Quartz (14 page)

Rafe selected a mushroom with spiced bread and onion stuffing, and popped it into his mouth. He took his time chewing and swallowing, then proclaimed. “Superb. My compliments to the cook.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him,” she said, oversweet, with a touch of bared fangs in her false smile. “Would you like to try the one with the diamonddust on it? I believe it’s freshly scraped off a tunnel wall. Or are you finished, sir?” The platter was motionless as she waited for his reply, as though it were a point of pride with her to be the best servitor she could be.

“With the platter, yes.” Rafe lowered his voice. “With you, no.”

Isabella raked him over with a smoldering-coal gaze. “You mistake my role, sir. I only serve food on platters at parties. Nothing more.”

Sel! Did she actually think that he would have indecent designs on her? Besides the wanting-to-shake-her-at-times kind of designs, that is. He would’ve laughed, if he weren’t so incensed with her taking that tone of moral outrage. After all, she was the party-crasher, not him. And he did not for a moment think that she was here for a night of honest work for once.

“I imagine that it is strange for you to be here as a servitor,” he said, still low, almost growling, “when you could’ve been here as a Marchioness.”

The platter dipped alarmingly, and both Rafe and Isabella put out their hands to steady it. His hand caught hers; her cold fingers cradled briefly in the warmth of his palm. Rafe pulled back as if burnt just as Isabella shook his hand off. He settled for grasping the nearest edge of the platter.

A couple strolling in, the girl’s hand chastely on the youth’s arm, glanced at them. Rafe said, “Be careful, miss, you nearly tipped the mushrooms onto my breeches. I never thought the help here would be so careless,” for their benefit—and his own.

“Sorry, sir.” Isabella snatched the platter from his fingers, then added in a fierce whisper. “I wish I had dropped it on your
foot.
Why can’t you learn to leave well alone? I suppose you’ll shadow me all night?”

Rafe shrugged. “It could be worse. I could have you arrested for unauthorized interactions with Blackstone and drugging government agents. Or you could just talk to me. Even my irksome company would be better than that of the intelligence officers.”

“Lovely. You’ve set the ministry dogs on me. Went straight to Uncle Leo, I bet.” Louder, she added, “There are more pastries out in the smaller supper room. Sugared violets, honeyed cakes, berry tarts. This way, sir.” She spoke loud enough so that several pairs of eyes looked over briefly to see who the glutton with the sweet tooth was, and stepped out into the foyer.

Rafe smiled ruefully at her back. She gave as good as she got, and he probably deserved that after his own remarks.

He walked almost at her heels, in case she had any thoughts of running away. They left the crowded noisy rooms, and entered the servants’ corridor. They descended a generous stairway, not as grand as the marble showpiece he had come up, but straight with broad steps, for the passage of many servants hurrying up and down the length of it. Isabella paused at the bottom to grab a coat off a nearby hook. Rafe took the platter as she struggled one-handed to put it on and placed it on a shelf above his head. Before Isabella could twist around for the other sleeve of the coat, he held it up for her.

“Thank you.” Isabella twitched away from him as soon as his assistance was no longer strictly necessary. “I think I like you better when you’re being mannerly.” Her quick fingers buttoned up the coat from throat to waist. She pulled off her cap, tossed it up onto the platter, and removed a scarf and gloves from the capacious pockets.

“I take it we’re leaving the party?” Rafe stuck his hands in his pockets. His own overcoat was in the foyer but he was taking no time to go looking for it.

“For a little while. Have you seen the servantside garden? No? Well, it’s a crummy little rock garden with a stream down the middle, but it’ll be private at this time. Here.” Isabella tossed something heavy and jute-textured at him. Rafe struggled into a coat which, while the right length, was much too broad in the shoulders. He ignored the buttons, and cinched the waist-tie tight. The coat smelled faintly of sweat and garlic.

“The mushroom-stuffing cook’s,” explained Isabella. “Gavon won’t be needing it for a while. Those mushrooms were flying off the trays.” She opened a side-door half-hidden behind heaps of boots and mounds of coats, pretending to be part of the wall.

They stepped out into starlit coldness. Rafe judged it to be about Pest. A lone gas lamp illuminated the cramped walkway between house and boundary wall. Apparently, Lady Brenwood didn’t waste mage lights on the mere mortals who swept the floors and cooked the food.

