The Firebird's Vengeance (3 page)

Grace made her way between the curving sides of the boats, trying not to look at the dull silver expanse of water that waited beyond them. She pushed open the door to the long, grey shack that was the harbormaster’s quarters, letting in a swirl of snow and cold to announce her entrance. Men huddled by the stove cursed in rough voices, looked up, saw a female form, and shut their mouths. It took them a minute longer to see which female it happened to be. Eyebrows lifted. Pipes were pulled from mouths.

Grace did not give any of the weather-roughened men a chance to make their comments. “I’m looking for Mr. Bluchard.” She lifted her shawl from around her head and shook off the blown snow that clung to it, casually, as if being stared at by eight or so fishermen was a matter of no moment to her.

Francis Bluchard must have gotten down here early, because he had a spot right next to the potbellied stove. He stood up, straightening out his whole, lean length. He’d never been a handsome man, but standing against the hard work of years had given his horsey face and brown eyes a comfortable solidity and assurance.

And he remembered to call her “Miss” in public, something not many did. This raised Grace’s estimation of him.

He took his long-stemmed pipe from his mouth and tapped it against his palm. “What can I do for you, Miss Loftfield?” he asked.

“I’d like a word with you, if I may.” She left the “in private” implied. More than one of the men caught that implication, however, and knowing glances were exchanged. Someone sniggered. Grace held her ground. She was old enough that she was no longer an object of attraction to these ruffians. Her past, however, was well known and still good for a ripe joke.

Frank glanced left and right at his compatriots, laid his pipe on the stove, and made his way through their ranks to her. No one said a word. Frank gestured toward the office, and Grace walked ahead of him until they were both inside. He did not close the door.

For a moment they faced each other against a background of battered wood furniture and stacks of bills, notices, and receipts. Grace had known Frank all her life. He’d taken over the tug from his father. He’d been the one who took her from Sand Island to Bayfield after Father had forbidden her entry to his house.

“This about Bridget, then, Grace?” he asked, awkwardness making his voice gruff.

Grace nodded. “I’d like … I need …” Her tongue faltered.
Say it. You must
. “I need … you to take me out to the lighthouse.”

Frank stared. He was also the one who sat by her on that last passage, as she huddled in on herself, quaking in her terror as if she’d shake herself to bits. That was something else she’d never forgotten.

Now, he shook his head heavily. “She’s not there anymore.”

“Yes, I know.” Grace searched for an acceptable lie. “I’ve had a telegram from her. She left some things behind and asked me to collect them for her.” If Frank thought to check at the office, he’d catch her out, of course, but somehow she did not think he’d do it.

But he did cast an eye out the office window that looked over the port, watching the pale grey water under the steely sky. Ice soon, said the water. Snow sooner, said the clouds. Even Grace could tell that much. “Well, it’ll have to wait ‘til spring.”

But my nerve may not hold ‘til spring
. Grace’s hands tightened around the ends of her shawl. “Frank, please. She’s made another foolish decision. I have to let her know I’m her friend, so I can get her out of this before she strays beyond all salvation.”

Frank looked down at her. He knew her history, and he’d never said a thing about it. Until now. “Funny words coming out of you, Grace.”

Grace shrugged, but she found she could no longer meet his gaze. “Who would know better what she’s letting herself in for?” Which was true, as far as it went.

Frank looked out the window again, his jaw working back and forth as if he were trying to shift the pipe he’d left on the stove. “I’m sorry, Grace. It ain’t safe anymore.”

For a moment Grace thought to make some tart remark. For another, she thought to offer to pay for her passage. But she was not sure which would insult Frank more deeply. He was only doing what he thought best. Not because he didn’t think much of her, or because he did not approve, but for the simple, honest reason that Lake Superior was dangerous and she had told him nothing to make the risk worth it.

What would he do if she did tell him? What would he say? Grace realized she wanted to know. Would he think she was insane? What if he didn’t? Frank had sailed the lake for a long time and seen any number of strange things. What if he believed her?

But the habits of thirty years were too strong to be overcome by the wonderings of a single moment, so Grace only lifted her chin. “Very well. Thank you for hearing me out, Frank.”

