A Temptation of Angels (8 page)

She could see a scrolled, silver opener on the writing table under the window but had no desire to leave the comfort of the mattress. Even now, her limbs were growing heavy. She slipped a finger under the flap of the envelope, hesitating for just a moment before breaking the familiar wax seal.

The letter was not long. Only one page. One page of Father’s slim, slanted handwriting. But she bent her head to it. Then, she read.

Helen held the thick parchment between her fingers. For the moment, her father was there, sitting next to her, telling her in a firm voice that everything would be all right.

But soon his voice faded. Helen’s eyelids grew heavy, and she put the cameo and the letter back in the box with the currency. She kept out only the photograph, holding it to her chest as she allowed her head to sink into the pillows. She willed herself to weep, for isn’t that what any normal person would do? Wouldn’t a normal girl weep for the loss of her parents? Her home? Everything she had ever known?

In the end, it didn’t matter. It was now obvious that she was far from normal. The absent tears seemed only to prove the point. She clutched the photograph as she fell into sleep.

H
elen woke the next day, her mind and purpose clear. After putting the photograph on the bedside table, she took some of the currency from the box and replaced its lid. She slid it under the bed. It was a paltry hiding spot, but there was nothing to be done about it.

It was the only positive side effect of losing everything that mattered: There was nothing meaningful left to take. It made her feel reckless. But even as she reveled in its freedom, a voice warned at the back of her mind.

There is always something left to lose.

By the time she was dressed and ready to leave her room, it was after noon. She gave a moment’s thought to postponing the day’s mission until the next morning. It would be easier to sneak out of the house before the sun fully rose. But she quickly discounted the idea. Every second counted, and she
would not be able to prepare herself for what was to come until her plans for the day were brought to fruition.

She opened the door carefully, glancing down the hallway before slipping from her room. Backtracking to the staircase was not difficult.

Left, right, right.

And then she was at the top of it.

It was not easy to remain unseen, standing at the top of the stairs as she was forced to do. If someone had been in the entry, she would have been caught. But the marble-floored foyer was empty, as quiet as a tomb. She ran lightly down the stairs, grateful for the well-maintained treads that didn’t squeak.

She had her hand on the knob when she heard the clearing of a throat behind her.

“Going somewhere?”

Letting out a sigh, she turned to find Griffin leaning against the banister. He surveyed her with tired amusement.

She stood a little straighter. “As a matter of fact, I have an errand to run.”

“An errand?”

“Yes. A
personal
errand.”

He stood up, ambling toward her. “There’s no such thing as a personal errand. Not anymore. Not for you.”

Shock washed through her body and over her face. “Just because we’re both in this… this unusual situation doesn’t give you the right to act as my father.”

He tipped his head, a weary smile playing at his lips. “I’m not trying to strong-arm you, Helen. Truly.”

She nodded at the apology in his voice.

He continued. “It’s for your own safety. You saw the wraiths in the street last night. They are the least of the threats against us.”

She couldn’t fight his reasoning, but it didn’t change the necessity of her plans. “I do have an errand.”

“And I’d be happy to accompany you.”

There was something willful in his voice that she had not heard before. Something that made her wonder if Griffin was really as amenable as he seemed.

She smiled. “You don’t know what it is yet. When you find out, you might change your mind.”

“Care to fill me in on our destination?” Griffin asked.

Helen knew where they were going, and she led him around well-heeled women out for tea and young ladies out for a stroll with their chaperones.

“Well, if you must know, I need clothing.”

He grasped her arm, pulling her to a stop. “We’re going shopping?”

“Not exactly,” she said. “We’re going to the dressmaker. And if you’re embarrassed to attend to such an errand, feel free to return to the house.”

“I’m not embarrassed.” He rubbed a hand across his chin, his forehead furrowed in thought. “But it isn’t wise for you to frequent the shops you’re accustomed to visiting.”

“Why not?”

He took her arm, pulling her to the side of the crowd pushing past them on the street. “Because if whoever killed your parents plans to do a good job looking for you—and they do—they’ll be watching the places you might go.”

She couldn’t help the disbelieving smile that rose to her lips. “You’re telling me they know enough about me to know where I have my dresses made?”

“They know far more than that, Helen. We’re only just beginning to put together the pieces, but whoever murdered your parents—and ours—is just a killer for hire. Someone very powerful is behind these murders. And they know more about you than you can imagine.”

She shook her head. “What am I supposed to do, then? I
must have clothing, and it must be made quickly and to my specifications.”

“And so it shall.”

He placed her hand on his arm, turning in the direction from which they came. They passed the house and continued in the other direction.

“Griffin?” she asked as they walked.

“Mmmm?”

“Why do you and Darius remain in your family home? Doesn’t staying there make it easier for the killer to find you?” The question had nagged at her since Galizur told her about the killings.

He answered without looking at her. “That’s exactly the point.”

“What do you mean?”

He looked toward the street before turning to look down at her. “Our parents were not killed at home as yours were. They were murdered on the streets. Like animals.”

