Music floated from the monstrous edifice centered in Chroma's Catterford District, every window ablaze with light, casting its massive carriage-lined drive in a warm glow. Horses stamped, waiting out the long night. Drivers milled about, flasks in hand, laughing, catching up with friends.
This was Norhaven Hall. One of many wealthy mansions packed with ornate furniture and rich fabrics, too many floors, and more bedrooms than could ever be filled. But it was Norhaven's ballroom that bustled tonight. A hunting grounds for the woman in violet. A place to listen to whispered secrets. A place to stalk her prey and plot his demise.
Lord Parlow was marked for death. It wasn't a visible symbol tattooed on his skin or pinned to his suit jacket. It was a name written in a book, paid for by a healthy sum of money. Death was expensive. Life, even more so. Central to both were his secrets, splattered across his existence like colors on a tapestry. But only one color mattered tonight. The color of Lord Parlow's blood. She would paint with it before the end.
He stood across the room, sipping expensive gin with a group of tradesmen, discussing the business of the day: merchant agreements, the cost of exporting Candela's coveted textiles, the vessels he'd commissioned just last week. All the ways he might grow richer off the backs of his inferiors. Guests greeted him in passing, laughing, smiling, paying their respects to the happy host.
Mechanical waiters threaded in and out of the crowd wearing white aprons—serving drinks, hors d'oeuvres, and petit fors—their lifeless voices a direct complement to the steady ticking of their clockwork innards. Ticking that kept perfect time. Each had a bronze key protruding from its neck, slowly unwinding.
"Sir, a drink for you?"
"Madam? Some sparkling wine?"
"May I take your glass?"
Guests accepted the offerings without acknowledgement. They did, however, look upon the help with envy. Few could afford the luxury of so many mechanicals. Except, perhaps, the likes of the Norhaven's lord.
Still, the woman in violet watched.
Lord Parlow's voice was grating, laced with puffed-up authority to match his importance. Candela's merchant tycoon, sitting on a small empire of wealth. His chestnut hair was streaked with gray and his beard neatly trimmed. Tonight he was sharp in black and white, with red cufflinks like rubies that glittered when they caught the light. But they weren't rubies, were they? They were prisms.
From across the room in her violet gown, Tabitha Grey's keen eyes swallowed him whole. The men around him laughed, the sound rolling off their chests in rambunctious bellows. Easy. Carefree.
She blinked, watching herself sidle up behind Parlow. She removed a hidden dagger beneath her sleeve. In the time it took to exhale, her blade sliced him open in passing, severing the artery in his neck. She moved on, slipping back into the crowd, ignoring his blood as it splattered across the faces of his companions, ignoring their shock, their disgust as they wiped it away. Parlow gurgled. He dropped to the floor, spasming, staining its pristine shine with red. But when Parlow's face turned, it wasn't his eyes looking back. It was Clora's.
She blinked, frozen in place, and the contortions of her mind faded away. The party continued in full swing, oblivious of her intentions or wild imaginations. Parlow told another joke and his companions laughed again. She unclenched her teeth and took a deep, steadying breath.
His son and daughter were gathered nearby. Jasper and Sofia Parlow. They'd get everything when he died, this mansion, his country estate, his ships, and even his position in parliament. His heirs had the most to gain by his death. Had they been the ones to order it?
Never mind. It didn't matter. She was a blade and nothing more. Owned and controlled by the Spectrum. A thing of shadow and rumor. A monster in a mask.
"I found Lord Parlow's study." Nit's telepathic voice entered her mind, bringing with it color and life. Parlow's study—success at last. "Shall I start looking for the list?"
Like many secrets, she guarded Nit fiercely. More than her accomplice, Nit was her closest companion, something to fill a void left behind in the wake of Clora's death. A clockwork, shapeshifting mechanimal. Her most brilliant creation.
"Not yet," she said, sidestepping a couple. They glanced at her, eyes lingering. She kept moving, offering a sensual smile here, the lift of an eyebrow there. The perfect picture of seduction. "Show me where it is."
