Three more bends of the river, and then the boat ran up on some kind of beach. Torches burst into flame, encircling the boat, illuminating a door. Standing in front of the door was Rohan. He wore a red tuxedo with a black shirt underneath and stood like a soldier at attention, but torchlight showed the expression on his face to be utterly relaxed. Self-satisfied. The way someone is when they’ve won.
“You shouldn’t be working at your age, let alone this late at night,” Avery told the boy who’d brought them here. Her gaze darted toward Rohan. “If he made you think otherwise…”
“The Factotum didn’t make me think anything,” the boy said. His tone was fierce, his chin held high. “And someday, when he’s the Proprietor, I’m going to be Factotum for him.”
CHAPTER 25
JAMESON
Rohan didn’t work for the Factotum. Rohan was the Factotum. Not just a messenger. As Jameson strode forward, words Ian had spoken came back to him. He’d said that Jameson needed the Proprietor’s attention. Not his right-hand man’s. And he’d said that every fifty years or so, the Proprietor of the Devil’s Mercy chose a successor.
“Child labor?” Avery stood toe-to-toe with Rohan. “That can’t be legal.”
“A certain type of child knows how to keep secrets better than adults.” There wasn’t a hint of apology in Rohan’s tone. “The Mercy can’t save every child it finds in a horrific situation, but those it does save rarely regret it in the end.”
Jameson heard layers of meaning in those words. You were that child, weren’t you?
Rohan turned his back on them and placed his right hand flat on a black stone. It flared to life, reading his palm, and triggered the sound of a dozen locks being turned. Rohan stepped back, and the door opened toward them.
“Where angels fear to tread, have your fun instead.” Rohan’s voice was almost musical, but there was something dark in his tone. A promise. One that Jameson suspected that men in Rohan’s position had been making for centuries. “But be warned: The house always wins.”
With no hesitation—like a person incapable of hesitation—Jameson stepped through the door. The room beyond was round and domed, the ceiling at least two stories high, the architecture vaguely Roman. Other doors were barely visible in the walls.
Many entrances, many exits. Jameson thought briefly of Hawthorne House and its labyrinthine secret passages, and then he focused on his surroundings, on the parts of the domed room far more visible than the doors.
Five soaring marble arches marked larger openings in the curved wall at equidistant intervals around the room. Thick, rippling curtains hung down from the arches, all of them black, each made of a different fabric. Velvet, silk…
Avery came to stand beside him, and Jameson continued his assessment. The floor beneath their feet was made of golden granite. In the center of the room, there was a circle of columns. Half of them surged up to the domed ceiling; the other half were only as tall as Jameson’s shoulder. On top of each of the smaller columns, there was a shallow golden pan filled with water.
Floating in the water in each of those golden pans was a lily.
Jameson strode inward, and as he did, he noticed the design on the floor, encircled by the columns. A lemniscate. The formal term came to Jameson before the common one. The infinity symbol. The pattern had been laid into the granite in sparkling black and white.
“Onyx.” Rohan spoke directly behind Jameson. “And white agate.”
Jameson whirled, expecting to see Rohan inches away, only to realize the Factotum was still by the door.
“Trick of the walls,” Rohan said with a smile, then he turned to Avery and held out his arm. “I have business to attend to, but the Proprietor has given me leave to get you situated first.”
The Proprietor. Jameson tried not to show his hand at the mere mention of the man, just like he tried not to glare at Rohan when Avery took his arm and the Factotum began to lead her around the room. All part of the game.
Jameson’s stride was long enough that he caught up to them long before they made it to the first grand archway.
“The Mercy has five archways,” Rohan said, his words seeming to echo all around them. “Each leads to entertainment of a different sort.” Rohan said the word entertainment with a wicked sort of smile. A roguish one.
The kind Jameson was used to wielding himself.
“Each area is dedicated to a deadly sin. We are, after all, the Devil’s Mercy.” Rohan swept aside the curtain to their left. Beyond, Jameson could make out dozens of canopies, whatever was beneath them obscured by layers of chiffon.