The Laurentine Spy (45 page)

No one appeared to have any eyebrows.

Athan stifled a snort.
Ridiculous.

His brother Phelan stood in the far corner of the ballroom, partaking of tiny pastries shaped as butterflies. There was no mistaking him. He wore the Seresin colors—crimson, blue, green—trimmed with gold; a Count’s son. A ransom’s worth of diamonds sparkled on his fingers, in the lace at his throat and wrists, on the buckles and raised heels of his shoes.

His brother’s mouth dropped open. “Athan! Whatever are you doing here?”

He shrugged. “I find myself in the Illymedes.”

Phelan put down the pastry he was holding. He held out his hand. The nails were painted crimson.

“You look well,” Athan said politely. It was a lie: Phelan’s girth had increased since he’d last seen him.

“You don’t. You’ve grown very thin.”

Athan shrugged again. “Military life.”

“It clearly doesn’t suit you.” Phelan picked up the pastry again. He chewed, swallowed. “How long are you here?”

“I sail the day after tomorrow.”

“So soon?” Phelan had no eyebrows to show his surprise. “The revelries have only just begun.”

“I’m not here for them.”

Phelan glanced at his clothes. “No. That’s obvious.” He picked up another pastry.

Athan watched him eat. Phelan had their father’s face—the bones hidden beneath a layer of fat—and their father’s disapproving voice.
In fifteen years this will be me. Soft. Arrogant.
His world would narrow, confined by luxury.
Is this who you want me to be, Saliel?
“I’m getting married,” he said.

“Good. It’s time you grew up.” Phelan picked up another pastry. “Who is she?”

“You may judge for yourself,” Athan said. “Tomorrow.”

“She’s here?”

“Yes.” Athan turned and looked across the ballroom. Mouths opened in laughter. Jewels glittered. He saw white faces, red lips, ringlets. He felt the same boredom he had two years ago: the boredom that had made him decide to become a spy.
I don’t belong here.

“How is our uncle?” he asked. “Has he found a wife yet?”

Phelan grunted. “He never looks beyond his wine glass.”

Athan stared across the ballroom. He saw the hills behind the Seresin estate. Mist lay in the hollows. The dawn light was pale, flushed with pink.

He blinked and the ballroom came back into focus: gilded woodwork and gold-fringed draperies, a high alabaster-white ceiling painted with roses. Ringlets and lace and red lips.

Our uncle drinks because he chose wrongly.

CHAPTER EIGHTY

S
UNLIGHT WAS LEAKING
in through the shutters when Athan woke. He shaved the stubble from his face and dressed. The parlor was empty. Saliel had eaten. He saw a plate with crumbs on it, a smeared butter knife, a crumpled napkin.

The door to her bedchamber was ajar. Athan knocked quietly. “Saliel?”

There was no answer; no movement from inside.

Athan pushed the door open. The bedroom was empty.

He swung back to face the parlor. Panic was tight in his chest.
She’s gone.

One of the tall casement windows stood slightly open.

Athan crossed the room. “Saliel!” He pushed the window open and strode out onto a terrace. Birds sang and bells chimed in the breeze. He saw a garden, trees, a fishpond—and Saliel. She stood at the edge of the terrace. She was dressed in her Marillaqan gown. Her hair was as bright as copper in the sunlight. There was sadness in the way she stood, her hands resting on the stone balustrade.

She turned her head and looked at him. “Good morning, Athan.”

Athan swallowed. He tried to slow his breathing. “Good morning.”

“Is something wrong?”

His heart still beat too fast in his chest. There was sweat on his skin. “I thought you’d gone.”

Saliel turned around fully. “I promise I won’t leave without saying goodbye. You have my word.”

Athan swallowed again. He nodded, and went back inside.

The shipping schedule lay beside Saliel’s empty plate. Athan reached for it. He didn’t need to search for the ship he wanted; he knew where it was on the list. His eyes found it easily. The
Sea Swallow.
Sailing to Besany tomorrow.

