“That was widowswork,” he said, buttoning his cuffs. “Perhaps you’ve heard of it. It slows the heart, thickens the blood, shuts down the vital organs one by one. Most people use it to poison slowly, in which case a drop or two will do, spread out over weeks, or months.” He held the bottle to the light. It was empty. “I’d say you have an hour. If you’re lucky.”
It wasn’t enough time. Even if Tes were in her shop, with her black tea and her blotters. Even if she hadn’t just been poisoned. And if she were already dead, what was the point?
But then the nobleman produced a second bottle, its contents a milky white.
“An antidote,” he said, striding for the door. Calin got out of the way, and the nobleman tossed him the bottle, as if it were a tip, as he vanished into the hall.
Bex and Calin watched him go. Their bodies loosened, just a little, when they could no longer hear his steps. Calin closed the door, and Bex looked down at Tes.
“Well,” she said, “I’d get to work, if I were you.”
* * *
Truth be told, Lila had never spent much time in pleasure gardens.
Not that she scorned pleasure—she enjoyed a fine wine, a sharp knife, the things Kell could do with his mouth when he put it to good use—but once a thief, always a thief. She didn’t trust the kindness, the closeness. Someone placed a glass into her hand. Someone grazed their fingers down her arm. Someone’s body whispered against hers, and every time, her muscles stiffened, and her nerves told her she was being robbed.
Music spilled out of a large chamber, a quartet of instruments perched on a stand, spelled to play without players, but the rest of the room was full of people, some playing cards, and others smoking, and most enjoying the company provided by the Veil. The light was low, and it fell on the masks, picking out the occasional gold of a host drifting among the tapestry of black and white, and making all of them glow.
A woman’s hand grazed Lila’s back, and she had to resist the urge to stop the bones, or check her pockets as a voice purred with feline grace. “Avan, res naster.”
Lila turned, and found another white-dressed figure, albeit wearing far, far less of it, her face hidden behind its own gold mask.
“Avan,” answered Lila. “Can you point me toward the library?”
“Why go there,” she teased, “when you can stay with me?”
“What can I say?” said Lila. “I have a love of books.”
She could almost see the woman pouting behind her mask, but then she wrapped her arms around Lila, and turned her around, pointing down a hall.
“That way,” she said, giving Lila a playful nudge, her embrace retreating like a tide.
She made her way down the hall, which was lined with doors, all of them closed, gold masks hanging on the wood. The first two turned out to be locked. The next opened onto a pair of men playing cards. Someone had just lost a hand, and was stripping off his shoes. The other seemed to have lost several—he was barely clothed. Neither seemed to notice Lila as she let the door fall shut. She continued, searching room after room, discovered all the markings of a pleasure house, and none of a rebel group. She reached the end of the hall, only to discover it did not end, but turned onto an alcove, and a final door, unmarked by mask, or glass, or sign.
She put her ear to the wood, and heard nothing from the other side. She tested the handle, and found it unlocked. The door swung open onto a large and well-appointed library, the walls lined with books, a large wooden desk in the corner, a pair of chairs set before an unlit fire.
Lila stepped inside, and closed the door behind her.
A clock on the wall chimed, and she took in the time. Ten.
Lila studied the books on the wall, then went to the desk, and opened drawer after drawer, searching for something, anything, to tie this place to the Hand. She was still searching when the library door groaned open, carrying the ghost of music and voices from the house. Lila turned, and saw a man.
He was tall, and broad enough to fill the doorway. His brown hair was cut short on the sides, but it rose over the top of his black mask. He was dressed in a navy coat with silver buttons. Her gaze went to his hands. They were scarred.
“You’re early,” he said. His voice held the rumble of thunder.
“Better than late,” said Lila lightly.
“Indeed.” He did an odd thing then. He was still standing in the open door. Now, as she watched, he reached up and ran one hand down the side of the frame, as if testing the wood, before stepping forward into the library. He pulled the door shut behind him. And locked it.