The Skylighter (The Keepers' Chronicles Book 2) (9 page)

The chimney was wider than she’d guessed, making it a little harder to use both hands and feet to propel herself upward. The bricks were set tight, too close for her to wedge her toes in the seams, so she relied on her fingers to pull herself up. Ash lodged under her nails and slicked her palms. Loose bits of residue mixed with the smoke and made her choke and her eyes run.

Not quite as easy as I thought.
Still, the opening drew closer.

Five feet from the top her fingers slipped off a soot-covered block, tearing back her fingernails. She flailed for another hold, sliding down and scraping her forearm, until she snagged a crevice with her right hand.

For a moment she considered giving up, returning to the room, finding another avenue of escape. Bartlett wouldn’t keep her locked up forever.

Then she heard the scratch and click of a key in the lock.

“I assure you, Lord Ceara, I’m only holding this girl for her own safety,” Bartlett said as the door creaked open. “I care for her as if she were my own. I know her father wouldn’t have wanted her to run off with that DeSilva boy, no matter the circumstances.”

“I believe you, Bartlett. I do. But my hands are tied. When a duke suggests that his lover is being held against her will by one of Camaçari’s most prominent innkeepers, I have a duty to see to his request.”

“She’s not his
lover
, no matter what DeSilva says. She’s a sixteen-year-old girl who has been swept away by a smarmy noble.” Feet crunched over glass. “Johanna? I know you’re upset, sweetheart, but please come out.”

“Where is she?” Ceara asked, his tone razor edged.

The bed curtains rustled. A tin tray gonged. Johanna’s fingers pulsed, the torn nails shooting bolts of pain into her cramping hands. She could have slid down, making her presence known, but something in Ceara’s voice made her ignore the pain. Rafi would
never
have called her his lover.

“I don’t understand. . . . The windows are locked from the outside,” Bartlett said, sounding baffled as he drew closer to the chimney. “A drunk groom took a header from this room last year.”

“She couldn’t have disappeared. Are you sure none of your staff let her out?”

“I’m positive. I’ve got the only key.”

Boots stomped back and forth, as if the men were looking for some place where she could have secreted herself.

“There’s no other way out of this room?”

“None.”

Johanna’s arms shook with the effort to hold on; her feet scrabbled against the wall for anything that would help relieve the strain on her shoulder. She found a tiny lip, enough for her left hand to grip.

“Damn it.” Ceara grunted, then cursed again. “Winston, run to the wall. Send the signal to close the gates. I don’t want anyone leaving the city. Maxim, knock on every door. Drag everyone out of their beds—”

“That’s not necessary. There’s no one staying on the second floor, and someone would surely have seen her come down the stairs.”

Ceara’s men ignored Bartlett, and footsteps rushed out of the room.

“If she’s truly in love with DeSilva, she’ll come back to him,” Bartlett continued. “There’s no need to scare the girl with such drastic measures.”

“Drastic . . . measures,” Ceara growled.

A grunt. A gasp. Two thuds. Both heavier than the sound the table had made when it hit the floor. She knew what made that sort of noise.

A body.

Johanna’s muscles spasmed; her fingers slipped. Years of training saved her and she landed lightly. The charcoal remnants that littered the fireplace barely crunched as she backed to the chimney’s farthest corner. Waiting, holding her breath, her entire body tense, she prepared for someone to notice the soot hanging in the air and the toes of her stained boots.

Footsteps returned. A new voice spoke. “No one’s seen her, my lord. But . . .”

“What is it, Don Diego?” Ceara asked with a snarl.

Boots, scratched with wear but well cared for, stopped in front of her hiding spot.

Injuries forgotten, Johanna reached for the bricks but was too slow. An iron grip snagged her ankle and yanked her out of the chimney.

Dom gave the palisade pole a hard shake and was pleased when it didn’t shift under his weight. It was the tenth he’d laid that afternoon, and his body ached with the effort. Blisters marked his palms, and the muscles in his arms throbbed, but there was something pleasant about the feeling.

Don’t get used to this. You’re much better at being lazy than you’ll ever be at working. Once Rafi comes back, you’ll never have to be useful again.