Frank stuffed both hands in his pockets and looked toward the partially open door. “Grace, what have you heard about this thing?”

Odd choice of words
. “Only what I’ve been told by Hilda, and Bridget,” she remembered to add.

He scuffed the floor with the worn heel of one boot. “Well, when I was out there picking up the ones who want to winter on the mainland, they were telling me they saw fire up at the light.”

“Fire?” Grace’s hand went automatically to her throat.

Frank nodded. “Huge gout of flames shooting up into the sky folks said. Lit up the whole night. They thought the lighthouse had caught fire. Soon as it was day, they got out the boats and went round to Lighthouse Point, and there was the house, everything fine. ‘Cept it was empty, and dark, and Bridget wasn’t nowhere.”

Trust Hilda to leave this out. Bridget vanished is the news of the day but a tiny detail like a fire
… Grace swallowed anger and fear both. “She wasn’t there when you went to pick her up?”

“Nor any sign of fire neither, except by the stove where the wall’d been charred a bit. Nothing like people said they saw.”

Grace shrugged and her gaze slid sideways. “People say they see all sorts of things.”

“That they do, Grace.”
Especially in your family
, Grace added in her own mind, but a glance at Frank told her that if he had thought such a thing, he wasn’t going to say it, for which she was grateful. “But they don’t always say they’ve seen the same thing, nor yet do they get out the boats to go have a look at it.”

“No,” agreed Grace.

Frank cocked his head. “Don’t suppose Bridget said anything about what that might have been in that telegram she sent you? Nor how she got off the island? Because I didn’t take her, and the lighthouse’s dory is still in the boathouse.”

In those words, Frank told her that he knew she had lied, but he was going to leave her some dignity nonetheless.

“No,” said Grace again, her determination deflating. “Bridget did not tell me any of these things.”

Frank drew his hands out of his pockets, flexing them awkwardly as if looking for something to grab, or maybe to hand over. “I’m sorry, Grace. Truly.”

Grace’s hands tightened around the ends of her shawl. “Yes, I know. Thank you.”

“I’d take you if I could, but the ice is on the way, and it’s just too damn dangerous. I can’t take you out when I’m not sure I can get you back.” A plea for understanding crept into his gruff voice. “Soon as the way’s open in spring, we’ll go, if you still want to.”

Grace did not reach out to touch his hand. Someone might be watching. She did manage a weak smile. “Thank you, Frank.” She turned to go.

“Take care, Grace,” said Frank behind her. “And if you hear from Bridget …”

“I’ll tell her you said hello,” Grace said, not letting him finish. “Thank you.” That much, at least, she meant.

Cold wrapped around her and the stiff wind cut against her cheeks as Grace turned toward the grey expanse of the lake. The water was sluggish, weighted down with snow and cold. The reflection of the cloudy sky turned the water the color of tarnished steel. She stared across the bay, letting the wind raise the tears in her eyes.

They saw afire up at the light
.

It’s what the living have been up to that you don’t want to face
.

Bridget Lederle’s gone
.

Help me
.

“Where are you?” she murmured. “Where’s your baby who should be in her grave?”

Grace clutched her shawls, trying to warm herself against a cold that came from inside her.

“What’s happening, Bridget?” she asked the wind. “Where in God’s name
are
you?”

Chapter One

Vyshtavos, Year 1

Bridget Lederle stood under a canopy in the icy spring rain waiting for a fox.

Bridget had grown up on an island in Lake Superior. She was used to cold, or so she had thought. The Isavaltan winter had taught her a few things, however, as had the frigid flood that was spring. Her mouth quirked up into a tiny smile. Actually, it wasn’t spring yet. It was
rasputitsa
, “the time of the road’s undoing.” She had to agree with Sakra about this. Any land, he said, that had a separate word for the time when the roads turned from ice to mud was to be regarded with caution, and to be avoided if possible.

Yet, here she stood, in the imperial gardens of Vyshtavos palace, at midnight, under a canopy that bowed under the weight of the water that had collected on it. Beside her, a tin lantern hissed and steamed as raindrops and runoff from the canopy spattered against it.

