The Key to All Things

Prologue

Everyone knows the greatest love story ever told. Bards and poets sing it all over the kingdom. It is the tale of Catherine of the Willows, a fae, and Edward de Vere, the Captain of the King’s Guards. They married despite their love being forbidden. And then, the unthinkable happened. Catherine was chosen to take the fae throne. And with that, she faced a terrible choice – to keep her marriage and remain obscure, or to sacrifice her one true love and become the Sapphire Queen of the Fae.

She sacrificed. And as she rose, Edward fell. Tossed aside, he became the tragic hero.

I am the only one who knows this story is a lie. Edward never loved Catherine. I, Avriel, was the one he wed, and everything should have been the happily ever after – except that it didn’t turn out this way. And now, no one remembers the truth anymore. Not even Edward. Worse, I tend to forget it too, most of the time.

Why? I don’t know. In one brief moment everything’s changed, and I do not know how that happened. I go about my day with the bards’ song in my head as I perform my duties – sometimes a court lady, sometimes a spy, sometimes a simple gardener no one cares to notice. Like everyone else, I see Edward as just an attractive soldier who once was the Captain of the King’s Guard but now fell from grace amidst his epic heartbreak, and all I can do is hide in the shadows and long for him.

But every time the evening clock chimes nine, my memories come back and last until midnight. For three hours each day, I remember what it was like to taste his kisses, to have him lean close and whisper in my ear, to feel him by my side. I remember what it was like to be powerful and in control of my destiny, to have friends who respected me.

How did it all change? I have no idea. But I will never give up trying to reclaim what was once mine.

Chapter One

The bridges between the fae and human sides of the island were shut down, because today was a day of memorial for the fae people. The Queen of the Humans, Maud, had not been invited. No human was, save for the Crown Prince, Havelock, who had gone to live with the fae a few years ago, at the end of the war – a guarantee that the humans would behave themselves and not start another war. Sometimes the Sapphire Queen of the Fae would trot him out for all to see. Like today, when the pair formed a prominent centerpiece among the magnificent display of the fae on the other side of the river. Huddled behind Queen Maud in a tight group of court ladies, Avriel craned her neck to watch.

Which one is she? Queen Maud whispered.

The one in blue, Your Majesty, Flora, one of the ladies, ventured.

I know that, Maud snapped. "What else would the Sapphire Queen be wearing?"

Avriel narrowed her eyes. Even from a distance, the Queen of the Fae sparkled, as if a thousand stars were hidden in the folds of her gowns. Her hair glittered with dark jewels, her ceremonial mask covering her cheek bones, eyes and forehead. The outfit made her look like a porcelain doll, and not at all like the woman Avriel had known.

She doesn’t look very somber, another lady, Kate, muttered beside Avriel.

Is she supposed to? Flora asked.

This is the ceremony to remember the Tree of Pearls, Avriel supplied. You’ve heard of it… it’s in the stories. The stories. Of Edward and Catherine. They always made Avriel feel small and sad.

I thought the tree was long gone. What are they doing over there? Flora gestured to the fae gathered across the way. They were lined up, each throwing an offering toward the cliff edge. The place where, only a handful of years ago, the Tree of Pearls and its garden used to be. Catherine stood a few feet away, facing the twisted arch that used to be the entrance to the garden, so that the offerings had to be thrown quite hard to make sure they went past her and over the edge.

That is odd. Why not let them go closer to the edge? Perhaps it is unstable. Avriel tried to follow the offerings over the cliff to the sea, but she wasn’t close enough to see. The number of fae – with wings, with bark for skin, in silks and in furs – was both beautiful and bewildering.

The Tree of Pearls was real, and its roots reached deep into the key lines. The royals of the fae… Kate explained to Flora.

Not the royals, the queens. Maud interrupted. They were all queens. The Diamond Queen was preceded by Citrine, Citrine by Opal. And on and on. The Tree of Pearls was the main source of their power and stability. When it was destroyed, it should have weakened the Queen of the Fae.

There he is, Your Majesty. Kate placed her hand on the Queen’s arm, then pointed at Prince Havelock stepping to the front of the fae crowd, dressed in silver and brown.

