The Dream Thief (11 page)

Mist was rising from the sod,
ethereal, sweeping coils that rose up to embrace the copper-leafed trees. It
was blue and slate against the darkening horizon; the grass had blurred to
lavender and emerald and brown. Far in the distance, past the town’s steeples
and spires, a jagged hint of mountains sliced purple into the sky. The moon
hung white as chalk above them.

Her shoulders relaxed, just a
little.

“Over
there,” Zane murmured, “are rabbits tucked into hollows, and blackbirds coming
awake in the trees. Can you feel them?”

“No,”
she answered, soft.

“But they’re there. And I’m quite
certain they’d appreciate it if we moved indoors. What say you?”

And she smiled.

It was just as he’d thought: the
interior of the hotel presented a surfeit of gilt and mirrors, peach-painted
walls, and at least two footmen scratching at their wigs.

Zane sighed. It didn’t bode well
for the mattresses.

They took supper in the public
room, amid country gentry and a handful of gray-powdered nobles, seated at a
holland-draped table in a corner by a wide glass window. The skyline was fully
dark now, broken only by street lanterns and a few lonely flames set beneath
casements.

Lia kept her teacup in her hands
when she could; the glass threw a chill, and even her cashmere shawl didn’t
help.

They dined in near silence,
listening instead to the chatter of the room, the civil bustling of the
waitstaff, the babbled conversations among the patrons in French and Hungarian
and a few tongues she did not know. The chandelier above them flickered with
the draft; colors danced along the table and dishes, and the steam from her
soup became a fog upon the panes.

The thief sat across from her
with a platter of creamed fish and parsley between them. She watched him
through her lashes. He ate neatly, sparingly, his hands deft, his body relaxed.
He’d undone his coat of fine biscuit wool and was gathering the glances of
every woman in the room, from the pair of dowagers in amazing high wigs to the
little serving maid, no more than thirteen, who fumbled the cheese plate when
he smiled at her.

In the candlelight his hair shone
burnished bronze. It fell long and straight in a tail over one shoulder, the
blue velvet ribbon that held it in place knotted only slightly too loose. He
lifted a section of soft white cheese from its tray and, without looking at
her, began to slice it into quarters.

“You do that rather a lot, you
know.”

She blinked, coming out of her
reverie. “Do what?”

“Stare at me. Have I a cinder on
my nose?”

Lia took refuge in her tea. “Not
at all.”

“What a relief. No doubt, then,
you’re merely lost in thought, considering our time and distance to this
all-important diamond—what did you name it again?”

His voice was light, and he still
did not look up from his work, but she felt his attention fixed on her with all
the familiarity of that dark, delicious hum.

“Draumr.”

“
Draumr,
of course. What
does it mean?”

“I don’t know,” Lia said
honestly.

“Where
did you hear it?” She did not reply. He slanted her a metallic-gold look.

“You’re expecting me to take a
great deal on faith, snapdragon. And for a man of my trade, faith is never
free. If you wish me to believe you, if you wish me to trust you and let you
haul us willy-nilly through all the mud holes of this bloody continent just on
your say-so, then you’re going to offer me something in return.” He placed a
cube of cheese upon her plate. “I don’t want all your secrets, Amalia. Just the
ones that set
my
arse on the line.”

Lia said slowly, “I heard it in a
dream.”

His expression did not alter. “Is
that so?”

She inclined her head.

“And is that how you know where
it is now? From…your dreams?”

“You needn’t sound so skeptical.
It
is
true.”

“Forgive me.” He tipped back his
head and smiled at the peach plaster ceiling. “I find myself astonished that
I’ve actually thrown my fortune in with a girl who’s willing to risk her
life—and mine— over the visions dancing in her head.”

She was used to the seduction in
his voice, she was used to the soft-stated command; she was not used to his
contempt. Lia leaned across the table until the edge bit into the bones of her
corset. “You know I’m not a girl. You know what I am. I’ve dreamed it, and it’s
true. You may believe me or not, I don’t care. But you asked, so I’ve told you.
In the future if you’d like me lie to you to soothe your nerves, pray inform me
now.”

His gaze returned to hers. From
across the chamber a woman’s laughter dissolved into giggles; the clatter of
silver against china was very loud in her ears.

“Do you think you could? Lie to me,
I mean?”

“Without the slightest of
qualms,” she snapped.

Zane picked up his knife again,
examining the mother-of-pearl handle. “I confess the sight of you does appear
to make my will a trifle weak. Perhaps a few lies, then. Small ones, I beg you,
just to ease my missish nerves.”

She stared at him, uncertain if
he had complimented her or not. When he glanced up at her once more, his eyes
were wolfish bright.

“We’re to venture forth to the
queen of the fairies,” Lia said. “She’ll welcome us with minstrels and tamed
bears and all the caviar we can eat. The diamond’s waiting for us on a pillow
of purple velvet. We ’ll ride an enchanted carpet back home.”

“And there we’ll dwell, happily
forever after,” the thief finished, dry.

“Exactly.”

“Wonderful. I’m much relieved.
Where might we find this fairy queen?”

“In the mountains, I think. In
the Carpathians.”

“You
think,” he said, and the blade began to tap against his plate.

“I
believe I’ve offered enough for one evening.” Lia sat back, pulling her shawl
closer. “You’ve told me your faith isn’t free—well, I’ve decided neither is
mine. It’s your turn to offer me something.”

