Grayson leaned back in his chair, rubbing at his eyes.
The candles were burning low, pooling wax on the wooden table. A sea of books lay open before him, like flotsam scattered on the beach. Dark water beat at the glass walls. A boat wrecker, Grayson thought, glancing up; he knew the exact sound and texture of those waves. He'd lost a lot of good men to them. Bad men, too.
Penny bent closer to a book. She was glancing at the ceiling, fiddling with the sleeve of her navy dress. She was nervous. Not, Grayson thought, that she would ever admit that; Penny Delafort didn't want anyone's pity. Least of all his.
"Any luck?" he asked.
She shook her head. "But I have four more books to go."
Grayson ran a hand through his hair. They'd been researching for eight days now. They'd searched the main room and a glass room and the room with the singing teapot. Grayson had read books on poisons and dragon eggs, possession spells and faerie magic. Burning hells, he'd be able to write a book at this point.
A wave battered the wall, and Penny jumped.
"We should go soon," Grayson said. "Before the storm grows worse."
She scribbled a note. "Five more minutes."
"Penny..."
"Please, Grayson," she said.
Her green eyes were dull sea glass. There were dark smudges under her eyes, the same colour as the ink stains on her hands, and something in Grayson softened.
"Alright," he said. "Five minutes."
Penny turned back to the book. Grayson rose, making his way toward the sunken pool. It was just as well, he thought; he still had one more task to accomplish. Something that he'd been putting off.
Grayson took a seat at a desk, staring up at the floating orb; golden dust swirled inside, as if invisible hands were shaking a snow globe. He took out a piece of parchment and a quill. Then he paused. How to phrase it? There was a chance that the letter would be intercepted; he didn't want to get her in trouble.
He dipped the quill in ink.
Then he began to write.
Camille,
I'm afraid that I couldn't find any information on the subject you're interested in. Perhaps we could expand the search to Lucerna and other kingdoms? Just a thought.
Grayson scanned the lines. Good. That was suitably vague; nobody would know that Camille had asked him to search the birth records of missing children in Wynterlynn.
This next part was trickier.
Grayson wetted the quill, staring at the half-written letter. Sod it. There was no way to encode this; he'd just have to say it plainly.
He began to write.
I've found something else, though. You know that necklace you wear? The one with blue gemstones? It matches the exact description of possession amulets made by the faeries in Somnus Woods. Possession amulets of that nature are impossible to remove except by the possessor. Whilst you wear them, the possessor has full control of you — nobody else can influence you.
I do not pretend to know what the nature of your necklace is or why you have it, but I thought you should be made aware. And if you should need help...
He paused.
I am here, Camille. You know where to find me.
Grayson.
He tucked the note in his pocket, rising. There. Now all he had to do was track down a messenger raven. When he returned to the table, Penny was bent over the book, her auburn hair spilling across the table; the candlelight dipped the ends in liquid gold.
"Penny?" Grayson asked. "It's time."
She bit her lip. "Can I take these with me?"
Grayson looked at the three books. Technically, nobody was meant to remove books from the Great Library, but he'd caught Maribel sneaking out romance novels before. The book always had a buff pirate on the cover, and it always had wicked or duke in the title; it had taken three times before Grayson realized they were different books at all.
"Grayson?" Penny prompted.
He waved a hand. "Sure. Take them."
"Thanks." Penny studied him closely. "Are you alright?"
Grayson paused. He hadn't realized that he'd been rubbing at his tattoo; it felt like a raw wound, pulsing hot blood. His father's words came back to him, just as they always did: your heart is a compass that points to the sea.
Generally, Grayson considered the family motto to be a load of rubbish. But now, surrounded by the sea, he felt almost...
Well.
He felt the most himself in this library. Always had.
Grayson dropped his hand. "I'm fine."
Penny frowned. "If you're sure." She blew out the candle, scooping up the books. "I have a good feeling about these."
"Me, too," he said.
They took the carriage back to the cottage. Grayson squinted; it was almost impossible to see through the storm. Rain hammered the earth, and he could see figures scrambling around the docks, throwing tarps over boats or working at the anchors. The sea was a dull roar.
Maribel was waiting for them on the front step of the cottage, a blur of blonde curls and a crimson gown. Her face was very pale against the grey sky. Grayson shrugged off his black wool coat, offering it to Penny.
"Here," he said. "Take it."
She raised an eyebrow. "What about you?"
Grayson shrugged. "I'm used to it."
For a moment, he thought Penny might argue, but she merely pushed open the carriage door, holding the jacket aloft like an umbrella as she jogged towards the door. Grayson followed, ignoring the cold sting of the rain.
Maribel was tapping one foot. She was flexing one hand — a sign that she was trying not to chew her fingernails — and there was something about her face, Grayson realized, that indicated trouble.
He slowed.
Penny paused under the alcove. "Thank-you." She passed Grayson the jacket. "I'm going to change for dinner."
She gave him a meaningful look, cutting her eyes toward Maribel. Grayson nodded. Given the option, he thought wryly, he wouldn't want to be around for this conversation either. Penny slipped through the door.