His hair is too long. It’s not fashionable to wear it that long anymore. Maud muttered.

He looks good, Kate said. Happy.

Maud nodded, and turned to go. They all fell into place behind her. Avriel glanced back one more time. She caught sight of Baramis. Tall and swathed in black, he looked like a carrion bird considering what morsel to pluck next. He stood close enough to the Prince to push the young man off the cliff, and against reason, Avriel felt nervous.

As if sensing her thoughts, he looked across the gorge and directly into her eyes.

He can’t possibly see me, she thought, and as if to prove her wrong, he bowed slightly before turning away. Avriel shivered, and hurried to catch up with the Queen’s retinue.

She was dismissed as soon as the Queen got back to the palace. Avriel felt out of sorts, so she wandered up the stairs, seeking the one place that always made her feel better. The Dragon Room.

The palace was a sprawling maze, built up over the years as monarchs added their own wing or changed the layout to suit their needs. As Avriel made her way through the hallways, she noticed the occasional patches of old stonework, peeking out of the more recent coverings of brilliant blue paint and white molding. In the gallery, she looked out of the long row of windows at the lush gardens below, and the palace wing beyond them that contained an elaborate chapel and a conservatory. Next to it, another wing, burned down during the war between human and fae, was still being rebuilt. From here she couldn’t see the outer palace wall, but she thought of the deep valley on the other side, and the citadel of the fae across the gorge, home to the Sapphire Queen and her court.

Before taking the throne, she used to be called Catherine of the Willows, and Avriel knew her well in those days. And then Catherine’s given up everything – her name, her family, her husband. Edward. Avriel wondered if she felt badly for Catherine, sacrificing everything for the right to be the queen of all the fae, her whole identity now reduced to the color of a gem, her face covered by a mask.

The Dragon Room was near the old gates. Many years ago this was the main palace entrance, away from the open front of the river. Envoys and courtiers alike once had to travel around a grand sweep of the road that was now the gardens. The architecture here looked older, marble giving way to wood paneling, wood giving way to stone. Some attempts, here and there, had been made to bring the interior up to modern tastes. But by the time Avriel got to the former front gates – tall, elaborately carved dark oak and iron panels opening into a hall with a sweeping double staircase – it was evident that the palace decorators had given up on the idea of change.

She looked down into that grand hall as she passed, running her hand along the ornate stone railing. The doors to the outside had not been opened in so long that the hinges and bolts looked rusted. They were closed and locked tight the day the dragon egg was carted into the main hall and up these stairs, to be stored securely behind another set of massive wood and iron bound doors, which she approached now.

A pair of King’s Guards kept stations on either side of the door. The one on the left gave her a smile of recognition and bowed his head. His partner regarded her more suspiciously, probably checking for weapons.

The heat that came out of the room was intense. It hit Avriel full in the face as she stepped in. She took a deep breath, the hot, damp air settling into her lungs.

The egg was centered in a pool of light, and it shimmered oddly, changing colors – more like a large opal than a carrier of life. Like all things made by the fae, the eternal light pouring over the egg seemed purposely designed to make everything it touched more beautiful.

Avriel walked around the egg. Its slightly translucent sheen made her fancy that she could see the dragon inside, curled up around itself, waiting to rise. But she knew that was only a trick of light.

As she circled, she noticed a man seated on one of the two benches in the depths of the room. Her breath caught as she came to a stop near him. Edward de Vere, former Comte, former husband of the Queen of the Fae. The one Catherine betrayed for the sake of her power, thus ending the greatest love story of all times.

Oh, dear.

He rose as she approached. Of course, a proper gentleman would never sit in the presence of a lady. She searched her suddenly empty head for something to say.

He was tall, her head just reaching the top of his shoulder. Not perfect, by any means. His hair was a little too long to be in fashion and his beard was in need of trimming along the edges. But his eyes – oh. Green, expressive, they held a melancholy even when he smiled, a melancholy that made the ladies swoon even as they vied to elicit a real smile from him. Avriel felt regret when they shifted away from her face to regard the egg, his expression unreadable in the red-gold light. She shifted her gaze too, to his black gloved hands folded over where his sword belt should be. Of course he would have left his sword with the guards outside. No weapons were allowed in here.