A series of mental images flashed through her thoughts—projections, like scenes from a newspaper—each in grayscale to match Nit's visual capabilities. The checkered floor of Norhaven's entry. A shadowed hallway lined with paintings. A broad staircase. A corridor with plush carpet, dotted with alcoves. A door of dark wood framed at the end...
Satisfaction left her purring. The thrill of the chase settled in. Norhaven was a maze, bursting at every turn with servants, mechanicals mostly. Thanks to Nit, she knew exactly where to go. Now she simply needed maneuver her prey. Slitting his throat in public wasn't exactly a wise idea, as enticing as her mind made it seem.
She returned her attention to the ballroom. Aside from numerous towering windows, there were three entry points—to her left, right, and dead ahead. She kept closest to the right, studying the flow of trafic, the frequency of those coming and going, glancing over individual faces, looking for patterns, changes in behavior. She wasn't alone tonight. There were other Spects in attendance. She couldn't have said who. They blended as well as she did.
The hum of orchestral music filled the air, rising and falling, melding with the evanescent ticking of the mechanicals. The room's gilded pillars and papered walls dripped with aristocracy wealth. And all across the floor, glittering chandeliers cast twinkling pricks of light, emitting a faint, nose-tingling scent of carbonized coal.
It was an era of industry—for some, prosperity—and Norhaven displayed it in full force. The room was packed with individuals of rank. She knew most of them by name, who their families were, how much they were worth, which party they supported in government, and whether they were loyal to Prince Edwin or his cousin, Prince Albert. She also knew deeper secrets, secrets that could break their reputations should the Spectrum decide to buy them. The dirty things they did to maintain wealth. The affairs that peppered their marriages. The seedy parts of town they played in. Even the betrayals of their most beloved friends.
Everyone in Candela had a price.
Dancing couples sailed across the marble floor in a triplet gallop. Spectators gathered about the perimeter, laughing and screeching, sipping cocktails, pointing out their favorites. Gossiping. Indulging. They ate and drank in gluttonous excess, as if the silent war wracking Candela didn't exist. As if the looming one was ever a smudge on the horizon.
She smoothed her expression and tore her eyes away, crossing the room. Her movements were feline, graceful. She attracted the attention of several gentlemen in passing, well aware of their roving gazes. The glass of sloe gin she carried went untouched; the bloated berries had already dropped to the bottom. As a habit, she kept her ears open, listening for anything of note.
A flash of a familiar face on the dance floor—she hesitated. Her gaze fell on a certain gentlemen. She held still, eyes narrowed. Lord Conrad Steiner, Chroma's most eligible bachelor. A frown threatened her calm. She exhaled. Steiner's name hadn't been on the guest list.
"Isn't he striking?!" Nearby, a woman sighed. She sidled closer. "I reckon Lady Commins is absolutely chuffed! Look at her dancing with him. Fishing for a match, yes? Who can blame her?"
Tabitha Grey chewed on the inside of her cheek, watching. Steiner was attractive. A clean-shaven jaw, prominent coal-colored eyebrows, and a fine nose. He didn't flaunt a mustache like most men his age.
While Traditionalists whispered and plotted behind his back, their wives fawned over him. He was a Technologist through and through, part of the nouveau riche. No one knew exactly how he'd amassed such wealth, or why he'd been given lands and a title. He certainly hadn't come from a prominent family.
Her thoughts drifted to their most recent meeting. What was it about him? What was it that left her so...guarded? Sent warning bells clanging? Her mood darkened.
Lord Steiner led Lady Commins with ease. All smiles and delicate features, she was. The lace collar on her gown probably cost enough to feed all the begging children in Crock's Row. Tabitha dared not glance down at her own gown. It was provocative with its swooping neckline, but no match for Lady Commins's excessive show of wealth.