Pebbles crunched under their feet. After following the bulk of the house to the back, they ascended a series of narrow cracked steps and on to a concrete terrace. A few large flat-topped boulders stood here and there, and the promised stream was a thin channel of water drip-dripping into a drain. Through narrow windows set at the bottom of the house came the sounds of raised voices, the clank of pots, and the crash of silverware. On the other side of the boundary wall, a group of chair-carriers and litter-bearers were engaged in a rowdy game of “pebble as pebble can” while their masters and mistresses danced and gossiped and ate the stages away.

“You’re right,” said Rafe. “It isn’t much.”

“The servants will come out and have picnic lunches on the stones at Bloom. There’s a warm spring under here,” said Isabella. “A maid told me so,” she added at his look. “Come over here.”

The water stream came from a pipe set into the boundary wall. A rough shelter had been built around it, boxed in on three sides, with a roof over it. A crude iron bench was shoved into the back of the shelter. Rafe and Isabella sat down on it side by side, legs just not touching, backs against the warm wall, while the murmur of water was multiplied a dozen times in the enclosed space.

“A laundry servicing all the houses of this street is down there.” Isabella pointed. “Taking advantage of the hot spring.”

“I could’ve done without Gavon’s coat, then. I hope he doesn’t mind the smell of lavender and mint. My brother’s wife keeps sending me soap from Grenfeld. Apparently, she doesn’t believe that there is a single bar of soap suitable for a younger brother in the whole of the city.”

“It must be nice, though, to have someone care for you enough to send soap,” said Isabella, quietly.

He squinted at her. It was hard to see more than just the whites of her eyes and the flash of her teeth. “It’s true, then, about Rocquespur?”

She didn’t answer yay or nay. “I thought I had covered my tracks well. I had never been introduced to Oakhaven society. Only the Sisters knew me by face and I doubt if more than a handful of them even cared to know me by any name other than “Girl.” How did you find out?”

“My sis—” The word stuck in his throat; he cleared it and repeated firmly, “my sister, who used to be at the convent with you. Her name is Bryony.”

“Ah.” Isabella was silent for a while. “The others were all novices, frightened by the wide world, more than willing to exchange their freedom for the known security of high walls, cold floors, strict routine, and starched habits. Those who ventured out became seamstresses or shop girls, wives or whores. But Bryony was always ambitious and clever. I should’ve remembered that.”

“You think Bryony is going to tell Rocquespur about you?” asked Rafe, quickly.

Isabella shrugged. “Rocquespur has a lot of wealth and power. He would pay well for knowing the whereabouts of his heir.” The last was said with a bitter, self-mocking tone.

“Bryony wouldn’t.”

“Not if it was worth her while to hold her peace.” Isabella looked at Rafe. “What? You think she would keep my secret out of the goodness of her heart?”

“Yes, she would. She… you… you’re both like each other. You were both abandoned by your families, raised among cold unsympathetic women, left to make your own way in the world.” Rafe stopped as Isabella laughed out loud, a merry sound. It would’ve been pleasant to hear had he actually intended his words as a joke. “What? You believe everyone else is mercenary and without honor?”

“Ah, Rafe. Similar circumstances do not always make for strong bonds of friendship. Yes, we were left in a bleak place, yes, we’ve had to make our own way in the world. Having heard about the convent, don’t you think that Bryony would do anything in her power to make sure she would never have to return to it? Including tipping off a rich man that the Marquis of Rocquespur’s daughter is indeed alive and well?”

“She wouldn’t, because it would never come to that. She has me, and if her needs are great, then we can apply to my brother. He will not turn down his full sister.”

“I wish I had your faith. But then, I have only known her as child and girl, but you… well, you’re her dear brother.” The very lack of irony in Isabella’s tone was insulting.

“So you plan to take matters into your own hands? Are you going to terrorize Bryony like you did poor Pyotr?” Rafe’s fists clenched. Their earlier argument aside, Bryony was still his sister.

“You do not know the full details of our interactions. Do not condemn me out of hand.”

“You do not make it easy to trust you. You drugged me. You tell me nothing. I know who you are, but I know nothing of what you want or what your intentions are. Except,” he smiled suddenly, “now I can guess with some certainty that you’re probably
not
working for Rocquespur.”

“I hate Rocquespur,” she said, with repressed emotion. “Everything about him, from those ridiculous red-heeled shoes to those stupidly elaborate wigs. The snuff, the powder and patches, that supercilious air and perpetual sneer.” Her shoulder against his was tense.