After he’d eaten, Athan took a sheet of parchment from the writing desk. He trimmed a quill and opened the inkpot.

I relinquish all claim to my inheritance, and to everything that my Name has entitled me to.

A simple sentence. Black ink on white parchment.

He dipped the quill in ink again and signed it:
Athan.

T
HE TREES HAD
slender gray branches that reached upwards and yellow, wooly blossoms. Pollen drifted down in the breeze. It lay like yellow dust on the surface of the puddles.

Mother-of-pearl bells chimed softly. Everywhere she looked, she saw them—in the shrubs, in the trees, hanging from the roofs, glittering in the sunlight, chiming. She understood the song now:
Bells ring to welcome spring.

Saliel reached up and snapped off a twig. The blossoms were feather-like, downy. Their scent was slightly spicy. It reminded her of the Ladies’ Hall, of tiny cakes tasting of ginger and honey.

She heard footsteps above her on the terrace. She turned her head. Athan stood there. “Illymedan eucalypt,” he said, looking at the twig in her hand.

“Oh.” She let it fall and brushed the pollen from her palm.

Athan smiled. He held out his hand. “Come inside. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

She walked up the steps. “Who?”

Athan took her hand. He drew her indoors.

She halted. A nobleman stood in the centre of the parlor, wearing silk and lace. His clothes were colorful, blue slashed with crimson and gold. Rings glittered on his fingers—ruby and sapphire and diamond. He was as tall as Athan, as black-haired as Athan. She saw Athan in the man’s face beneath the white face powder—his nose and jaw, his dark eyes.

She barely heard Athan’s words: “I’d like you to meet my brother, Phelan.”

I shouldn’t be in the same room as him.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” The nobleman bowed.

Saliel swallowed. She removed her hand from Athan’s clasp and curtseyed. “The pleasure is mine.”

“Have a seat,” Athan said. “Saliel. Phelan.”

She glanced at him.
I shouldn’t.

Phelan looked at the furniture. She saw it through his eyes: quaint, rustic. He chose an armchair beside the fireplace.

“Have a seat, Saliel,” Athan said. His hand was warm in the small of her back. “Please.”

She sat, aware of Phelan’s gaze.

“Athan has told me nothing about you.” His voice was polite. “Where are you from? Marillaq?”

Athan stood alongside her chair. She wanted to take hold of his hand, wanted the reassurance of his touch. She gripped her fingers together on her lap. “I’m from Laurent.”

“Oh?” Phelan’s gaze became more intent. “Which House?”

Her chest was tight. It was difficult to inhale, to exhale.
He’s going to shun me.

“No House,” Athan said, before she could answer.

Phelan glanced at him. “Is this some jest?”

“No jest.”

Phelan’s gaze shifted back to her. He wore the clothes of a nobleman, the jewels, but his expression was one she recognized from the slums: suspicion. “What’s your birth?” he asked bluntly.

“Phelan, it’s none of your—”

“I’m a foundling,” Saliel said. “From the Ninth Ward.”

Phelan’s nostrils flared. She saw revulsion rise in him, and anger. He pushed to his feet.

Athan took a step towards his brother. “Don’t you dare turn your back on her.”

Saliel stood hurriedly. “Athan—”

“She’s done more for Laurent than you ever will,” Athan said. “A thousand times more.”

Saliel laid her hand on his arm. “He has the right to shun me. You know he does.”

Phelan ignored her. “Are you insane?” His clothes were bright and frivolous, his face ugly with anger. “She’s a foundling from the Cesspit! You can’t marry her! For all you know she’s the daughter of a whore and a...a streetsweeper!”

Athan turned to her. “Why don’t you go outside,” he said. “I won’t be long.”

She gripped his arm tightly. “Athan, you mustn’t fight—”

“I have no intention of fighting with Phelan.”

