I left the townhouse before dawn broke the sky, wearing my old black dress and a cloak equally black – gods know it took me an age to struggle out of that evening gown, to remove every pin from my hair, to clean the makeup from my skin. I’ve not slept, or barely. I’ve been running through my head the events at the theatre, Aidan’s sudden attentiveness, the seeming kindness of showing me the automaton like it was a child’s distraction, the bruise on my wrist that’s now clear to see. Aoife’s smiles and comments, her wild spending. Brigid’s increased sniping and hostility.
I’m to be sold, a bought bride.
Aoife’s going to rebuild our fortunes with my purchase price.
And Aidan… doesn’t he think perhaps that linking himself so closely to the O’Malley core, the dying heart of the family, might affect him? His wealth? For though the outer branches have remained safe and prosperous, grown strong, the true O’Malleys have withered on the vine until there’s just one scheming old woman left with nothing to offer… nothing but a granddaughter who’s the closest thing remaining to a pristine O’Malley.
Aidan.
Aidan wants it all. He wants to rebuild what we once had. He wants the house on Hob’s Head, overrun by his servants making it all bright and shiny again. He wants to make the name mean something once more. He’ll take the last O’Malley girl to wife; though her father’s an Elliott she’s been called O’Malley since her parents died, it’s the purest blood he’s likely to find. He’ll get children on me. He’ll start the sacrifices one again: a child to inherit, a child for the Church, a child for the sea so she gives her bounty to us once again. Will he take the name? O’Malley? Or does he think it’s cursed? Will he keep Fitzpatrick and think he can avoid misfortune that way? As if Fate won’t recognise him?
For hours I’ve wandered aimlessly, watching the sky creep from black to grey to the palest dirty blue. I’ve covered so much of this city on foot, at first thinking myself protected by my cloak and my height – but I honestly suspect now it’s that the Queen of Thieves prefers her city to be orderly. She might make her fortune skimming off others’ ill-gotten gains, but that doesn’t mean Breakwater is chaotic. The streets, mostly, are tidy; houses are well-kept; there are rough men and women but they seem to be waiting patiently for orders. This empire is organised. Murder and mayhem and theft may well be her business, but it is business to be exported to other cities and towns. Óisín’s little knife is in my pocket, but I’ve had no cause to use it.
I even wandered through the assassins market, located at the crossroads just outside the main gate into the city, which I’d heard of but never seen. Newly sprung up since the arrival of Bethany Lawrence, another source of income and organisation: all manner of commerce did I witness there. Women and men, old and young, sitting, standing, reclining, waiting. And customers approached in droves, some furtive, some quite open in what they did, most business-like. One of the tinkers who’d passed by Hob’s Hallow had told how the Queen of Thieves has made it so convenient for people to find the assassin of their dreams in Breakwater that folk come from all around. The port-city will present the greatest range of skilled killers for your delectation. Middlemen and guildmasters – leaning against lampposts or sitting in tents – established a client’s requirements: What message might be sent in this death, should it be clear to others not to interfere in the manner the victim had, or was the message for that single person alone? Clients would then be put in contact with the murderer most appropriate to their needs. Poisoners, those who favoured the garrotte or fire or water, those with a taste in sharp things or bludgeons, and those whose preference was for ranged weapons and a distant death.
But even I could tell who were wolves and who were sheep. I was raised by Aoife O’Malley, wasn’t I?
I marvelled, I confess, at the sheer number of people there, at the idea that this was done out in the open, that there should be no constable or guard here to make arrests. Elsewhere this sort of thing would be done in hidden places: back rooms, sewer tunnels, in the depths of forests, on deserted roads – once upon a time, in the tower rooms of Hob’s Hallow. Not in Breakwater. How long before it spilled into the daylight? I watched as a creature was summoned from a cauldron then decanted into a bottle and handed over for a fistful of coin; an imp, tiny and grey-green that coughed fire. I thought, briefly, oh so briefly, about becoming a customer myself. Aidan dead in his sleep, I’d not be fussed how, as long as he was gone from my life.
But then, wouldn’t Aoife simply find another suitor for me?
I’d thought… I’d thought I would be free. Not quite yet, but with Óisín’s death I was one step closer to being released from my grandparents. Then there would just be Aoife. It’s not that I don’t love them, though they’re hard to love, it’s that with them gone… I’d be beyond their rule and regulation. I’d make decisions for myself, although who knew what they’d be. I’d never thought of myself anywhere but Hob’s Hallow, and I never thought of myself as marrying anyone – it’s never been discussed or brought up in even the vaguest of way – I just thought…
That they’d be gone one day and I’d be free.
That the big old house would be mine. As if there would be no debts still owing – as if Aoife wouldn’t keep running up bills.
Óisín’s will is to be read