Bridget shivered, despite the fur-trimmed cloak she wore over her woolen dress. She had sent her servants, Richikha and Prathad, to wait closer to the palace. The one she came to meet would not appear before so much of an audience. So, just now she was alone in this land of cold and magic, a world away from where she had been born. Here, where she was an attendant to an imperial family, and a sorceress, and beloved.

It was a strange thing. She had gone through much of her life alone, not because she wished to, but because she felt it was the only way she could survive. Now she was surrounded by people who sought her company or assistance, and she found herself frequently wishing she could be alone again, if only so she could think clearly.

Bridget rubbed her eyes. It was a heavy night, and it brought heavy thoughts. She had been through so many changes so quickly she hadn’t had time to adjust to them all. She would though, she was certain, and she would do so soon. After all, she had plenty of help.

Bridget lifted her head, and saw the Vixen sitting on the other side of the canal.

She had come in her guise as a female fox. Bridget knew she had other forms and faces, but this was the only one she had seen. The Vixen was the queen of the
lokai
, the fox spirits. Even in the gloom of the rainy night, her fur was a bright red and her chest blazed white. Indeed, there seemed to be moonlight where she was, although it shone nowhere else. She also seemed completely untouched by the freezing rain.

How convenient
. Bridget immediately silenced the sardonic thought. The Vixen was powerful, cunning, mischievous, and untrustworthy, and if she was treated with anything but the deepest courtesy, she could become suddenly and permanently dangerous.

Bridget reverenced in the Isavaltan style — eyes lowered, one leg slightly extended, and her hands folded across her breast. When she looked up again, the Vixen had dropped her pointed muzzle open so that she looked to be laughing.

“You learn your lessons well, Bridget Lederle.” She spoke English, and Bridget found herself startled to hear her native tongue after so many months.

It took her a moment to rally an answer in the same language. “I do my best, ma’am.”

“And very properly too, I am sure.” The Vixen dipped her laughing muzzle. Although she appeared no larger than an ordinary fox, Bridget had the sudden sensation of being looked down upon. “The good and dutiful daughter, and the faithful lover.”

Bridget had resolved to remain calm through this interview but now she felt herself blush like a schoolgirl. True, she had not consummated her relationship with Sakra, but she had felt that desire, and it was growing stronger.

The Vixen was laughing again. Bridget struggled to regain her self-control.

“You wished to speak to me, I believe, ma’am,” she said, folding her hands in front of her, a gesture from her previous life when she wore an apron instead of mantles and brocades. She remembered Prathad divesting her of her grey work dress for the last time, and how the woman looked as if she’d like to burn the garment.

“So I did.” The Vixen tipped her head to one side. “I am surprised you were able to tell. I had not thought your sight to be so clear as it once was.”

“What could have changed?” Bridget clamped her mouth shut, but it was too late. The words were out.

Do not ask questions if you can help it
, Sakra had advised her.
Let her do as much of the talking as you can. Questions can reveal as much as answers
.

The Vixen swished her bushy tail back and forth. “Perhaps much, perhaps little.” Bridget saw her green eyes gleam in her strange, isolated patch of moonlight. “Perhaps the dutiful daughter and lover has forgotten she had other duties to look to, and others who look to her.”

Bridget found her mind racing backward, to the lighthouse on Sand Island, to all her long, lonely days as keeper. She had worked hard, living alone, tending the light, and warning the sailors. The man she called her father was long dead. His ghost had forgiven her for all that had happened. She’d had a housekeeper, Mrs. Hansen, and Mrs. Hansen’s son Samuel … had something happened to them? To the lighthouse?

But why would the Vixen care? Sand Island, Bayfield, and Lake Superior Islands had nothing to do with the
lokai
. They belonged to other powers. The Vixen’s place was here.

So why is she bringing up my past?

This time, Bridget kept the question silent.

The Vixen clacked her jaws and stood up, raising one paw as if to take a step. “Such eyes. Such sight, but always looking too far away. You should be looking close as skin, Bridget Lederle, close as blood.”