As soon as she said it she
realized how it sounded; heat began to climb up her throat.

“My protection?” Zane inquired,
watching her with his mouth faintly curved. “My gallant company? No, no, I see
you require something slightly more valuable. Fair enough.” He used the flat of
his knife to serve her another portion of cheese; she hadn’t touched the first.
“The gentlemen at the table square to our right—no, my lady, don’t look. Good
heavens, you’re smarter than that. Drink your tea, move only your eyes…there.
Do you see them?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me what you think of them.
Quietly,
s’il vous plaît.
”

They seemed unremarkable: two
young men in wigs and cravats, their coats cut too wide, watch chains dangling,
their stockings not quite clean. They were sharing a jug of ale and a steaming
pot of sausage stew, speaking in whispers and sending frequent glances to a pair
of young ladies at another table not far across the chamber.

The ladies, Lia noted, were even
more simply dressed, and accompanied by an older, scowling woman in a mobcap.
The three of them ignored the men.

“Baronets, or squires,” she said
after a moment. “Or whatever such a title might be out here. Well-born, but not
wealthy. Young.” The two men burst into smothered laughter, ducking their
heads. “Inebriated,” she added.

“And credulous.”

“Oh?”

“Before the night is over, our
love-struck squires will find their purses quite a bit lighter than yesterday.”

“Why?” she asked, suddenly
suspicious. “Are you planning to lighten them?”

“I?” His brows raised in mock
innocence. “I assure you, I have no such desire. For one thing, I doubt very
much they’re carrying anything worth pricking my interest. For another, it’s a
bit too unjust, even for me. It would be rather like plucking a rattle from an
infant’s fist.”

“Then—”

“The women,” Zane said, easing
back in his chair, still with his faint smile. “The two comely maidens and
their prune-faced matron.”

Lia turned her gaze back to them,
just in time to see one of the girls flash a grin at the men.

“They’re really very good.” Zane
ran a finger up the stem of his wineglass, examining the deep red
Tokay.
“Just the right amount of coquetry applied over middle-class respectability.
The old woman adds the perfect touch. Were we in London, I’d have a pleasant
word with them all.”

Amalia
said nothing. She watched the two girls, their practiced smiles. And the squires
glancing back, still flushed, lifting their glasses, sending a sly salute when
they thought the matron was not looking. But Lia saw now—now that Zane had told
her—that beneath the ruffled lace of her cap, she actually was.

“Try
the fish, why don’t you?” the thief suggested. “It’s better than you’d expect.”

“Why
did you show me this?”

“You
wanted something of value from me.” She had. She knotted her hands in her lap
and watched the red-cheeked squires, their shiny, unguarded faces.

“It’s the way of the world,
love,” murmured Zane. “For better or worse, you’re out here in it. It’s my
little gift to you: open your eyes.”

The young men began to search for
their money. They began to count out their bill upon the table, while the pair
of girls pretended not to watch.

“It isn’t fair,” Lia said.

The thief turned his face fully
to see her; she met his look.

“They’re young and foolish. But
they’re only besotted.”

“Aye. It will be a useful lesson
for them.”

She set her cup upon its saucer.

“Snapdragon,” warned Zane. “Think
twice.”

“Perhaps what they have with them
is all they have. Perhaps those watches belonged to their fathers. Perhaps
there are people depending upon them, upon those meager coins in their purses.
Servants. Children.”

“Yes. Perhaps.”

Lia
threw him a heated glance, placing her napkin upon the table. Before she could
rise, his arm snaked out; his hand pressed hers hard to the wood. His voice
came very low.

“
Think,
Amalia. What would you say to them? We don’t need that sort of attention. I
only showed you because you asked. Have you forgotten why we’re here?”

“I’ve forgotten nothing,” she
said with a level stare.

He returned it for a moment, his
eyes glinting pale, his brows and lashes shadowed sharp against his skin. Then
his fingers slid from hers; he shook his head. “What a pretty conscience you
have. Knowing your parents, I can’t imagine how you came by it. No, wait,” he
said, as she pushed at her chair. He came to his feet. “I’ll do it.”

Before she could respond he was
walking away, not toward the table of the drunken young men but to the other
one, where the trio of women were nibbling at the last of their meal. He wound
through the room, by all appearances heading for the double doors that led into
the hotel’s main hall, tall and handsome and surprisingly unsteady on his feet:
a man who had indulged in too much drink.

As he
passed the women’s table, something happened. She couldn’t see it clearly,
there were too many other diners between them, but Zane dipped and turned and
the women erupted into stifled shrieks. She caught the sound of glass striking
wood—he had knocked over their carafe of wine. The matron leapt up, saving her
skirts with both hands; the younger women followed more slowly. Conversation
ceased. Everyone in the dining room turned to observe the commotion. In the
echoing hush she heard Zane’s urgent apologies in French, and the waiters converging,
and the matron chattering words too swift to understand. But Lia could see the
woman’s profile now as she took two steps toward Zane, the anger etched around
her mouth—erased the instant he lifted from his bow and she got a better look
at his face.

The matron paused, then summoned
a small, sour smile. She clucked at the two girls, drawing them nearer while
the liveried waiters swarmed like green-coated bees around the table. In the
midst of them all, Zane bowed again, bringing the older woman’s hand to his
lips.