It is beautiful, isn’t it? His voice was like the semi-darkness they stood in: deep, unfathomable, warm.

Now is the time I prove that I am not a brainless idiot fawning over a handsome man. It is. She took a breath. The colors are magnificent... unearthly.

Indeed, was all he said, leaving her casting around in her head again for something that might pass for an intelligent reply.

They say you are the one who found it. It felt as if she was dancing delicately around the edges of something. Trying to remind him of one of his greatest triumphs, hoping she did not remind him of the failure that followed.

She was rewarded with a quick flash of a grin. That I did, I and my friends. But you know that tale, I am sure. He stepped toward her, and now, in the golden light, she could finally see his face clearly. Tired, but his expression was kindly.

This was Edward de Vere, she reminded herself again. The star of the greatest of all love stories. He could not regard her, a plain little bird, with anything more than kindness.

But why ever not? She smiled up at him, confident and sweet. I would not mind hearing the story from the person who was actually there. The bards embellish so much, one does not know what is truth and what is embroidery.

He smiled at that. Perhaps. I... He paused, looked at the egg again, then stepped back into the inky red darkness at the edge of the room and bowed. Perhaps it is best to leave such things for the bards. Forgive me, Mi’lady. I am late for an appointment.

He walked to the stone bench he’d been sitting at, and she realized that he had not left his sword outside after all. Perhaps they allowed him to keep it if he promised to put it aside?

As he buckled his belt and swept his cloak around his shoulders, he said, I shall tell you, though, to take care. They say staring at the egg for too long makes a person mad. And with that, he put his hat back on his head, and left the room.

Avriel looked at the egg, then back at the now empty doorway.

Well, I feel like an idiot, she told the egg. The egg, of course, didn’t answer. But then, she always felt like an idiot when it concerned Edward de Vere.

I should never have stopped to look at that damnable egg, Edward chided himself as he strode from the palace.

He had gone to train with the King’s Guard as he often did, even though after three years of being expelled from their ranks it was still a less than comfortable experience. He wasn’t one of them anymore; not a guard, no longer a noble. A man who fell in disgrace and lost all his titles and wealth when cast aside by the love of his life. But what he was, still, even disgraced, was one of the best swordsmen on the field. And he was willing to teach, as long as he and his fellow friends in disgrace were allowed to continue training at the barracks. He loved the discipline, the sharpening of skills and the passing on of technique. It gave him some solace, even if sometimes things were whispered about him, even if eyes that were once filled with respect were now derisive.

The fall would have hurt less if he had not taken Merrick and Stephan down with him. His two closest – well, perhaps to be honest, only friends – stuck by him when others would not.

The fall. He winced when his thoughts strayed to it, the memories painful like a sore open wound that refused to heal. It all started with Catherine. He’d loved her – with all his soul, he’d loved her. She’d been funny, charming, gentle, and beautiful enough to make his heart hurt. If he thought about it too long he’d have to admit he missed her, and he refused to give her that. He stopped to catch his breath, tried to remember exactly what happened. Had the fall started when he and his friends had stolen the dragon egg in a last ditch effort to end the war? No. No. It started when Catherine chose to rise to the fae throne and become the Sapphire Queen. She divorced him in the most humiliating way possible. He never fully understood why she wanted to so utterly – and publicly – gut him.

And then he’d made some less than political choices. He went from being a Comte with his own lands to nothing. If you made him sit down and try to figure out exactly why the King and Queen of the human court no longer welcomed him, he’d not be able to answer. Ruined by drink, perhaps, he thought wryly as he went on. The memory of his past was always a little foggy. Things didn’t always add up. When he tried to recapture it, to create a logical timeline of it all, it set his head to spinning.

Ah well. Perhaps if I keep my eyes open, I will have my chance to redeem things yet. As long as there is life, there is hope. But he didn’t really believe it. Instead, he strode down the hill from the palace, letting the slope do the work as he thought of Lady Avriel.

