Penny looked up at the wooden sign.
The black paint was peeling, falling like ashes to the dirty alleyway floor. She squinted, trying to make out the letters in the oily yellow light. The Sailor's Jolly Delight. How appropriate. Next to her, Grayson was digging around in his drawstring purse for coins. The collar of his grey coat was flipped up, fluttering in the cool wind.
"So do we just...?" Penny looked up at the sign. "Knock?"
Grayson paused. "How would I know?"
"I assume you've been here before."
Grayson looked exasperated. "Is that really what you think of me?" He took out a fistful of gold coins. "No, I haven't been here before. Call me old fashioned, but I prefer to have... relations with women that actually want me."
Penny bit back a smile. "Relations?"
"Shut-up," Grayson muttered.
He raised a hand to the door, knocking in an odd pattern. Penny raised an eyebrow. Grayson shoved the coin purse deeper into his pocket. "What?" His blue eyes glittered. "You think that nobody's ever invited me to visit?"
A slat in the door slid open. Brown eyes squinted out at them.
"Lord Grayson." The voice was masculine, with a thick Libertasian accent. "And this is...?"
Penny smiled. "Lucinda."
She stepped forward, allowing the light to fall across her blonde wig. She was dressed in a short skirt and thigh-high boots, and her corseted top was digging into her ribcage. It had taken her and Maribel three seedy-looking shops to put together this outfit; four if you counted purchasing the wig. The man's gaze turned wary.
"We don't generally allow female clientele," he said.
Grayson slid the gold rukka through the slat. "Perhaps you'd be willing to make an exception."
The man scraped the coins towards him. Counted them. Nodded. "Welcome to the Jolly Delight, Your Lordship."
The door swung open.
Grayson gave her a warning look as they stepped through. Penny smiled. Emotions zipped through her: glee; lust; envy. She tasted the heady cinnamon of arousal, felt the liquid-hot rush of satisfaction. The ground felt unsteady beneath her feet.
Penny scanned the brothel. Red velvet drapes hung from the ceiling, accompanied by low-burning lamps and black couches. And there were people, she thought, people everywhere: laughing at card tables, and pressed against walls, and stumbling through concealed doors into bedrooms.
Beautiful women in silk slips were serving whisky and lounging on men's laps. Several smiled at Grayson as they passed, and a stab of jealousy hit her. Penny frowned, scanning the room for the source of it.
Oh, wait.
Her mouth went dry.
Penny slowed, her heart pounding. That was her emotion, wasn't it? She was jealous. She was still reeling from that discovery when Grayson touched her arm, his eyes fixed on a low table ahead of them.
"There," he murmured. "That's him."
Penny followed his gaze. A young man was lounging on a sofa, dressed in gold rings, a plum smoking jacket, and pressed trousers. His brown beard was neatly trimmed. A woman in a short chemise was sitting on his lap, holding a glass of clear liquid. He didn't look much like a drug dealer, Penny thought, but maybe that was the point.
She started toward them. Grayson held out an arm.
"Wait." Grayson's gaze was dark. "Burkhart doesn't like discussing business in front of women. He thinks that their sole purpose is to provide pleasure." His throat bobbed. "You'll need to act like..."
Penny looked up. "What?"
"Act like you want me," he said.
Hot blood pooled in her cheeks. "Grayson..."
"Just for tonight," he added.
That wasn't the issue. The issue, Penny thought, was that she did want him. If she was honest with herself, she'd wanted him since that night at the inn. And the way he was looking at her now, his gaze so intent and direct...
Something throbbed in the pit of her stomach.
"Okay," she said.
Grayson slid a hand down her back, pausing just above the curve of her hip. The young man looked up as they approached, arching a manicured eyebrow.
"Lord Thomas Grayson." He shifted the woman on his lap. "I never thought I'd see you within these hallowed halls."
Grayson nodded. "Burkhart."
"Have you come to arrest me?"
The young man — Burkhart — looked amused by the idea. Grayson took a seat, and Penny sat between them. Sitting this close, she could smell gin and cigarette smoke and heavy cologne on Burkart's clothes.