"What is it?" Grayson asked.
"Orin's here," Maribel said. "He wants to join us for dinner."
Grayson blinked. Processed this.
"Okay," he said.
He started into the house. Maribel chased after him.
"That's it?" she demanded. "Okay?"
Weariness filled him. "What do you want me to say, Maribel?"
His younger sister seized his shoulder. "You're the master of this house, Tom. You're Lord Thomas Grayson. Do something."
She trailed him into the mud room. It wasn't a big room — just a couple of hooks, cloaks, and scuffed boots, permeated with the smell of leather polish and wet dog — and it felt even smaller today. Maribel's anger seemed to push at the walls.
"And what would you have me do?" Grayson hung up the sodden coat. "Stab him with a dessert fork? Pelt him with cucumber sandwiches?"
Her blue eyes blazed. "Tell him he's no longer welcome here."
"I don't have that sort of power," Grayson said.
Maribel crossed her arms. "Yes, you do."
"I don't."
"You do!"
"Oh, really?" Grayson dropped his hands. "And what about Toto? What about this year, when Orin forced me to—?" He broke off. A pulse beat in his throat, loud and insistent. "I hate him just as much as you do, Maribel. But Orin wields a lot of power in Libertas and at court. I can't afford to piss him off."
He thought of Toto. Thought of the hound's big, floppy ears, the way that Toto curled up under the dinner table on cold winter nights to warm his feet. Grayson could still recall Toto watching him as Orin raised a sword over the dog's head. I trust you, Toto's brown eyes seemed to say. You'll watch out for me.
Grayson stared at his hands.
He hadn't kept a dog since Toto. Hadn't wanted to give his uncle another weapon to use against him. That's what Orin did with the things people loved, Grayson thought bitterly; he sharpened that love into a blade.
No.
He couldn't afford to anger his uncle. There was no telling what Orin would do, Grayson thought. Piss away more money on hunting trips, for starters. And then he'd probably spread a rumour around court that Maribel had a venereal disease to ruin her marriage prospects. Just for kicks.
Maribel crossed her arms. She was a punctured boat, taking on water in front of him. Her lower lip wobbled.
"I just hate him so much," she said.
His chest tightened. "I know."
"I can't wait to be free of him."
Grayson wrapped her in a hug. "If it makes you feel better, I can ask one of the footmen to slip horse piss in his wine at dinner."
Her laugh was choked. "You wouldn't really do that."
"No." Grayson paused. "I'd put it in his soup instead."
Maribel stepped back, swiping at her eyes. "Okay. Let's get this over with."
The dinner table was set for company. Golden platters groaned under the weight of thick slices of bread and cheese, cold meat and grapes. There were pitchers of red wine and lemon water, tureens of potato soup and thick gravy, bowls of maple-roasted carrots and minted peas. It was too much food for four people, Grayson thought; too much food for ten people, really.
He thought of the peeling boats in the dock. Of the starving children that scampered around the beach, looking for pearls to sell at the market, their ribs neatly lined up like matchsticks in a box.
Not that his uncle cared about the people, Grayson thought. He never had.
Heavy footsteps approached. "Thomas." A thick hand clapped him on the shoulder. "I was hoping to catch you before you left for court again. My valet tells me that you've brought a friend."
Orin was dressed in a red hunting jacket, the gold buttons freshly polished. Grayson stiffened but resisted the urge to shrug off his uncle's hand. That was a lesson he'd learned long ago: never show weakness.
"We won't be staying much longer," Grayson said.
Orin sat at the head of the table. "Pity."
Grayson took a seat. Maribel took the seat across from him. There was only one empty chair, and Grayson was half-considering sending word to Penny to make a run for it when footsteps approached.
"Sorry I'm late," Penny said breathlessly. "I— Oh. Orin."
Grayson blinked.
Blinked again.
He'd become accustomed to different versions of Penny over the last two weeks: Penny, beleaguered and half-asleep in the carriage, dusty from their travels; Penny, her head bent low over a book, ink stains on her cheeks. But this version of Penny...
Grayson swallowed.
Good holy gods.
She was dressed in a green gown. Grayson wasn't sure what it was made of — he'd never been very good at identifying women's clothing — but it clung to her chest and hips, tumbling to the floor in a waterfall. A gold bracelet wrapped around her freckled arm. She smelled of bath oil and something summery.
"Your Highness." Orin rose. "You look ravishing."
"And you," Penny said, "look exactly as I remember."
Orin kissed her hand. "You flatter me. How is your memory these days?"
Penny's face was unreadable. "The same as ever."
"No progress?" Orin asked.
She took her seat. "That is generally what the word same means, yes." She turned to Maribel. "Can you pass the peas?"
Orin glanced at the door. "Don't, Maribel. A footman can do that."
Maribel looked at her uncle, smiled, and passed over the peas. Penny spooned several on to her plate. Then she took a large bite.
"Do you like the mint sauce?" Maribel leaned forward. "I helped Cook with it. Not that I'm anywhere near as good as she is, but sometimes we—"
"It's nice," Orin said, cutting his niece off, "to see that you've made a friend, Thomas." He turned to Penny. "He was always such a lonely child. None of the village boys wanted anything to do with him."