There was something about her that he liked. He clearly remembered each time they had spoken – perhaps not that much of a miracle, considering that interactions between court ladies and former members of the King’s Guard were rare. Had he ever seen her before the war? It seemed to him that he should have, but he could not bring her to mind. He wasn’t quite certain what was it that he liked about her. Of course she was pretty – quite so. And sweet-natured – he’d seen her handle some of the less kindly ladies of the court with tact and gentleness. She had sharp wit too, like a knife concealed in a bodice, ready to cut, if needed. But none of it was the reason. There was something quiet about her. When he was with her, his mind fell silent. The strange, constant melody that seemed to always be in his head – the song that ground away at him in snatches and pieces day and night – went away, and he felt like himself again.

Dangerous, that. You might become addicted. He grinned humorlessly.

He put these thoughts aside as he worked his way down through the layers of the town, past Stephan’s warehouse, where even now his friend was tinkering with inventions he hoped to someday sell, to where the less law abiding people of the land occupied themselves without fear. He needed money for wine, which was a much safer way to drown out the noise in his head, and his current employer would brook no lateness. Gone were the days when he could live off the revenues from his holdings of land, or depend upon awards from the King and Queen for some heroic effort on his part… now he had to work for his living.

He strode down the boardwalk that followed the silver river. As he walked, the flower pots disappeared, the wood stopped being painted by anything but salt water and wind. At the very edge of the land, just before the stairs led down to the docks that decorated this part of both human side and fae side banks, stood the Gimlet Eye, a large, rambling inn with a detached kitchen.

He crossed the muddied planks to the kitchen, brushed past one of the maids cutting chunks of meat and throwing them into bowls. In the pantry he put his cloak and hat down with care, then removed his jerkin and hung it on a peg. He unlaced the sleeves on his doublet, knowing that the fewer clothes he had on, the fewer he risked ruining. He could not afford for anything to get damaged. He frowned at the cuff of his undershirt. It was fraying, and he’d already turned it once. He shrugged it away. He didn’t have the funds for better clothes.

When he was finished, a maid handed him a loaf of bread and a slab of meat that he did not want to guess the origin of, and, most importantly, a pot of ale. He sat on a stool away from the other workers and ate quickly. The food and ale were part of his wages and sometimes they were the only meal he had in a day. I’ve not died yet, so it can’t be too terrible for me.

Edward didn’t know the name of his employer. Everyone simply called him the Eye, either because of the name of the establishment or because he was down to only one, which watched his employees with a relentless glare. The man liked to keep everyone jumping. But he made sure everyone was fed – and paid them, if not much, timely and without grumbling.

You better keep a sober mind tonight, Penny yelled over her slender shoulder.

Edward arched an eyebrow and took a deep drink of his ale.

I mean it, she said. Three ships docked in tonight, one from the Straits of Galor, and they’ll be looking for a fight.

Edward nodded. Navigating a ship through the fog was not impossible, if the right men were at the helm, but it was unsettling. Merrick likened it to lying down on an anthill. The fog seemed to get under the clothes, crawl across the skin, make even the most even-tempered men spoil for a fight.

He finished his food and stood with a bow. You can depend on me, Madame.

She frowned at him, and he stared back impassively. She patted his chest as she went by. Make sure you come back in a few hours. I’ll save you some pie. You can eat it before they get really out of hand.

Thank you, he said to her scrawny, retreating back. The woman was shaped like an old wooden cane. But he liked her, and they watched after each other.

She didn’t say anything else to him, and he went to take up his usual post in the inn’s large common room.

The room was already busy, a mix of fae and humans crowding around scarred tables. Edward looked over the blue furred shoulder of a sailor whose shaved arm bore an intricate tattoo. Two other men at the table had different tattoos, meaning that they were from different ships. Sea ships, all; airship men rarely came to the sea docks. There was no rancor in their card playing, everyone seemed peaceable enough, so he walked on.

They say that Pandroth is looking for a way through the fog. Edward overheard someone say.

This sailor was fae, a woman, but her skin had that oddly soft porcelain look that he knew to belong to the Stone Kindred. She moved like a hired fighter, and sported deep scars – impressive, for the Stone Kindred’s skin was as hard as their name implied. If he ran ships, that’s exactly the kind of fae he would hire. Stone Kindred were heavy, and useless for climbing rigging, but they were hard to take in a fight.