Grayson threw an arm around her shoulders. "And risk hundreds of angry letters from your clientele? No. Too much paperwork." He flagged down a waitress. "A drink, please."
Burkart nodded at Penny. "Who's this?"
"My companion," Grayson said. "Lucinda."
"She's delicious," Burkhart purred. "How much do you charge, darling?"
Grayson's hand tightened on her shoulders. "Now, now, Burkhart." His voice was light. "You know I don't share."
"Pity." Burkhart winked. "Let me know if you change your mind, cupcake. We could have fun together." He shifted again, accepting the glass of gin from the woman on his lap. "So, what tickles your fancy? Hewter powder? Yarwood grass?"
Grayson leaned closer. "Verbaina."
Burkhart whistled. "The mostly costly drug of all." He downed his drink, snapping his fingers at a waitress. "More lemon in the next drink, cupcake. Thanks."
Grayson's face was impassive. "Do you have any?"
"If I did," Burkart said, "you'd be well within your rights to put me in prison."
Grayson smiled. "As I said, too much paperwork."
The young men surveyed each other.
Burkhart accepted a drink, his golden rings glittering in the dim light. His eyes slid to Penny. "Your companion doesn't seem all that enthusiastic, Grayson." He patted the woman's thigh. "Perhaps Vittoria could keep you warm for a while."
The woman rose. Penny stiffened. A rush of something filled her — something hot and unpleasant — and she stood.
"That won't be necessary," Penny said.
She turned. Blood pounded in her ears, so loud that it drowned out the high-pitched laughter and violins. She'd never done this before. Had no idea how to do this. Grayson was watching her with dark eyes, his face unreadable.
She straddled his lap. Her skirt hitched up, and Penny shivered as the cold air pimpled her skin. Grayson's hand was warm on her waist, and she focused on that as she moved her hips. Slowly. Rhythmically. Just as the other woman was doing it.
She could feel Burkhart's heavy gaze on her shoulders. "Say that I did have Verbaina. What are you willing to pay?"
"What are you charging?" Grayson's voice was slightly hoarse.
Burkhart smiled. "I asked you first."
"Two hundred rukka."
He leaned back. "Five hundred."
"Three," Grayson said.
"Four hundred," Burkhart said. "And she gives me a kiss."
He nodded at Penny. Grayson's hand tightened on her waist.
"That's not for sale," he said.
Burkhart shrugged. "Then we don't have a deal."
"Fine." Grayson's voice rumbled through her chest; they were so close that Penny could feel the pounding of his heart. His warm breath on her neck. 'I'll agree to the five hundred."
"No," Burkhart said, draping an arm along the back of the sofa. "I like this deal better. Four hundred rukka, and the girl gives me a kiss." His smile was the blade of a knife. "You can even watch, if you'd like."
Penny leaned closer. Grayson jerked as her lips found his neck, kissing a trail up to his ear. "I don't mind." She kept her voice low. "It's worth it."
Grayson squeezed her waist. "I have a better idea." His eyes were fixed on Burkhart. "Why don't you accept the five hundred rukka and I won't sink your ships docked near the Howling Caves? There must be an enormous amount of stock on those. I'd wager... seven hundred units of hewter powder? A thousand?" He leaned back, his voice casual. "Foolish of you to put it all in one place."
There was a long pause. Burkhart stirred his drink.
"You're bluffing," he said.
Grayson raised an eyebrow. "Am I?"
He shifted Penny, reaching into his pocket. He passed Burkhart a crisp letter. The other man took it without enthusiasm, scanning the page.
Grayson took a sip of wine. "This is a copy of a letter that I sent to my associate. If he doesn't hear from me within an hour, he'll fire upon the ships. I suspect you have..." He glanced at his pocket watch. "Another twenty minutes remaining."
"Blackmail." Burkhart lowered the letter. "How unexpected."
Grayson's smile was easy. "But effective."
Burkhart shook his head. "What happened to your conscience, Thomas Grayson?"
Grayson's smile tightened. "You'll find that I'm a changed man, as of late. All my better angels have fled."
Burkhart blew out a breath, folding the letter. "I need a moment." He kissed the woman's shoulder. "Be good, cupcake."