Rafe grasped her hand. “Hush, Isabella. He’s nothing but a jumped-up noble.”
Who will, Sel willing, be facing the hangman soon.
He had not known she was capable of such violent hate—the irrational hate of a child. Oddly, it made her seem more human, endearing and vulnerable.

“He killed my father.” Isabella’s voice was small and hard, like a knot drawn tight. “I
hate
him.”

“Isabella.” He didn’t know what to say.

She shook off his hand, gathered control of herself. “You told your uncle I’m working for Rocquespur. His brawn won’t leave me alone now, will they?”

“I’m the only one on your tracks, so far.” Rafe grimaced. It’d be hard to make Leo change his mind about Isabella. “I can’t guarantee there won’t be others.”

“If there are any more like you in the ministry, then by next week everyone will know my shoe size and dress maker,” said Isabella, drily.

Rafe squinted at the pool of darkness around their feet. “I’d say… about a nine and a quarter inches and… Oldson’s Livery in Linenmart.”

“See?” said Isabella.

“So, if you’re not working for Rocquespur, then what’s your interest in all this? Why did Furin and Berlioz contact you? What could you offer them? Besides”—a murky memory struggled up—“expertise with a pair of daggers?”

“Serving girls don’t carry weapons,” said Isabella, blandly. “They knew that I care about finding quartz. We desperately need light, Rafe. We’re barely surviving now. It hasn’t helped that we’ve spent generations pretending that the agri-caves would continue to feed everyone. The veneer is cracking. Blackstone’s felt the pinch, and soon Oakhaven and Clearwater will, too. I’d rather see Oakhaven get the Tors Lumena, but I won’t be choosy if it comes to that. I want the Tower found and put to work. And I’m willingly offering my help.”

“And what kind of help would that be?”

“Where the rest of the Renat Keys are.”

“Ironheart, Shimmer, and lost,” Rafe recited smugly.

“Ah, but Ironheart and Shimmer are large. Do you know who exactly have them? I do.”

“And your price is?” prompted Rafe.

She looked him full in the face. “I need the ministry to stay off my back. I want Oakhaven to be serious about pursuing this, and not just to get ahead of Blackstone. Your opinions carry weight with the Minister of Information. If you can persuade him to give this his support, then I’ll reveal details—as necessary.”

Uncle Leo. Who had said he’d rather see the Tower destroyed than fall into Blackstone hands. Rafe decided not to share this with Isabella.

It won’t come to that. I’ll make him understand we need more light-bearing quartz.

“Done,” he said.

“W
ELL, WELL, IF IT
isn’t the hero of Oakhaven. Slinking away from your admirers so soon?”

Rafe looked up at the tall figure in the doorway across from the foyer, frown clearing. “Hello, Coop.”

“Knew that you’d be back from the dead, old chap. Had a wager you’d be home before the month was up.” Coop crossed the foyer to shake hands with Rafe. An Ironheart native, Cooper had been studying medicine and high society in Oakhaven for the past three years. Tall, with a long angular face and shrewd hazel eyes, he regarded Rafe thoughtfully. “Wil didn’t think you’d be back before Serenity. Isn’t it nice to know who your most supportive friends are?”

Rafe chuckled, letting Coop’s banter lighten his own dark mood. “Where is Wil tonight?”

“Drew guard duty at the palace, worse luck. You know him, he wouldn’t change it, though he could. Could’ve had a nice reunion, the two of us, if you’d been more visible.”

“I was talking to a cook about mushrooms,” Rafe replied amiably. “Did you see that bright blue stuffing? Guess what’s in it.”

“Ground-up lapis lazuli. I’d rather not, Rafe.” Coop shuddered. “And speaking of games, there’s one back in the Smoking Room that’s getting very heated up.” He indicated the direction he’d come from. “The Prince is wined up, losing and getting belligerent about it.”

“They let him out without a minder?” Tristan was a volatile youth, and it wouldn’t be the first time Rafe had pulled his young cousin out of a scrape. “I’d better go. Thanks, Coop. If Tris is behaving like an ass…?” He gave his friend a quizzical look.

“I didn’t see or hear a thing,” Coop promised. Rafe gave him a nod of thanks and strode through the archway into the more secluded chambers of Brenwood House.