Do you think they’ll find it? her companion responded.

A human, Edward guessed. It was not always easy to tell, but there was something about the speaker that seemed mundane. (Which, he thought with a smile as he pretended his attention was elsewhere while he eavesdropped, probably meant that she was as fae as the Elder Fae that lived in the high mountains.)

No, and when you go on your first voyage, you’ll see why. The wall of fog is thick and nigh impassable, unless you are on a ship made from the trees of our Nathrium forests, navigated by people of this land’s blood. Anyone else gets confused and lost, sailing forever until the crew dies of hunger.

That seems terribly grim. Edward had heard stories of a foreign craft recovered from the fog, its crew dead.

A group of patrons vacated their table, leaving a half unfinished pot of wine. He casually took it as he passed, seating himself on a stool in the corner to better observe the room. I shouldn’t be drinking. He knew that Penny had meant it when she said he needed a sober mind, but this was one of those nights when the strange buzz at the back of his head seemed to redouble itself, and the constant push of it against his will was harder to bear. Wine silenced it, if he drank enough, and he was not one to waste an opportunity for a free drink.

It is, to be honest, the main reason I am so often not in funds. He drank most of it away.

The Eye also provided him a tiny room in the loft of the inn because the owner liked to keep his watch dog close. It was the only reason Edward was able to keep a roof over his head.

And what else would I spend money on anyway? My wife? She never needed anything from me.

Summer was coming, and the fields of his old home would be crimson and gold with flowers. Not for the first time he wondered who had taken over his family’s lands, who bore the title he used to carry with such resignation. He finished the pot and handed it to a maid as she passed.

They are better off. They are all better off. People still called him Comte, and he used to protest it. The title was often uttered with derision, but some called him that out of respect, and yet others were so used to the song that the title just popped out of their mouths without thinking, even though anyone who knew the song also knew he was no longer anything resembling the man he’d been.

The song. It felt like there were a thousand versions of the blasted thing, and all of them mashed together in his head. In the song, he was rich, handsome, dashing… one of the verses even called him elegant, which was a laugh. He was the man everyone wanted to be, if the popularity of the song could be believed, right up until the part where Catherine was crowned Queen of the Fae.

He cast about for something to divert his attention, and got it. A fae, who looked more goat than human, rammed his hands at the chest of a human man who looked like he could eat goats by the dozen for breakfast. Seeing potential trouble, Edward rose, and sauntered over.

All Edward had to do was step between the arguing pair just as the human raised his fist and arched an eyebrow. He was a head taller than Edward and more muscled, but he stepped back, nodded at Edward, and walked away.

Edward looked at the goat-fae. It’s good to be known. Want to know why?

The fae shook his head and took his drink to another corner of the room.

Edward sighed, looked at the maid behind the bar. May I have some wine? Being frightening is busy work.

You know I can’t, she admonished.

He sighed dramatically, pushed away from the bar, and walked around the room again.

Chapter Two

And they’ve come from the Straights of Galor, Charlotte said, pulling a hairbrush through her long copper curls, turning the strands blonde. That is what Uncle said, anyway. She fooled with the ridiculous waterfall of newly blonde curls, then cupped her hands over her face, concentrating on what she wanted to look like; reforming – not the reality of her flesh, but what people would perceive of it. Uncle. This was what they called Northram when they were being discreet, just as they referred to each other as sisters. Of course, neither of them were related by blood, but it felt like family anyway… Northram and his ring of spies. Charlotte was often her partner in these endeavors, but while they called each other sisters, they could not call each other friends.

And what are we supposed to get from them? Avriel finished braiding her own dark hair, then twisted it and pinned it on top of her head. Some people had to rely on old fashioned theater craft for their disguises. She took a ragged hat from the peg and tried it on, looking over Charlotte’s shoulder into the fly-spotted mirror. Her outfit seemed in order – a doublet, jerkin and breeches. Everything new enough to help cement the idea that she was a young man with funds, but not so rich she became a target. She reached inside and adjusted the rope padding that was meant to conceal her waist and bosom. It did the job, mostly, by making her look well-fed. Her huge cloak should cover the rest, even though she did not want to depend on it.

