“One more thing,” added the Ragpicker King as Kel leaped down to the pavement. “When you change your mind—and you will—come directly to the Black Mansion. The password Morettus will get you through the door. Recall it. And do not share it.”
The Ragpicker King reached out to swing the carriage door shut. As he did, Ji-An glanced at Kel and put a finger to her lips, as if to say: Hush. Whether she was swearing him to secrecy regarding the password or his meeting with the Ragpicker King, Kel didn’t know, nor was he sure it mattered. He had no intention of telling anyone about either.
Kel made his way back into the Caravel to find the main salon only half as crowded as before. Many of the guests must have already selected a partner for the night and gone upstairs. Someone had upended the Castles board, and half-empty glasses were littered on every surface. The tread of boots and slippers had ground chocolate and cherries into the carpet. The fortune-teller had gone, as had Sancia and Mirela, but Antonetta Alleyne remained, perched on a silk divan. She was chatting away to a courtesan with pale-purple curls, who looked enraptured by whatever she was saying. Kel wondered what on earth the two of them could possibly have to say to each other.
Montfaucon and Roverge had remained in the salon, but Falconet was gone, as was Conor. No one noticed Kel’s entrance; they were all staring at the far side of the room where the hanging tapestries had been drawn back. They revealed the raised dais of a stage, on which a silent performance was taking place.
Kel leaned against the wall, in the shadows, and tried to gather his thoughts. He was familiar with the stage and the sort of “plays” the Caravel put on. Most depicted a bawdy version of Castellane’s history. Those remaining in the salon sprawled in their brocaded chairs, watching as a naked man in a white skull-mask drew a woman—dressed in the stiff, frilled costume of two centuries before—down on a black-draped bed in the stage’s center.
Alys, Kel thought. Had Alys known, when she arranged his meeting with her brother, that Merren worked for the Ragpicker King? Had she known he planned to drug Kel to make him more likely to betray his secrets when kidnapped? The thought was unsettling. Kel had trusted Alys for a long time. But it also seemed unlikely. Alys valued Conor as a client, and would be unlikely to do anything that would drive the Crown Prince and his entourage of nobles away from her establishment.
On stage, Death had stripped his partner of her clothes, leaving her in only a filmy petticoat. He began to bind her wrists to the black bed with long ribbons of scarlet silk. Kel was aware of eyes on him. He’d been trained to know when he was being watched, after all. Antonetta Alleyne was looking at him, her expression unreadable, one of her hands playing with the locket at her throat.
“It’s meant to be the Scarlet Plague, I think,” said a voice at Kel’s shoulder. “Death takes a lover while the bodies lie in the streets. The red ribbons are the malady. She will make love to Death and die of it.”
Kel turned in surprise to find Silla standing at his shoulder. She was a tall girl, nearly his height, narrow-waisted and slim-shouldered, a laced green velvet bodice making the most of her small breasts. Her skirt was slit, showing her long legs. She had freckles and blue eyes and a generous, wide-mouthed smile that had initially drawn him to her. Someone who smiled like that, he had thought, would be kind, would overlook his inexperience, would laugh with him as he learned what to do and how to do it.
He had been right, too, which was why he was still fond of her. He grinned at her now, shoving his misgivings to the back of his mind. “You get the Scarlet Plague from making love to Death?” he said. “I do not recall this as part of my lessons concerning this particular historical period. The drawbacks of Palace tutelage. They focus entirely too much on the wrong things.”
“I should say so.” Silla slid an arm around his waist. On stage, the man had divested his partner of her petticoat. She was naked save for the ribbons at her wrists and ankles and the spill of her long dark hair. Death drew off his mask and crawled across black velvet to lower himself upon her, her pale body arching up to his. Someone in the audience cheered, as if they were watching a sporting match in the Great Arena.
“I ought to find Conor,” Kel murmured, though it was not what he wanted to do. Silla was soft and warm against his side, and he could not help but think how she could make him forget—forget what the Ragpicker King had said to him, forget his own foolishness in being duped by Merren Asper, forget his suspicions of Alys. Of Hadja, who had brought him the false message that had lured him outside. Had she known it was a trick?
“The Prince went upstairs with Audeta,” said Silla. “He is enjoying himself. You need not worry.” She laced her fingers through Kel’s, her eyes darkening. “Come with me.”
Silla knew he would not partake in pleasure in front of the nobles of the Hill, or the Charter Families, for the same reason that he would not drink to excess or indulge in poppy-drops in their company. To lose oneself in pleasure was to lower one’s guard. Even alone with Silla or another courtesan, he could not manage it entirely. There was always some part of him holding back.
And yet. He was aware of Antonetta still looking at him, and he could not help himself. He drew Silla toward him, his hand curling under her chin, lifting her face to his. He kissed her red mouth, tasting the salt of her lip paint, savoring the moment she opened her lips to his, inviting him in. As he cradled her face in his hands, he could feel Antonetta’s gaze on him, knew she was watching. He had thought it would bother him, but it only sent a greater heat crackling through his veins. You have come here to be scandalized, Antonetta, he thought. So be scandalized.
It was Silla who finally broke off their kiss. She purred softly, laughing against his mouth, even as he noted distantly that Antonetta was no longer looking at them. She was staring determinedly toward the stage.
“You’re eager as a boy tonight,” Silla murmured. “Come.”
Taking his hand, she led him from the room. As he went, he paused to glance back at the salon as Silla led him through a small archway at the end of the room. He glimpsed Montfaucon, eyes on the stage, hand on the head of the young man who knelt before him, his head moving rhythmically over Montfaucon’s lap. He was the one who had been telling fortunes before, Kel thought. And Montfaucon was not the only noble being so serviced: The room was full of moving shadows, flashes of skin here and there, the sound of breath, caught. There seemed something hollow and sad about all of it, and he felt a little foolish for having tried to scandalize Antonetta with kissing. Far more scandalous things were going on all around them as Kel followed Silla into the shadows.
Through the archway were a number of curtained alcoves. Silla led him into one of them, its walls plush with rose velvet, before drawing the curtain behind them. Scarlet tapers burned above them in bronze holders. Silla beckoned him close, lifting her face to be kissed.
They had done this often enough that their bodies knew the dance. She arched into Kel as his mouth explored hers, but he wanted more than kissing. He could not have oblivion, but he would take forgetting, even for a short time. He slid his hands up under her bodice, her breasts rounding into his palms. If she felt the bandage on his right hand, she gave no sign. She moaned softly, her fingers trailing down his chest, finding the waistband of his trousers.