He’d put his father’s defense plans into action—clearing the land, digging an eight-by-eight foot trench around the wall, and filling that trench with sharpened stakes. It formed an impossible obstacle for both men and horses to cross.

Stonemasons sealed all but the estate’s main gate, and craftsmen built shutters for all the windows. Blacksmiths filled barrels and boxes with pike points, mace heads, and arrows.

A steady stream of carts delivered foodstuffs that had been held in warehouses nearer the wharf.

All the underlords had been apprised, and their various townships put similar plans into place. The townspeople and farmers were given points for escape if Belem attacked.

If,
Dom assured himself as he wiped a droplet of sweat off his brow.
Not when.

His mother was using all her diplomatic channels, friends on either side of the border, to encourage Belem to recall his threats and reopen trade. A few of her more clandestine contacts reported that the duke was preparing for action, but it appeared he was alone in his exploits.

Inimigo hadn’t outwardly picked a side in this argument, reportedly too busy crushing the rebellion that had risen in Maringa during his visit to Santiago.

And at the estate rumors blazed. Everyone, from soldiers to washerwomen, speculated as to the reasons behind Belem’s actions. Lady DeSilva issued a message to be read in every town square, hoping to squash the conjecture: “We are uncertain of Duke Belem’s motivations and the reasons for his actions. We are working to achieve a quick and peaceful resolution to this situation.”

The words were true to a point. Belem wanted Johanna. A fact Lady DeSilva chose to keep secret from her people, because no matter the duke’s intentions—whether he wanted to kill her or control the throne through her—they didn’t
have
Johanna. Even if they did, they would never use her as a bargaining chip, so they prepared for war.

Dom wasn’t sure if defense was enough. He’d studied his father’s notes, maps of Santiago, its hills, valleys, and marshes. With the walled city of Camaçari and its powerful garrison guarding the state’s northern border, Dom worried only about Belem making a direct attack from the west.

And he had a few ideas that would make that difficult.

The dinner cart rolled past, and Dom’s empty stomach reminded him that he’d missed lunch, but he was much too filthy to eat. He’d take a quick break to wash, then grab a meal and get back to work.

The road between the estate and the township was littered with age-old walnut trees, too wide and rooted to be chopped down easily. The shade from the trees was a welcome reprieve from the sun that baked the now-barren land around the trenches. A few birds flitted through the canopy, adding flecks of color to the rich gray-green leaves that shivered overhead.

Tucked off the road and hidden by the trees was the Keeper’s Fountain. It was one of his favorite places to visit—not because it was sacred, but because it was usually forgotten.

A stark white pillar, humanoid in shape, rose from the center of an onyx pool. Time had worn down the statue’s features, rubbing away the sharp lines where its arms had broken off and flattening the nose into a small lump at the center of the head. Water lapped quietly around the figure’s pockmarked feet.

Dom eyed his filthy shirt and dirt-encrusted fingernails, and the cool, clear water beckoned. He whipped his shirt over his head and dropped it into the pool. Leaning over the edge, he scooped handfuls of liquid onto his dusty hair before dragging the sodden linen out of the water and using it to wipe off his face.

“Hello, Dominic.”

He groaned at the voice before opening his eyes.

Maribelle stood with one hip against the onyx and eyed Dom’s torso with undisguised approval.

He straightened, and snapped his shirt, spraying water droplets in her direction. “Why are you here?”

“You’ve been busy, and I thought perhaps we could share a meal.” She set a picnic basket on the fountain’s edge. “Why do you let people believe you’re weak?”

“What makes you think I’m not?” He smiled, though her perusal made him uncomfortable. Dom hadn’t inherited his mother’s height or preternatural leanness. He was all DeSilva. Thick shouldered, thick armed, thick chested. Where Rafi was quick and calculated grace, Dom was raw, brute force. He’d always felt heavy and slow when he and his brother squared off on the training yard. It wasn’t until Dom began digging the trenches and working on the palisade that he really appreciated the benefits of his build. “Aren’t you here to gain my brother’s favor, anyway?”