Avriel was aiming for unobtrusive, and she was fairly sure she had achieved it. Charlotte's aim was the opposite. She looked ready to pop out of her shabby bodice.

A small package. Not much bigger than the palm of your hand, Charlotte said.

Avriel nodded, folding away Charlotte’s carelessly strewn clothes. The rich blue dress was so at odds with the bare gray walls of the garret they had borrowed for the night. She hid it in the narrow space behind a half-rotten chest, next to the clothes she herself had worn out of the palace.

Alright. You are sure they did not leave it on the ship? Avriel asked. Searching the ship for what Northram wanted would be much, much simpler.

Positive. Charlotte swept on her moth-eaten velvet cloak and looked into the mirror, a smile tugging her mouth that now had a lush upper lip slightly fuller than the lower one, crinkling in the corners of her large brown eyes that had a soft, almost vapid look. Normally Charlotte had violet eyes and a narrow, lovely face.

Avriel offered her arm and together they walked out into the night – a dandy and his light skirt companion. "They have a buyer already. He’s supposed to meet them at the Gimlet Eye, just ahead." She stumbled on a paving stone. Charlotte cast an askance look her way.

Sorry. Avriel sighed. Not used to the boots yet.

Charlotte clicked her tongue. Careless, darling. You should be better at this sort of thing by now.

Avriel chose to ignore her.

Do we have any idea what this buyer looks like? She eyed the men standing outside the inn, drinking and smoking, enjoying the clear twilight.

Now, dear, where would the fun be in that? And, with that, Charlotte turned, slapped her with more sound than fury, and said, in a tacky, low-born brogue, An’ I said ye would have to pay first. And stormed off.

As the men laughed at her, Avriel tipped her abased head downward to hide a fleeting grin, then followed Charlotte into the inn.

Charlotte made her way across the room, leaving a wake of staring sailors. Glamor was one of Charlotte’s strengths, and she seemed to enjoy playing dress-up whenever the moment called for it.

As she scanned the room, Avriel wondered if she could get away with playing a woman of no virtue sometime, but she wasn’t sure she could muster enough confidence – or corseting – to make the role believable. Neither glamor nor standing out in the crowd were her strong suits. Being invisible was, literally, as it was one of her fae abilities, and she plied that power as she turned her mind to the task at hand.

The place was crowded, and a bit intimidating. How will we see anything? She leaned against the wall by the door, seeking a decent line of sight.

And, of course, there he was. Edward. He had lost his doublet, and was down to a jerkin and sleeves, the jerkin partly unbuttoned. Casual and intimate. True, many of the clientele were similarly dressed down, sailors didn’t have money for layers of clothes like the rich. Still, it was a shocking bit of deshabille. Court-raised as she was, she was unaccustomed to seeing a peek of a collar bone, a hint of a chest through the gaps of his unlaced shirt. It took her a moment to tear her eyes away and focus.

Edward tilted his head and walked over to a table where a trio of dice players seemed intent on their game. He leaned over and picked up the dice, rolling them over in his palm, then threw them.

Eighteen, he said, and threw them again. Eighteen again. I feel so fortunate… let’s see if it works again… and eighteen again. I don’t think I could possibly roll the same exact rolls three times in a row, do you? He rolled one of the dice between his forefinger and thumb. I do believe that the way it’s weighted might explain that, though…

A medium-sized sailor with a gold hoop in his nose held up his hands. That can’t be right! I wouldn’t cheat you! His table partners didn’t seem inclined to believe him, though, including the dark-skinned part-Minotaur who looked like he could snap a war ship into two pieces with his bare hands.

Edward pulled the cheater to his feet and pointed at the door. The last person at the table, a skinny old man with metal teeth, hissed something too low for Avriel to catch, but Edward shook his head. I don’t care what you do with him... just do it outside. And he pulled the cheater to the door and pushed him through it.

Avriel angled her hat so it covered her face from Edward’s view, but not so much that she couldn’t watch the spectacle. The large man tried to push by Edward to follow the cheater, but Edward did not move an inch.

You said you didn’t care, as long as we went outside, the half Minotaur growled.

Indeed. I don’t care. But I made no promises about when, did I?