"Funny." Penny's voice was soft. "I can't imagine why people would want to avoid this place."
Orin cut into his meat. "Indeed."
A footman materialized, doling out the wine. Grayson looked at his plate.
His uncle was right, Grayson thought; friends were a major affair for him. He had a hard time acquiring them, and an even harder time losing them. Grayson let very few people in, and when he did, he spent time steering those friendships, coaxing them through rocky seas and plugging any holes in the ship. There was Tristan and his sister Maribel and — once upon a time — Penny.
Silence fell.
Orin's meat oozed blood on to his plate. Penny ate more peas. Maribel ate nothing at all, clutching her spoon as if it was a weapon.
Orin lowered his knife. "It is gracious of you, Your Highness, to extend a hand of friendship to Thomas. Particularly given the..." He waved a fork. "Unfortunate misunderstanding between us all this year."
"Oh," Penny said pleasantly. "You mean when you tried to extort me for money?"
Grayson choked on his soup. Silently, Maribel handed him a napkin.
Orin's eyes narrowed. "You're very direct."
Penny lifted a delicate shoulder. "I see no reason to be evasive."
"You don't subscribe to social niceties?"
"Oh, I do," Penny said, "but only when I'm trying to be nice." She turned away. "You simply must give me the recipe for these peas, Maribel. They're exquisite."
The rest of the dinner was painful. Maribel spoke about a new cheese stall at the market. Penny spilled her wine on Orin ("Goodness! I've no idea how I managed that from across the table.") And by the time dessert was served — a tower of pistachio-stuffed croquembouche, cream, and sweet fruit — Grayson was ready to impale himself with the closest fork.
Now, he studied himself in his bedroom mirror.
Blue eyes. Messy blond hair. Long nose. People told him that he looked like his mother, although he hardly remembered her: just the smell of her jasmine perfume mixed with cigarette smoke.
He raised a cloth to his face.
The person in the mirror copied him.
Grayson lowered the cloth again. He couldn't help but think of Penny, the way her small, quick fingers had dabbed at his face in the inn. A pulse beat at his throat. Before Grayson was fully aware of what he was doing, he took a candle and started for the door.
Two left turns. A right. Up a flight of stairs. He paused outside Penny's door, suddenly painfully aware that he was showing up outside her door at one o'clock in the morning wearing nothing but a pair of black trousers.
Grayson exhaled.
Screw it.
He tapped on the door. Penny's voice drifted through the wood.
"Who is it?"
"It's me." He paused. "Grayson."
Penny sounded amused. "I know what you sound like, Grayson. Come in."
He pushed open the door.
Penny was propped up in bed. Several books were open on the sheets; there was a pot of ink, a quill, and a half-drunk mug of tea on the bed. And she was, Grayson realized belatedly, wearing nothing but a white nightgown. A red plait spilled over one shoulder.
"Oh." He turned, staring at the wall. "Sorry. Do you need to... er...?"
Grayson gestured vaguely in the direction of the wardrobe. Presumably, she kept a robe in there. Women did that, right?
"It's alright," Penny said. "Did you need something?"
She shifted, and the blankets pooled around her waist, exposing a healthy amount of her chest. A rush of heat filled him. Grayson fixed his eyes on a lamp two feet to her left and tried to think about unsexy things. Vegetable peelers. Lawn chairs. Hairless rats.
"I wanted to apologize for my uncle's behaviour," he said.
"Oh." Penny relaxed. "I think we can both agree that Orin Grayson is a scourge on humanity., but you don't need to apologize." She flipped a page. "It's not your fault."
Grayson shook his head. "It is, though." He took a step closer, his candle flickering in the darkness. "I could have prevented you from seeing him. I could have taken you and Maribel for dinner in town."
Penny didn't look up from the book. Unease filled him.
"Or I could have spoken to him before," Grayson said. "Asked him to be on his best behaviour."
Not, Grayson thought, that it would have done much good. But at least he would have tried. Penny was still looking at the book, and his sense of unease grew.
"Penny?" he asked. "Are you listening to me?"
"Grayson." Her voice had taken on an odd quality.
He stilled. "What is it?"
"It worked." She looked up. "I've found it."
His heart was pounding. "Found what?"
"A cure," Penny said. "For my memory loss."
Grayson gripped the candle. He was struck by a sudden, dizzying sensation, as if the ground had melted away to quicksand beneath his feet. He set down the candle, striding to the bed; Penny shifted, holding the book out toward him.
"This is it." Her voice was leashed excitement. "I know this is it."
Grayson scanned the page, his heartbeat picking up. Burning hells. She was right: this was it. A cure for memory loss of all sorts, magical or non-magical. He ran a finger down the ingredients list: salt-cured herbs, trout eye, mirthrew bark... all easy enough. They could get those in the kitchens downstairs.
He paused on the last ingredient.
"Verbaina root." He met her gaze. "It's very illegal."
Penny gripped his arm. "Can we get some?"
"Yes." Grayson's voice was grim. "But you're not going to like where it is."