He stalked out of the room. Moments later, Burkhart returned, carrying what appeared to be a small white package. He thrust it at Grayson. "Here."
Grayson peered inside. "This is it?"
"Yes, you thieving bastard," Burkhart sighed. "Now get." He took his seat, pulling the woman back on to his lap. "I have more pleasurable business to attend to."
Grayson rose. "Pleasure doing business."
Burkhart muttered something that sounded uncomplimentary. Penny trailed Grayson through the room, her heart pounding. They'd done it. They'd actually done it. She shivered as they stepped into the cool night air, rubbing at her arms.
"That was quick thinking," Penny said. "With the threat. I think he bought it."
Grayson's mouth tightened. "I wasn't bluffing."
He waved a hand, signalling toward a carriage parked at the end of the alley. Penny could just make out the gleam of the Grayson family crest on the side: a sword plunging into the sea. Something in her chest felt hollow.
"You..." Penny licked her lips. "You really would have sunk his ships?"
His eyes were hooded in the oily yellow light. "Where you're concerned Pen, I will always do whatever I need to."
A shiver went down her spine. Grayson held out a hand, and Penny accepted it, climbing into the carriage. His hand slipped down her waist, brushing the bare skin of her thigh. Grayson didn't look at her as he swung into the carriage.
"Home, Joseph," he said. "As quick as you can."
Penny pressed her face to the window as the carriage rattled up the driveway. Maribel was waiting on the porch of the cottage, dressed in a white gown and an apron; she was holding what looked like a mortar and pestle.
"Well?" Maribel demanded. "Do you have it?"
Grayson eyed his younger sister warily. He hadn't wanted to involve her in this, Penny thought; he'd made that quite clear. But Maribel was the only person they trusted that knew her way around the kitchens; and as Maribel had said, brewing a cure wasn't all that different from brewing a stew.
Grayson held out the parcel. "Here."
Maribel opened the package. Sniffed it. "Good; it's fresh. That'll help." She turned, walking briskly in the direction of the kitchens. "Everything else is ready. The Verbaina is the last ingredient."
Penny paused at the door, wrinkling her nose. "Good gods. What is that?"
The kitchens smelled like soiled litterbox. Or like sweaty old clothes. Both, perhaps, mixed together. Maribel — who'd been in the process of crushing the Verbaina root with her mortar and pestle — paused by a bubbling pot on the stove. She scooped out a lumpy grey mixture into a goblet.
"This," Maribel said, "is your evening cocktail." She sprinkled some of the Verbaina into the goblet, passing it to Penny. "Are you ready?"
Penny tried not to gag. "I think so."
"Drink it in one," Maribel advised. "Just to be safe."
"Okay," Penny said. "Here we go."
She crossed to a basin. Just in case, she thought, her stomach rolling. Grayson leaned against a counter, crossing his arms. Maribel hovered nearby, still holding the mortar and pestle. Penny plugged her nose and raised the goblet. Bitter grey sludge filled her mouth and she gagged, tears springing to her eyes.
"Penny?" Maribel's concern felt bright and urgent. "Are you alright?"
She closed her eyes. Swallowed.
"I'm good." Penny pinched the bridge of her nose. "Gods, that stuff is foul."
"Did it work?" Grayson asked.
Penny assessed. "I'm not sure. I—"
Something smacked her in the face.
Penny stumbled back, gripping the counter. Images flashed before her eyes: pomegranates in a champagne glass; Brigid shrugging on a white fur coat, her auburn hair like a splash of winter poinsettias; a fruit basket in the kitchen; Camille, a book propped open at the breakfast table, sipping a cup of peppermint tea.
And Grayson.
Grayson, Grayson, Grayson.
Grayson, his blond lashes flecked with snow, holding her in a stone courtyard; Grayson, sleeping in a chair beside her bed; Grayson, smiling as he poked her side. Dozens of memories flooded back, a dam overflowing.
"Penny?" Hands seized her shoulders. "Can you hear me?"
"Grayson," Penny breathed.
He was kneeling over top of her. Blond hair fell into his eyes. She must have fallen, Penny realized; she was staring up at the ceiling. She reached up to touch his face, her fingers trembling slightly.
Grayson smiled, his eyes crinkling. "Hi."