The sailor was taller than Edward, but the former Comte didn’t seem concerned, just stood there casually. Giving the cheater a head-start of sorts, Avriel assumed. Edward looked over his shoulder, then finally cleared the door with a sarcastic bow.

No honor is this world, he said softly as the men raced past him.

On the way back to his post he paused at their abandoned table, picked up the mug, and looked at it thoughtfully before draining it and depositing it on the bar. The dice went into the fire.

Avriel scooted in. It was probably her imagination, but she was sure she felt Edward’s cool eyes on her. Maybe he knows I am a woman, even under these clothes. She ordered a drink in her best imitation of a young man who knew he was where he shouldn’t be, and was given a tankard of ale. She took a tentative taste. Disgusting. What does Edward see in this swill? She sighed and concentrated on the crowd.

What she was looking for was the crew of the Tregaurde – the roughest of the lot, merchantmen bringing fruits and spices from Galor. They could be identified by a tattoo of an anchor pierced by a sword. She looked up. The second floor was open, filled with small rooms along the sides. Some alcoves up there might be worth a look.

Charlotte, for her part, was having a lovely time. Like her sister-in-arms, she was making her way through the crowd, looking for the first mate of the Tregaurde. Unlike Avriel, she knew what he looked like.

A sharp word of warning came from the corner, drawing her eyes. Ah, Edward. She looked at him for a moment, a smile playing on her lips. She loved a lot of things in life, such as freedom to do and be whomever she wanted – and, of course, secrets. She also loved to torture sanctimonious men. She walked up to him.

Hello, darling. She pressed herself against him. Going on break soon?

He stiffened and pulled away, his gaze cold.

No. He gestured toward the teeming masses. You’ll find better luck for your trade there.

Charlotte grinned. Interesting. So, is the world’s greatest romantic hero disgusted by whores, or just women in general?

His narrowed eyes told her keenly what he thought of her. She laughed and strutted away, fluttering her eyelashes here, feeling up a thigh there. She knew she was beautiful; it was not vanity or glamor, but a fact. If beauty was in the eye of the beholder, then no one had ever been more desired... at least, judging by the eyes that followed her.

There you are. The first mate of the Tregaurde was draining a mug, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Charming manners.

They had met before. For that meeting she had patterned herself after poor, dreary Avriel, a black-haired minx who preferred breeches to skirts, all silence. Charlotte had played with him a bit, and it had been entertaining, but she hadn’t let him get a real bite.

Hello there, handsome... she whispered in his ear. Jack? Smitty? Mark? She hadn’t cared to remember.

He turned and looked at her, running a gratifyingly appreciative eye down her curves. Ah, love. I have a spot of business, but will you keep my seat warm? He ran a hand across the pleated fabric at her hip. When I return, I’ll show you a good time.

But I’m sure... she said, sliding her hands over his body and pressing close, doing a mental inventory, trying to search him subtly, … that you can show me a very good time right now.

He laughed and kissed her, and she submitted. Not the best tasting mouth she’d ever experienced, but she was an excellent actress. She curled up in his lap, which gave her an excellent opportunity to slide her hands over his hips and pop open his pouch. I hope you’re watching, Avriel... not just so you can see how it’s done, but maybe help out? She rubbed her breasts against his chest, wiggling invitingly while a dark shadow passed, tripped against the chair. A tiny hand quickly dipped into the pouch, there was a muttered apology, and the shadow left.

Charlotte peeked at Edward de Vere, still in his corner, not seemingly interested in her. So they were safe. Avriel just had to keep going. She flicked her wrist to shut his pouch, en route to giving his inner thigh a squeeze. Shall we go upstairs? I have a room.

Go on up. After I finish my business here I am all yours, I promise. And then I can pay for the night.

She blinked, as if in wonder. The whole night?

Aye. He gave her breast a squeeze as she slid off his lap, moving delicately away from the touch. Don’t worry, I’ll get my money’s worth.

I’m sure you will, she muttered, and he gave her an odd look. Third room to the left of the stairs.

She turned and walked away, stopping only once to look back with pretended longing, but his attention was caught elsewhere. She slipped a little closer, getting a look at the man her would-be lover was set to meet.