The happy couple switched places, coming towards her. She watched, transfixed, as Steiner's gaze lifted. Their eyes met. Recognition flashed. She offered him an alluring smile. A challenge. Then turned to make an exit.
As she took her first step, she paused. A game of cat and mouse did sound like a fun diversion. There was still time to linger...
The music dwindled and the dancers applauded, breaking apart, dispersing into the crowd. She made her way slowly, purposefully, halting to let a couple pass. And then another, as they skirted by with drunken apologies.
Something brushed her back. A velvety voice caressed her ears. "Good evening, Miss Webb." Miss Imogen Webb. An alias she often used. "We meet again. Where there is a party of aristocrats, there is often you."
She turned to face him, donning a smile laced with feral sweetness. "Lord Steiner. How pleasant. I am surprised to see you."
"Indeed. The surprise is mine." He studied her, intelligent eyes searching.
"Did you enjoy your dance?" she purred.
"I did."
"Perhaps not as much as your coachman will enjoy his gossip. You will bring her home to warm your bed, will you not?"
His mouth twitched. Up close, he was even handsomer, with eyes the color of cognac, and thin lips that broke up the heavy planes of his face. "I'd rather take you home."
"Is that an invitation?" She stepped closer, tilting her head to look at him, face inches from his. "I suppose we'd have great fun, you and I. I might even teach you a few tricks...if I'm feeling generous."
Right before she slit his throat at the end of the night.
"Don't I know it!" A dark laugh stained his lips. "But come now, let us not play games. We both know why you are here."
"I very much doubt that. And I do enjoy games," she cooed. "Especially when they entail handsome lords like you."
"Handsome, you say? Me? I suppose I am. In that case, how about a dance with the handsome Lord Steiner?"
"...A dance." She glanced around the hall. "Alas, I must decline. I am unable—at present—to grant your wandering hands the pleasure they crave."
He feigned a pout, lifting his white gloved hands and wiggling his fingers. "But they do so wish to claim you, Miss Webb. Desperately."
"To be sure," she huffed. Women loitered behind him, just out of earshot. She shot them a pointed glance. "Good thing there are plenty of hens to satisfy you. Dance with one of them if you must." She turned to go.
"Miss Webb." Politeness morphed into insistence, twisted like the turn of a clockwork key. He placed himself in her path. "I won't take 'no' for an answer. Unless you wish to make a scene?" A threat.
"A scene?" She barked a laugh. "I very much doubt that."
"It's just a dance."
"Just a dance," she muttered. It would be anything but. The music slowed. Seconds ticked by, accentuated by the clockwork objects in the room. Her gaze happened upon Lord Parlow occupied with more friends. On the dance floor, she would have a better view. A smile curled her lips. "All right. I do not wish for a scene."
"Good! Very good." All traces of threat diminished and his tone turned pleasant once more.
"Sir, a drink for you? Miss?" A mechanical server stepped up, fracturing the tension. She recognized the mechanical's maker mark embossed into the metal plate at its breast.
"No, thank you." Steiner held up a hand to decline.
She eyed him before turning to the server. "No, thank you. I'm finished, if you wouldn't mind?" She lifted her glass, quickly draining everything including the berries at the bottom.
"Of course, miss." The mechanical made a signal, clicking its metal fingers. Another appeared with a tray for empty glasses. The same maker mark. Good.
"Thank you," she said, giving the pair a nod. She turned to Steiner. "Well? I haven't got all night, my lord."
His eyes glittered. "A woman on a mission. I like you more and more." His were loaded words that left her increasingly wary. He extended an arm, leading her out onto the floor.
"Hold for now, Nit. I've been detained." She sent the silent thought to her mechanimal. "I'll be along soon enough."
"Conrad Steiner, Tabby? Really?" Nit didn't bother hiding an ounce of judgement, which she ignored.
All across the floor, couples took up positions and waited. A few speculative whispers broke out around them. The hum of the first violin started, slow and creeping. Steiner's gloved hand came to her back, pulling her towards him. He was stronger than he looked. She exhaled, forcing patience.
