Katherine was very pleased by that, imagining the dresses that she would have. ‘You had heard me described?’
‘Lord Crenshaw speaks of you often, with the highest praise.’
Of course, Katherine knew Lord Crenshaw thought well of her; she had seen it even in their first meeting, his eyes on her, heavy and assessing. At thirty-seven, he was old enough to be her father, but there was no sign of grey in his hair, which he wore natural in a classical style, the same dark brown as his eyes. And her aunt’s maid Annabel had assured her that he cut a very fine figure for a man of older years. Katherine could imagine him on horseback, or surveying his grand estate, or commanding his household of servants.
Lady Crenshaw. That idea was still new, and never failed to come with a little thrill. She would attend balls and house parties, and host elegant gatherings, and there would be new dresses every season.
She was just thinking that she might be able to wear a little more jewellery now that she was a young lady engaged, when Mrs Dupont gestured to nearby stairs. ‘Upstairs, your room is—’ The motion caused her dress sleeve to shift a little.
‘What happened to your wrist?’ said Katherine.
Mrs Dupont quickly pulled her sleeve down. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Kent. I didn’t mean for you to see that.’
Katherine couldn’t help staring. On Mrs Dupont’s wrist there had been a burn mark in the shape of an S. Katherine forced her eyes away, feeling oddly unsettled. Mrs Dupont couldn’t help it if she had a blemish on her wrist, and it was wrong to feel queasy about it. But it wasn’t the burn itself that disturbed her, Katherine thought. It was something about the S …
‘How did the ship sink?’ Elizabeth’s voice.
Mr Prescott turned towards the young voice, and so did Aunt and Uncle. Katherine was opening her mouth to hush Elizabeth again when her aunt said, slowly:
‘It is strange for a ship to sink in the river, isn’t it?’
The servants looked at her and then looked at each other. Mr Prescott didn’t answer at once, but he looked troubled, as if there was something he was reluctant to say. Katherine’s attention caught and held. They knew something. All of them knew something she didn’t.
‘What is it?’
‘There are rumours that there was foul play,’ Mr Prescott said after a moment, as if this were a trifle. ‘Or an attack by one of his rivals. Lord Crenshaw has men looking for a boy he believes is responsible.’
‘A boy?’ said Katherine.
‘Yes, but not to worry,’ said Mr Prescott. ‘We’ll find him soon enough.’
CHAPTER SIX
COMING TO SLOWLY, Will forced himself not to stir. He could feel the prickle of mattress straw beneath him, his nose full of its smell: cut hay left sitting in the field too long; the musk of all the other bodies that had lain on the mattress without airing; stale beer. An inn room, maybe. And he could hear voices—
‘I’ve never seen anything like that before.’ A girl’s voice.
‘No one has.’ Quietly. ‘I did not know that anyone could sheathe the Corrupted Blade. But whatever the boy did, it appeared to exact a price.’
Will kept very still. They’re talking about the sword. They’re talking about that sword on the ship. Simulating sleep, he carefully catalogued what he could of himself and his surroundings. He wasn’t chained up. The bruising and cuts from the beatings throbbed, and his hair was still damp, but the chilling cold from the river was gone. He recognised the voices. A man and a girl.
‘Who – who is he?’ The girl, sounding a little hushed.
‘I only know that Simon wants him, and he’s hurt.’
‘He just fainted. I didn’t hit him or anything.’ The girl, a bit defensively. ‘When he wakes up—’
‘He’s awake,’ said Justice.
Will opened his eyes at that, to find Justice’s steady gaze was on him. His jet-black hair framed a face of startling nobility. Will remembered him from the ship, the shearing power of his broadsword as he ploughed through rising water. He had cut through the men on that ship like hope.
‘Now we must decide what we do,’ said Justice.
Justice was wearing a long brown cloak that covered his strange garments, but he still wore a sword. Will could see it distorting the shape of his cloak. Justice looked even more incongruous in a grimy room with cracked plaster walls than he had on the ship, like heroic statuary in an unexpected setting.
Behind him, the girl – Violet – slouched, boyishly handsome, with a fierce, scowling look. It was Violet who had come back for him. Will remembered that clearly. Her impossible strength felt like a secret that had passed between them: the connection they had shared in their joint experience of the extraordinary.