She waved to the empty woods. “Do you see your brother around?”

“Did you have something to do with that?”

“Are we only allowed to talk to each other in questions?”

He gave an irritated cough. “Why do I have to talk to you at all?”

With a tilt of her chin and a raised eyebrow, she answered him directly. “Your brother, and now you, are my only avenues to escape my father’s house. Until Rafi returns—and let’s be honest, the prospects are not promising—
you
are the heir to Santiago. Even if by some miracle Rafi does return, you’re set to inherit your uncle’s dukedom.”

The words made goose bumps rise along Dom’s exposed flesh. He had learned a few days before that his uncle Fernando planned to name Rafi as heir to Impreza. Should something happen to Rafi, both states would be left to Dom. No one had been in his mother’s office when she relayed that awful news. “Where did you hear that?”

“I know lots of things. I know you love caramel and hate red peppers. You don’t like white flowers because they remind you of your father’s funeral. Your birthday was two days ago, and you had a small cake in the kitchen with only your mother and Cook for company.” A satisfied grin spread across Maribelle’s face, and she stepped closer to him. “And right now I know you’re thinking about how easy it would be to kiss me.”

He wasn’t. Not until she mentioned it. His eyes dropped to her mouth, and he felt the press of her palm at his waist.

It would be easy. She’s beautiful and smells so good. Why not?

Why not? Because you don’t trust her. You don’t even like her.

But she
is
attractive. And I’ve kissed a lot of girls I don’t like.

This is wrong.

I don’t care.

Yes, you do.

He wrapped his arm around her, pulling her against him. She gasped, arching under his touch, closing the whisper of space between their bodies. He lowered his head, feathering his lips along the line of her jaw, breathing in the floral scent that rose off her skin.

“Maribelle,” he murmured, against the corner of her mouth. “Who told you about Fernando?”

Her fingers spread over his back, dragging slowly from waist to neck. “Do you think you can kiss information out of me?”

The thought had crossed his mind, and the twist of her lips told him she knew it.

Dom straightened, looking down into her dark eyes. “I know you’re spying for your father.”

“You’re wrong, but I’m certain someone else is selling information to Lord Belem.” She gave a great sigh. “The problem for both of us is that I haven’t been able to locate the spy and convince them to serve me instead.”

That day on the roof—he had
known
the message she’d tried to destroy was more than a love letter. He disentangled himself from her grip and wrung the remaining water out of his shirt. “Why are you telling me?”

“Because the spy may reveal your defensive plans to Belem, helping him prepare an attack against your estate.”

“May?”
He yanked the material over his head. Whereas the water had at first felt refreshing, now with Maribelle’s words and the chill of the setting sun, it felt dank and uncomfortable against his tired muscles.

She reached for a red-tipped lily that had been pressed against the fountain’s wall by the wind. Instead of answering, she twisted the petals sharply.

“Maribelle?” Dom’s voice was sharp, but she didn’t look up. “What do you mean, ‘may’?”

With an angry toss she threw the flower into the fountain and wiped her stained fingers on her skirt. “The information the spy has shared has been carefully vague thus far. I ignored the first few letters because they were nothing more than idle gossip, but this most recent message . . . the details were too specific for someone trying to ingratiate themselves with another noble house.”

“Explain yourself.”

“Spies sell information. It’s much easier to bribe one to sell to you rather than place a spy of your own,” she said, her tone changing from intimate to instructive. “Spy rings have a series of relays that pass information. I managed to . . .
sway
one of Belem’s relays to pass me the information as well.”

Dom had suspected that there was something conniving behind Maribelle’s good looks. She was Inimigo’s daughter, after all. “That’s where you learned about Fernando naming Rafi heir? From one of these relays?”

“Yes.”

He paced to the basket and flipped off the napkin covering the food inside.
Pão de queijo
, dried salami, and some late-season grapes sat nestled on top of a bottle of wine that Belem had delivered for Rafi’s naming . . . a naming that never happened.

“It could have been a guess,” Dom said, holding up the wine and receiving an unabashed shrug in return. He yanked the cork out with his teeth and drank directly from the bottle.