Transmuted (18 page)

Zylphia had never been ashamed of her role as a sweet, nor of her efforts to tear down the Veil that had begun to ill-treat the girls she watched over. She was not ashamed of her relationship with the man called a “tortoise”—and were I not feeling ornery, I could well see the comparison. Ishmael was large and thoughtful, and nigh indestructible.

Zylphia’s pride was such that I could only envy. To be sure, she had led the mutiny that tore down the Veil. I could well see why Ma Lài would despise her.

“You’re suggesting Cherry and I go up as bait,” Zylphia said. “Both of us.”

“Yes.” Zhànzhàn spread her hands apart. “My brother will not move against you himself. He is too attached to this world to risk leaving it in such a manner. But he will send those who sympathize with him. Learn their faces.” Her hands came together. “And you will find the door.”

I mused on this for a moment. No matter how I considered it, if that metaphorical door resided above the drift, it would be no different than trodding through a vipers’ nest. I was not welcome there, and there were some concerns as to the safety of my identity should I risk it.

To say nothing of them who already hated me.

Such challenges did not speak to my interest. If anything, they burdened me with a weariness I could not stave off.

“The cost could be rather more high than you’re willing to pay,” Zylphia pointed out to me. “Aren’t you hated up there?”

“More or less,” I acknowledged.

“There is one more truth,” Zhànzhàn interjected.

“’Course there is,” Zylphia muttered.

The girl ignored her. Her gaze leveled upon me, as direct as I could wish. Without the screen between us, as the Veil had always used, I found the focus of her eyes to be refreshing.

Even if they proved as inscrutable as Hawke ever was.

“It is Lài,” she said, her tone pitched in a manner that suggested a verbal carrot, “that holds the key to the tiger’s fangs.”

I grimaced. What was the sense of all this metaphorical business, anyway?

Fortunately, Ashmore understood rather more readily. “You claim he holds Hawke’s cure?”

“Yes.”

This sharpened my focus. “Is it…” I hesitated. “Is it sorcerous?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“What manner?” I demanded.

She did not look away. “I will give it to you when Lài is no longer.”

“The devil,” Zylphia began, but I caught her arm before she could finish her hot recrimination.

My friend glanced once at my face, and no doubt, I had little luck in hiding the severity of my feelings on this matter. Hawke’s cure, the promise of a thing that would finally give him peace, would be worth any price.

Even if it came from the hands of the Veil itself.

She huffed an uncivility that was at least twice as harsh as any I’d forced on Ashmore.

He did not comment. Instead, he exchanged a look with me that indicated his thoughts mirrored mine.

Perhaps it was rather rude, if not outright manipulative, of the girl to hold Hawke’s cure—whatever it was—hostage. Perhaps she had deeper ulterior motives than this.

The risk, however? I deemed the cause, and the consequence, valuable.

His features settled into lines of critical caution. “You have,” he pointed out, “every right to take your place among Society.”

I swallowed a laugh lest it crack. “Be reasonable. You know what awaits me if I do.”

“It won’t be easy, but you only must remain for the length of time it takes to bait the Veil.”

That Ashmore suggested the role himself both surprised and delighted me. Humor welled up, wry as it bit. “I assumed you to be the last to encourage such tomfoolery.”

Ashmore did not smile. His gaze remained steady, measured. “I might be loathe to suggest our Zylphia partake in such a thing,” he admitted. “To say nothing of the fact that Communion will have my hide if I allowed it.”

I tipped my gaze to Zylphia, who looked down at herself as though weighing the swell of her belly against her pride.

Though she did not bend beneath the unkind judgment so many might paint her with, Zylphia was not a woman that took to inactivity well. The carelessness she might have ascribed to in the name of revenge now must be weighed against the child she carried. For this reason, she often stayed at home when matters could be handled by myself, Hawke and Ashmore.

Her jaw clenched, a delicate line given remarkable strength. “Once again, I am forced to agree.”

“You’ll send Cherry alone?” Maddie Ruth demanded.

“Not alone,” Ashmore replied gravely, “for I will provide escort, as is proper. I’m afraid we’ve little choice in the matter. If that is where Ma Lài has gone, then it is safe to say that trouble will soon follow. The stakes here are too high.”