"Hi."
"You're back," he murmured.
"I'm back." Hot tears stung her eyes. "I'm here."
Grayson pulled her into his chest. She wrapped her arms around his neck, squeezing her eyes shut. Their hearts raced in time with each other, two carriage wheels thundering along the pavement. It was strange, Penny thought, to see him like this: he was the Grayson she loved before, and the Grayson she loved now. Like two clouds drifting through the sky, overlapping one another.
Grayson pulled back. "The cure. Do you remember it?"
"I..." Penny licked her lips. "I don't know."
"I think you do." Grayson tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "Go on, Princess. Try."
She closed her eyes.
The image came to her slowly. Painfully. A glittering woman, standing in a golden meadow. The phials of dream somnium. Her own voice, the urgent desperation in it. The cure is that simple? And Lucia, leaning forward to whisper in her ear, her voice great and terrible: It is. So long as you can remember it.
Her eyes flew open.
"Grayson." Penny clutched his shoulder. "I need you to be very honest with me. Why were you looking at those birth records this week?"
Grayson looked startled. "How do you—?"
"Because I pay attention," Penny said. "Please answer the question."
Grayson leaned back on his knees, his toes curling beneath him. "I told Camille that I wouldn't say anything."
Penny rose. Pieces were slotting together, the meaningless words on a page coming together to form a story. Her stomach rolled. She felt hot and shivery and slightly sick; her corset had begun to dig into her ribcage.
She unzipped her thigh-high boot, tossing it to the floor. "You couldn't find any missing children that matched Camille's description, could you?"
Grayson tracked the movement. "No."
She started on the other one. "But you were only checking the Wynterlynn birth records."
"Yes."
"Right." Penny turned for the door. "We need to go."
Her heart was racing. Sod it. She'd find more practical riding shoes on the way; perhaps Maribel had some. Grayson seized her arm.
"Now?" He looked incredulous.
"Right now," Penny said.
"It's the middle of the night." Grayson dropped her arm, running a hand through his hair. "Even if we could rouse the horses, the state of the roads—"
"We don't have a choice," Penny said. "We can't afford to lose any time."
Maribel frowned. "What's going on?" She looked between them, lowering her mortar and pestle. "I don't get it."
Penny took a deep breath. "Camille is the missing princess of Lucerna, which means that she's descended from Lucia. She can cure Ryne's curse."
There was a beat of silence. Then Maribel set down the mortar and pestle.
"She's the what?"
Penny was already turning for the door again. "Thank-you for all your help, Maribel. I can't thank you enough. I—"
Something crashed through the window.
Glass shattered. The candle blew out. Someone screamed. There was a moment where Penny was airborne, and then she hit the ground with a thud. A warm, heavy body fell on top of her. She could hear Grayson's muffled breathing in the darkness.
Silence.
Penny shifted to her elbows. "Is everyone okay?"
"I'm good." Maribel's voice sounded five feet to her left. "I mean, that scared the bloody daylights out of me, and I may never sleep again. But otherwise, good."
"Grayson?" Penny asked.
"Fine," he said.
Grayson rose, offering her a hand. Penny took it. Her hip was aching from where she'd collided with the ground; it would probably bruise later. Not, Penny thought, that she particularly cared; adrenaline raced through her, hot and demanding.
"What the bloody hell was that?" Maribel demanded.
"A raven," Penny whispered.
She stared at the bird on the kitchen table. The raven's sharp eyes glittered in the darkness, and the creature let out a little caw, hopping closer with its foot extended; a small white scroll was tied to its thin leg.
"Penny," Grayson said. "I think it's for you."
Penny assessed the bird. She took a step closer, and the raven held its leg higher. She untied the scroll with unsteady hands, smoothing it out. Silently, Grayson handed her a candle, and she held it up as she scanned the lines.
Penny,
Ryne is growing worse; he's now unconscious in the infirmary. We're moving up the wedding to this week. Please return as soon as you can to say...
A few ink blots spattered the page, as if the writer had hesitated.
Please just come quickly.
All my love,
Camille
Penny lowered the letter, her heart pounding. "We need to get to Stillwater Castle. Before it's too late."