She looked down at her feet, pained by the suffering she heard in his voice. “How did you know it was related to the… executions?”

“The bastard left something. He always leaves something.”
His words were cloaked in bitterness. “Darius and I have been waiting ever since. So that we might exact justice.”

“I’m so sorry, Griffin.” He flinched as she touched his arm.

They walked in silence a moment as Helen steeled herself to ask the next question.

“Who do you think is behind the killings?” It was difficult to say aloud. Her parents were dead.

She knew it was true, but saying it somehow made it harder to bear.

“I don’t know,” Griffin answered. They had reached a rougher part of town, and Griffin guided her around two laborers engaged in an altercation that involved pushing and foul language. “Galizur is still putting the pieces together. We’ll see him again tonight after our people return from inspecting the remnants of the fire.”

“The fire?” she murmured. “The one that burned down my home?”

He nodded. “So far, the killer has left something at every site. A clue, we think, though we’re still trying to figure out what it means.”

“What kind of clue?”

He hesitated before answering. “It will be too difficult to explain. I’ll show you later this evening.”

They crossed the street, minding the carriages rattling past, and Helen tried to imagine a killer heartless and morbid enough to leave a clue at the scene of his crimes. Finally, Griffin came to a stop in front of an aging storefront.

“Here we are.”

She looked dubiously at the sign, so faded she could not even make out its lettering.

He laughed aloud. She turned to the sound of it, realizing that he had a wonderful laugh. Heartfelt but slightly self-conscious.

“I know it doesn’t look like much,” he said. “But like Galizur, Andrew works on behalf of the Dictata. He doesn’t advertise his services. A place like this is less likely to draw the casual customer. Trust me, Andrew can make anything you need.”

She hesitated at the mention of the man’s name. She had only ever had female seamstresses. It would be strange to have a man pinning and measuring her. After a moment, though, she realized that a gentleman would serve her purposes quite nicely.

She nodded, reaching for the door. “All right, then.”

He stayed her hand, stepping forward. “He doesn’t know you. He won’t answer unless he sees me.”

Griffin stepped close to the glass door, covered in drapery
from the other side, and knocked. A sliver of the curtain was pulled back a moment later. Helen caught a glimpse of an eye in the seconds before she heard the locks disengaging. The door was pulled open in one fluid motion.

“Master Channing! What a pleasant surprise! Do come in.” The man, small and lithe, stepped back, allowing them entry. “And is this… ?” He gestured toward her nervously.

“It is, indeed.” Griffin waited for the man to lock the door, pulling the curtain back over the glass, before continuing. “Helen Cartwright, Andrew Lancaster. Andrew, Helen.”

The man held out a hand. She reached out to grasp it, taken aback when he stooped to brush his lips across the top of her hand.

“I am sorry to hear of your parents. They were wonderful people.”

She could not hide her surprise. “You knew them?”

“Distantly. They had a reputation for being kind and just.”

Helen nodded, noting the warmth in the faded blue of his eyes. “How did you hear about their… about the fire? It only just happened last night.”

“Word travels fast in our circle, Miss Cartwright. And, lately, we have become accustomed to bad news.”

The silence, full of dark matter, sat between them.

Finally, Griffin broke the quiet. “Helen needs some things made quickly, Andrew. Can you help?”

He rubbed his hands together, already heading toward the back of the shop. “Of course, of course. Come. I’ll get Lawrence.”

Helen looked questioningly at Griffin, but he only held out a hand, indicating she should follow Mr. Lancaster. He was already well ahead of them, almost invisible in the dim recesses of the shop. Helen hurried forward, following the sound of his voice as it rang through the dimly lit rooms.

“We have company, Lawrence. Bring the tape and scissors, will you?”

The store was cluttered with rolls of fabric and pieces of parchment depicting various costumes. They lay atop tables and were pinned to the walls in odd places. When they reached the back of the store, Mr. Lancaster pulled out a chair from underneath a table, indicating that she should sit. When she did, he handed her a piece of parchment and a quill.

“Write down everything you need. Be specific now, or you never know what you’ll end up with.” His eyes twinkled with mischief.

Looking down at the paper, she began pondering how to word her request. Griffin, standing near her shoulder, cast a
shadow across the parchment, and she looked up, suddenly shy about her needs. Raising her eyebrows, she met his gaze.

“What?” He looked around like the answer to her gesture was in the cluttered room. “You want me to leave?”

“You don’t have to
leave.
You could simply… move to the front of the store or farther to the back.”

He sighed, running a hand through his tousled hair. “Very well.”

He walked toward the front of the shop as Helen turned back to the table, bending her head to the parchment as she wrote. She had already given consideration the things she would need. With Griffin gone, she wrote in a flurry, citing the things that needed replacing and the special instructions for her new attire.

Finally, her hand cramping from all the writing, she slid the list to Mr. Lancaster.

He surveyed it with concentration before raising his eyes to hers. “My dear girl, are you quite sure?”

She nodded. “I know it seems strange, but it’s necessary to be able to defend myself. And if there’s one thing my father taught me, it’s to depend only on myself, wherever possible.”