It was the truth. She saw it in his face, heard it in his voice—calmness. She released his arm. “Athan, your House—”

“I know the value of my House. Don’t worry.”

A
THAN WATCHED
S
ALIEL
step out onto the terrace. She was as white-faced as Phelan. He turned back to his brother. “Your manners are execrable.”

Color flushed beneath the paint on Phelan’s face. “My manners! You let that...that
thing
in the same room as you! As me!”

He had no anger.
I pity you.
He took the folded sheet of parchment from his pocket. “Here.”

“What is it?”

“See for yourself.”

Phelan hesitated, and then took the parchment. He unfolded it and read the single line of writing. His expression, when he glanced up, was contemptuous. “You truly are a fool.”

I used to care what you thought of me, all of you; I no longer do.

“I take it you don’t approve?” he said lightly, smiling.

“Approve?” Phelan’s mouth twisted as if he wanted to spit. “Of such a monstrosity of a marriage? No one could!” He stalked to the door, his ringlets bristling with outrage.

“You may tell our uncle he made the wrong decision.”

Phelan made no reply. He jerked the door open and stepped into the corridor without a backward glance.

The door swung shut.

Athan stood quietly for a moment, alone.
I am no longer a Seresin.

There was sadness, but no grief. Instead he was aware of a sense of freedom.

A
THAN STEPPED OUT
onto the terrace and walked down the steps into the garden. Saliel sat on a bench carved of white limestone. Her head was bowed.

He walked across to where she sat. “Forgive me. My brother’s manners are—”

Saliel’s head lifted. “He has every right to shun me. You should shun me too, Athan. It’s time.”

“No.” Athan sat and put his arm around her, pulling her close to his body. “Never.”

Saliel said nothing. She bowed her head again.

“I wanted you to meet him, Saliel. I wanted you to see what I’ll become if I go back to my House.”

She stiffened. “If you go back? Athan—”

He pressed his face against her clean, bright hair. “Saliel, please say you’ll marry me.”

She pulled away from him. “Athan, I’ve told you—”

“I don’t care who your parents were.” He reached for her hand. “We make ourselves, Saliel. Don’t you see?”

“It’s not that, Athan. It’s—”

“I’m not afraid of your eyes. Or our children’s eyes.” He met her gaze squarely.
Listen to me. Believe me.

Saliel looked away. “I’m like that snake you spoke of. The one that catches its prey—”

“Snake?” Athan shook his head. “No. You can do something most people can’t, but it’s not evil. Without your eyes we’d both be dead.” He tightened his grip on her hand. “Please say you’ll—”

“No.” She pulled her hand from his clasp and stood. “You’ve been one of the elite all your life, Athan. You don’t know what it’s like to live at the bottom.”

Athan stood too. “We won’t be at the bottom. We’ll have a vineyard in the colonies. We’ll—”

“No.”

He looked at her face, stubborn, pale. “The surgeon said no arguments, Saliel. And I don’t want to argue, I don’t. But—”

“Then go to your family.”

“It’s too late. I’ve left my House.”

“What!” He saw her shock, her distress. “Athan, you can’t—”

“My House is just a Name,” he said quietly. “An estate. People I can live without.” He took hold of her hands. “We’ll make our own family.”

Saliel pulled her hands free. “You’d regret it, Athan! You know you would!” She turned and walked towards the terrace, fast, her head down.

“I wouldn’t regret it.” His certainty was bone-deep. He heard it in his voice, felt it—rooted inside him—as much a part of him as the blood in his veins.
I will not regret it.

Saliel heard it too. She halted.

“What I would regret is losing you.” He walked to where she stood. “There’s a place called Besany, Saliel. A month’s sailing from here. I think you’d like it.” He reached out and touched her face lightly, laying his palm against her cheek. “That’s what I want. You. Us. A home in the colonies, where no one cares about the difference between our births.” He removed his hand. “Tell me, please...what do you want?”