A sound behind us might have been a grunt. Perhaps a growl. Either way, Hawke’s voice was unmistakable, thinned to a fine fury. “And that is why she won’t be going.”

The finality in such a statement galled.

My chin lifted. “Of course I’m going.”

A hand wrapped about my head, covered my mouth and jerked me hard against lean muscle and immovable will. “There is no
cure
. Find an alternate path to your intentions,” Hawke ordered—and it was no doubt an order. Whether he levied it on Ashmore or the Chinese girl who’d broached the plan made no difference.

I suspect he viewed them both as enemies; one was slightly more palatable than the other.

Ashmore surged to his feet, the aristocratic shape of his features pulled into lines of taut impatience. “There
is
no alternate path.”

Zylphia stepped aside. She knew better than to engage either, for it was akin to beating one’s senses against brick. She had her own immovable mountain to contend with; I would not begrudge her this fight.

It was mine to have.

I pulled at his hand, my breath hot in his palm. It did not budge.

He ignored me, snapping at Ashmore, “Make one.”

“Of what?” My tutor’s fists braced at his hips. “I suppose you imagine your will alone enough to force the issue?”

The tension at my back increased. Long fingers bit into my cheeks.

Giving up on subtle, I seized Hawke’s wrist in both of my hands and wrenched his grip from my mouth. “Stop it,” I said curtly. I tipped my head up, but all I could read was the thrust of his jaw, the heartbeat pounding fast and strong against the column of his throat.

The beat of it echoed fiercely within me.

With one grasp, he claimed me. With his presence, he dominated me as though he’d the right.

And yet the words I was most afraid to hear never came.

Relief and disappointment no longer felt like separate feelings. I was always in tumult when it came to Hawke.

Whether that made of me a fool or a glutton for punishment, I couldn’t decide.

“I forbid it,” Hawke said. Only the fool I’d just called myself would dare brook such a tone.

His fingers, no longer cupping my face, now smarted at my shoulder.

Ashmore pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “Let her go,” he said, striving for mild. “You’re only acting the beast.”

Zhànzhàn remained still, saying nothing to interrupt this tableau. That she watched quietly struck me as punctuation to the offer she’d made; Hawke was a beast. How much of that could be laid at the feet of the things done to him by the Veil’s own machinations, I didn’t know.

But he deserved a cure, We
all
deserved his cure.

Maddie Ruth watched this all unfold, wide-eyed. Mischievous though she may be, and slightly more careless than I, but even she knew better than to lay herself out as bait before two predators of extraordinary potency.

“You will pry her from me when I am cold in the ground,” Hawke said, silken promise.

Of course, they were not the only ones to bear fangs here.

Ashmore’s hand lowered to his side. “A laughably simple goal.”

“Try it.”

Enough
. I stomped my heel into Hawke’s foot.

In matters of brawling, his habit was not to enforce distance but to overwhelm—bring forth his strength to bear. Without a whip in hand, he was no less dangerous.

When he attempted to fold me into a tighter embrace, to capture me completely under his power, I drove an elbow into the hollow just under his ribs.

He may not favor them, but I recalled his wounds.

His breath surged out on a sharp sound, but his grip upon me eased as his body hunched. I slipped away, rotated the arm he attempted to capture and brought the full force of an openhanded slap to his cheek.

The whole of his head turned with it, braid swinging to slide over his shoulder. He wore only his shirtsleeves, though loose over his trousers. The shape of bandages beneath distorted the fabric.

That muscle I so enjoyed goading ticked rapidly, its own measured pulse of anger. Red bloomed under his swarthy skin, and I would swear every breath in the parlor ceased.

Had Ashmore been in reach, I would have delivered the same to him.

My hand lowered slowly to my side. It trembled. “There is no affection,” I said, each syllable a measured force of emotion I dared not allow purchase, “that will endure when treated as a
thing.
”

Hawke’s eyes flared an unholy shade, neither wholly tawny nor the blue of his curse, but I was not so foolish as to mistake the intent. Forcing my stare from his, I leveled Ashmore with the same challenging glare.

