady close. “But they’ll see,” she whispered. “They’ll know your secret.”
“My dear, they already know,” Madame whispered back. “They have been in Nagspeake longer than anyone. The city has no secrets from them.” She smiled at Reever. “Only people confuse them these days.”
Reever snorted. “Too much truth, my lady.” He got to his feet. “Fine, then. No sad songs. You have always danced with us, so dance with me now.” He held out his arms and, as Maisie laughed in delight, he and Madame Grisaille began to swirl around the room.
Then, “Come on,” Negret said. He set down his drink and got to his feet, then reached for Maisie’s hands and swung her around, following the other two. Madame and Reever danced like family who had not met in a long time; Negret and Maisie danced with sheer, silly abandon, the young man adding twirls and dips as often as possible to keep his partner laughing. Mr. Negret, Maisie thought in between flourishes, danced as if he had no secrets, or at least didn’t care who might see the truth of them. And she was right, which was perhaps how he and Maisie managed to match their steps so perfectly and effortlessly to each other’s.
The music began to slow to its inevitable halt. Then, before it had quite wound all the way down, the notes paused altogether for a moment. All four dancers glanced to the little table where Madame had set the teapot. Sorcha finished winding the box and set it down again, and the music picked up once more, faster than before. She opened her mouth to apologize and tell them all not to mind her, for she’d only come in to check the fire, unless anyone wanted a blanket?
At the same moment and without a word between them, Madame Grisaille extricated herself from Reever, who, in turn, spun Maisie easily away from his brother and commenced twirling her about in Madame’s place. Suddenly, before she could speak a word, Sorcha found herself dancing with Negret Colophon, who murmured the words