He hummed, looking down at her with amusement. "A dance with the elusive Miss Webb. Where shall my wicked hands touch you first?" His hand slid down the length of her back, gloved thumb pressing against her muscles beneath the silk. Instead of anger, her body betrayed her, welcoming the advance. The touch.
She clenched her jaw. Midnight had taught her better than this. Or was it Midnight's behavior that left her craving the one thing he refused to give? Touch.
She took stock of her surroundings, making an inventoried list of everything around her. The technique was meant to focus her mind. But when she inhaled, Steiner's pleasant smell, a mix of cigar smoke and musk, washed over her. Her list evaporated. She was forced to start anew.
Lord Parlow remained at the edges of her sight, none the wiser to her stalking glances. She continued her inventory, dancing with mindless ease, letting the music soak into her soul, each step a careful calculation. Midnight had insisted she be trained by Madame Durelle at Chroma's academy of dance. Durelle was known for her strict regimen and prima ballerinas. "Chin up. Shoulders back. Neck long like swan," Madame always said. "You are grace incarnate."
Dancing wasn't so different from acting. In fact, she preferred it. Something of the movements was calming, therapeutic.
Steiner swept her about the floor—quite the dancer himself. She played her part well. A mere ornament in his arms. She even allowed herself to smile; that didn't require faking. For a brief moment, she wondered what it would be like to be normal. No different than any other woman here. But she stifled the careless thought almost immediately, returning to her list of surroundings.
The music rose to a crescendo.
"I meant what I said earlier, Miss Webb." Steiner swept her through a turn before dipping her low and shattering the moment with his voice. "I know why you're here."
"Oh, please," she muttered. "I am here for the same reason as everyone else."
"I think not." He dropped his gaze to the prisms at her neck, disguised in a gaudy necklace that looked no different from any other. "I know what you are."
"You don't know a thing about me."
"I know you've been sneaking into Ipsum, raiding mines, searching for a black prism."
"Black prisms don't exist, Lord Steiner. Everyone knows that." But the back of her neck prickled. The ballroom was suddenly more crowded than before.
"I'm harder to fool than you think."
She snorted but said nothing else, schooling her features. Lord Parlow wasn't where she'd left him. Her heart skipped, until her eyes landed on him. He loitered near the farthest doorway, gesticulating in animated conversation with a group of women. Still occupied. Still oblivious.
"How does Lord Conrad Steiner know about you?" Nit's words broke into her mind. "You've been compromised, Tabby. If the Spectrum finds out..."
"I know, Nit. I know." Cold seeped into her skin. Suddenly, she was back in the damp undercroft beneath the Temple, lined up with the Spectrum's other acolites, Clora beside her, her master behind her, and death before her. Either hers, or the hooded victim whose life she was meant to take. She blinked and it disappeared.
The music slowed. The dance ended. Couples stopped to clap, the sound muffled by their gloves. She followed suit, offering Steiner a polite nod. "Thank you for the dance." She turned away, desperate to be rid of him.
"Tabby, wait!" He took hold of her arm, stopping her. She stilled. He knew, then. But...how much? Her eyes darted over the crowd, assessing. No one had noticed. "I suggest you consider your next actions carefully," Steiner added.
"Is that a threat?" She didn't let her fear show—was trained better than that.
"I won't interfere."
"Good. That's more sense than you've shown all night."
"Don't...don't do this. I can help you."
"I want nothing from you, Lord Steiner. Absolutely nothing." Her voice turned cold, a mirror of how she truly felt. She looked down at his hand. "Release my arm before I slit your throat."
"So be it." He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "But know this. Every killer walks in darkness, yet, even shadows flee from the light. I only wonder if there's enough light in Candela to saturate the stain of your sins." He released her arm and didn't wait for an answer.
She watched him melt into the crowd, blinking. Couples gathered to start another dance. There was no doubt now. None whatsoever. Steiner knew exactly who she was—what she was—and for that, he would have to die.