and forced the tip into the limestone, testing it. The blade sank into the fireplace, cutting through the rock with surprising ease. No more than half an inch, he decided. If there was a safe, he didn’t want to damage the contents. He dropped to one knee, slashed horizontally across the fireplace, rose, and slashed again at his eye level.
The front of the fireplace slid half an inch. Richard stepped back. The cut section crashed down and fell with a loud thud, its back exposed—wooden boards with a thin layer of limestone affixed to its front. Inside the gutted fireplace, shelves gaped, containing five small black books and one red one.
He turned to Jack. “Well done.”
“You’re a genius.” Charlotte hugged the boy.
Richard pulled out the books and brought them over to Charlotte. His hands shook.
She opened the first black book, and her eyes widened as she read.
He flipped through the red volume, scanning the pages filled with neat rows of accounting figures. Investments and payments, to and from five names. Here they were, the people directly profiting from the sale of human beings. Lord Casside, a rich blueblood who’d made his money in the import and export trade. He’d seen him once at Declan’s house during a formal dinner. Lady Ermine. He had no idea who she was, but he would find out. Baron Rene, another unfamiliar name. Lord Maedoc, a retired general, a decorated war hero. And . . .
“Viscount Robert Brennan.”
“The king’s cousin?” Charlotte asked.
Richard nodded. So it was true. The bookkeeper truly served the spear. Robert Brennan, the seventh person in line for the throne. Never in his calculations had he ever thought that the chain of command went that high.
“You’re shocked,” Charlotte said.
“I don’t understand.” Richard leaned against the desk. “He was born wearing a silk shirt. He has wealth, status, the privilege afforded to his bloodline, the best education one can buy . . .”
All the things that had been denied to Richard. An education was a double-edged sword: it broadened his horizons, and, at the same time, it made him painfully aware of the opportunities he would never have. There was a time when he felt trapped in the Mire, aware of the world outside the Edge but unable to get to it, chained to the swamp. He had neither the breeding, nor the money, nor the opportunity to make it past the Louisiana troops guarding the border with the Edge, but he had the intellect and the education to understand the full futility of his position. He would’ve killed to open just one door and escape. Brennan had all the advantages. Every door was open to him.
“Why? Why do this? He’s like a millionaire who’s robbing beggars.”
“Who knows,” Charlotte said. “Maybe it’s the thrill of doing something criminal.”
She sounded exhausted. Worry stabbed at him. He had to get her and the boy out of here.
He cut a section of the gauzy curtain, stacked the books on it, and tied it into a makeshift bag. Stealing was criminal. This was an atrocity. More so, because Brennan, born into privilege, had a duty. He had a responsibility to wield his influence for the benefit of the realm, and instead he spat on it. Whatever sickness drove Brennan to rule over the slave trade, Richard would make sure he paid. He would make certain. He had promised it to Sophie, and he would see it through.
Richard sheathed his sword and handed the bag of books to Jack. “This is vitally important. Guard it.”
The boy nodded.
Richard offered Charlotte his right hand. She rose from the chair, swaying a little. They walked downstairs and out of the front door. Below them, the city stretched down the hill to the harbor. Orange flames billowed from two different sides of the town, far to the left and closer to the right, devouring the structures. Here and there, isolated shots rang out, followed by screams. A single ship waited in the middle of the harbor, like a graceful bird on a sea of black glass, and above it all, in the endless night sky, a pale moon rose, spilling its indifferent light onto the scene.
Richard turned to the left, behind the house. The horse still waited. He untied the reins and brought it over to Charlotte.
“I can walk.”
“Charlotte.” He hadn’t meant to put all of his frustration into that one single word, but somehow he did.
She blinked, startled.
“Please, get on the horse.”
She climbed into the saddle. He took the reins and started down the street, Jack at his side. The dog took position ahead of them. Richard’s face itched mercilessly. As soon as they got down to the coast, he would wash all the gunk of his disguise off his skin.
“George has been alone with dad for a long time,” Jack said.
It was a lot to ask, but he had confidence in George, and the boy needed to redeem himself. “He will be fine.”
“Are you going to kill our dad?” the boy asked quietly.
“It’s not for me to decide what to do with your father.” John Drayton deserved to die, and if Drayton weren’t connected to the boys, he would dispose of the man like the piece of garbage he was. But family took precedence, and the children’s claim superseded his.
“If you’re going to let us handle it, don’t let George do it,” Jack said. “I’ll kill him for grandma. I don’t care. I don’t even remember him, but George waited for him all this time. It would be bad for him.”
It was said that changelings didn’t understand human emotion. They understood it just fine, Richard reflected. They simply couldn’t figure out why others chose to mask what they truly felt. Jack wanted to spare his brother. Even in the Mire, where things like betrayal and punishment were kept in the family, no child was expected to kill his parent.
The boy, no, the young man was looking at him.
“Don’t worry,” he told Jack. “That’s one burden neither of you will have to carry.”
NINE
“YOU look good,” John Drayton said from the opposite end of his cabin. “Solid. All grown-up. I remember when you were sickly. You kept raising animals because you couldn’t stand to watch something die. I take it you’ve gotten over that.”
George examined the man in front of him. The key was to cordon off his own anger and evaluate him as he would any other opponent. The years had banged John around, but he was in good health. He ate well and carried a few extra pounds. The air in the cabin hinted at the spicy notes of his cologne. His clothes were well cut from good fabric. His hair was professionally shorn to flatter his face. John Drayton was a vain man, and he liked spending money on himself.
George remembered him as being big, a tall shadow. He remembered him being funny. He would make jokes.
The thought spurred the vicious part of him into a gallop. Jokes. Right.
For the first hour and a half, John had kept his mouth shut, probably waiting for him to talk. Waiting for “How could you abandon us, Father?” and “I’ve waited for you to come back, Father!” Waiting for some tell, some clue or lever to push.
Most people didn’t handle silence well, and John had banked on it and lost. George had no problem with silence. It was an effective tool, and he’d seen his Mirror handlers use it to great effect. Having finally realized that no clues would be coming, John decided to start talking and probe for weaknesses. George had sat in on enough of the Mirror’s interrogations to guess the most likely course this conversation would take: John would try to bridge the gap between the six-year-old sickly child he left behind and the sixteen-year-old he saw now.
“You remember what I told you when I left?”
Like an open book.
“I said—”
“—for you to keep an eye on your sister and brother for me. You’ve done good. Jack’s still alive, that’s something. Couldn’t have been easy to make that miracle happen.”