The cloaked man who approached the table looked normal, but he smelled wrong. There was something off about him – the way he moved, the expression on his face. A dead man, she realized. Fresh dead, too, by the looks. She shuddered. Someone was possessing the man from afar, using him like a puppet. Spells wreathed his being, a dark pulsing blue.

Some of the fae-touched in the bar straightened. She saw hairs rise on the backs of their necks, faces pinched in disgust turn as they tried to spot the source of their discomfort. Not all of them would figure it out. She could see spells clearer than anyone – part her gift, part her training. I don’t recognize this magic. It is not of the fae.

Her mark rose from his table with a yelp, and she started pushing through the crowd a little more firmly. She wanted to make it to the door as soon as possible. She could handle the living, but the dead was another matter entirely.

She stole my money! That whore!

Oh bugger and blast.

Edward, curse his eyes, was in front of her. I think you should come with me. We’ll have Millie come in the back and take a look.

Millie, the Madame who was responsible for The Eye’s girls, shook her head. She’s not one of mine, Eddie.

Eddie? Charlotte covered her mouth to try and stop herself from cackling. Are you going to let her get away with calling you that, oh great Comte!

He frowned at her. Do I know you?

Oh, not at all. Want to change that? I have a few minutes.

He gave her that look again, a look that would still lesser mortals, but Charlotte didn’t care. She grinned at him.

Still, he said through gritted teeth, I would be grateful if you were to...

Check the bitch now, the mark said, grabbing her other arm.

Edward thrust a hand forward. It caught the sailor in the chest and pushed him back, forcing him to let her go to regain his balance. Millie shall examine her, out of the way of prying eyes. If you like, you can wait just outside, and I promise you will get your money back. How much are you missing?

Always a gentleman, Comte? He was raised right, and you... Charlotte poked the other man in the chest … weren’t. Past his shoulder she could see Avriel, staring hard at something at the bar. Charlotte winced. Run, you stupid girl. Now is not the time for your parlor tricks.

A bottle raised itself slowly off the bar, then cracked a patron on the head.

Hey! he turned, looking for the culprit. What the hell did ye do that for?

The drunk man next to him looked surprised by the accusation. Will you shut up and sit down? I’ve got a date with a tankard of ale.

This ale? the man grabbed the tankard and splashed the contents in the other man’s face.

Edward cursed under his breath. Millie, hold on to her, will you? And he turned quickly, just in time to avoid getting hit by a flying tankard.

Something similar was happening all across the pub. Charlotte smiled sweetly at Millie, then grabbed the woman’s forehead and slammed her back against the pillar hard enough to daze her. Her mark, of course, decided that this was his big chance to get his stolen goods back, and reached for her. She slid neatly to the side and stomped on his foot. He bent over and her knee met his face... hard. She pushed him past her, a shoe to his backside for good measure.

And you were a lousy kisser! She grabbed her skirts and ran for the door.

She didn’t have to look to know that the dead man had decided to follow. Hopefully Avriel’s pub brawl would slow him, though the cold prickles she felt along her spine suggested otherwise.

Avriel regretted her idea almost immediately. The pub brawl was on in earnest, and Edward was in the middle of the fray, splitting fighters apart, yelling for order in his commander’s voice. She wanted to leave, but it seemed to her that every sailor in here had decided that this was an excellent time to take out their grudges against Edward. For his part, Edward was trying not to damage the clientele. The clientele did not seem obliged to return the favor.

A man slammed a chair against Edward’s back, and he stumbled, turned, elbowed the man in the throat, ducked to avoid a broken piece of chair aimed at his head.

Avriel couldn’t take it anymore. She stepped in, slammed a metal tankard against the jaw of Edward’s assailant, heard a satisfying crunch as she turned and continued to use her new weapon, this time to smash someone’s nose. Edward and Avriel were back to back, and it felt odd – yet somehow familiar, comfortable. Avriel was not particularly strong, but she was fast and well-trained.

Someone swung a punch, and she stepped aside, slamming her hand against his elbow and pulling him forward. Her hat flew off. She didn’t think about it until the man she’d been about to fight paused, looking horrified.