Ashmore’s jaw hardened; he had clenched his teeth. His gaze slid from mine.

Of all the things I wished to say, none would untangle long enough to allow me to say them.

Seizing my skirts in both hands, I gave them all my rigid back and strode from the scene of my own degradation.

I was many things, true. Collector and Society heiress, widow and blackened countess. I was reckless and I was drawn to danger; arrogant and even a little thoughtless when I didn’t mean to be.

I was sober, a circumstance to which I might ascribe my new found dignity. Yet I was not—and I never would be—a
thing
for men to fight to claim. Swallowing a hard knot of tears, I went in search of Fanny.

Chapter Sixteen

For all I did not hide the intentions of my return to Society’s gilded halls, Fanny’ s excitement could not be dimmed. Once she had assured herself of my well-being, touching her cheek to mine to ascertain that the redness of my face stemmed from high dudgeon and not fever, she settled to the formidable organization she was so skilled at.

With her assistance, I made for Ashmore a list —items, apparel and other such accoutrements I would need in order to ensure my return to Society went as smoothly as possible.

I did not have the heart to remind Fanny that it was a temporary position. That she did not speak of returning to live above the drift told me that she suspected. For this moment in time, as she mended a pair of Levi’s worn trousers and I drafted for her, we were of one accord.

“Mourning dress,” Fanny added after I’d made notes of the various day to day items I’d need. “You won’t need more than two, as the accessories and crape will provide alterations of form.” She peered at me over her mending. “The fashions have changed so quickly, we couldn’t possibly alter one of your old gowns.”

I winced at this, easing the nib from the parchment I wrote upon. “I only need one, and there’s no need to have it tailored for me.” Fanny looked so aghast at this that I amended myself to a mild, “I’m sure I’ll find a readymade that I can have altered.”

A sniff was my only answer.

Muting a smile, I dutifully wrote a reminder to ensure I had enough alterations of skirts, jackets and black-trimmed petticoats to suit the demands of mourning. We had not the time to have one made for me, truthfully.

Because of my efforts to please Fanny, I did know rather more of the rapidly altering lines of fashion than I pretended. The current favorite was heavily inspired by couture—thanks in no small part to the House of Worth. Corsetry was much firmer than it had been, so severe that I likened it rather more to armor than support. The sleeves of day gowns had developed a bit of a flare, a hint of leg of mutton.

I preferred the slimmer sleeves of last year’s demand, but as with most matters of Society, what
I
wanted did not impress much.

That I was still less than a year into widowhood meant I would be attending no galas. The expectation was that I wear black, including the stiff, crinkled crape that signified a widow’s first year of deep mourning.

Once we’d compiled the list, Fanny set down her mending so that she could look it over. I fetched for her the slim spectacles she had taken to wearing for matters of reading. Tipping her head back, she scrutinized my careful script, mouth drawn down in deep concentration.

“Very good,” she said after a moment. She did not ask me how much Ashmore was willing to spend on such matters. While I had not broached the subject with him, Fanny’s philosophy was that a woman did not ask, and a gentleman did not stoop to engage in matters of financial discourse with her.

For my part, I was feeling a bit vindictive. The costs of this venture would not be small.

“How do you intend to make your return?” she asked, withdrawing the spectacles from their delicate perch upon her nose.

A stumbling block, that one. “By all accord, six months have passed in deep isolation. This should suffice to soften the demands of mourning.”

Fanny shook her head. “I’m afraid not, my dove. For matters of polite company, a widow’s deep mourning lasts for a full year in isolation. Aside from attending church, you are expected to remain at home, wearing your widow’s weeds.”

This posed a rather large problem. I sat back into my chair, then caught myself and straightened again when my dear Fanny’s pale eyebrow lifted in silent censure. Ensuring my spine remained rigid—not so great a feat with the corset I wore to maintain it—I wracked my thoughts for a solution.

For some time, only the faint crackle of the fire kept low in Fanny’s rooms punctuated our employment of design. Fanny’s needle winked and flashed as she skillfully applied it.

I studied the regal tip of her head, the set of her thin shoulders beneath her mauve day dress. “Fanny,” I said, earning a measured stare by reply. “Why did you cease to wear mourning black?”