Page 13 of Bloodgrove

Over the days that followed, he saw Elodie regularly. She flitted through the house, forever propelled by plans and appointments. He never again saw her dressed in foreign fashions; instead, every inch of skin was covered, right up to her chin.

She breakfasted with him—never eating more than an egg, a citrus fruit, and tea—and asked him about the Capitol down to its smallest, strangest details. She loved his observations on the differences he had noticed between the two cities, and he began to look forward to her smoky voice, the measured pace of her words, and the gleam in her eyes as she listened.

Every day, she disappeared for another appointment, always running late, so that he heard little more than the flutter of her skirts as she hurried down the stairs. Sometimes she returned in the afternoon for a hurried change of clothes, and often she stayed out until the early hours of the morning. Yet she always appeared at breakfast looking fresh, her cheeks pink and her eyes bright.

That afternoon, Will heard her rush past once more, and before he knew it, he was on his feet and following her. He caught a glimpse of her swearing as she threw on a coat, waving impatiently for her maid, and then she vanished through the gate without looking back.

Will followed more slowly, first down the stairs and then across the broad atrium with its black-and-white tiles, until his hand closed around the door handle. The bolt had not been drawn, and Hedgefort was nowhere in sight. It felt forbidden, as though he were a child defying his tutors, which was utterly ridiculous. So he pulled open the heavy door and looked outside.

Clear autumn air swept toward him, lifting loose hairstrands, and a golden afternoon waited beyond the threshold. He saw horses in the street and heard the busy pulse of the city, but it was the scent that lured him—soot and horse manure, of course, but beneath all of that came the first messengers of winter from the mountains and the salt of the open sea.

Will glanced back over his shoulder into the dark maw of the house. Somewhere within, he could hear the workers tearing up the parquet, but they could manage without him. Why was he allowing himself to be imprisoned here? Did Elodie truly expect him to remain inside for four months? Without meaning to, he had developed a cautious respect for the house’s peculiar rules, but the pull of the city was stronger.

He found his coat and top hat in the wardrobe behind an inconspicuous door, and the moment the fabric settled across his shoulders, he was through the gate—out across the paved front courtyard, into the streets, and down toward the sea.

Small shops lined the road behind wooden-framed windows: general stores, apothecaries, bookshops, button merchants, physicians, bakeries, and cobblers. Will wandered past them without money to buy anything, fascinated by the goods on display. When he had first moved to the Capitol, he had roamed its streets in much the same way, entranced by the endless variety unfolding behind every corner, so different from his grey fishing village. Yet Bloodgrove could hardly have been more different in turn. Unlike in the Capitol, the books here were still bound in leather. The cobbler sold styles Will recognized from flea markets. He stopped in shock before a butcher’s display, where headless bats hung from hooks, and decided he would have a word with the cook.

Next door, a sign creaked in the wind, carved so that a mermaid appeared to lash her tail. Spark’s Ritual and Occult Shop was painted across it. Curious, Will stepped closer. The windows were too smeared for him to see much, yet he pressed his nose to the glass all the same, uncertain what he expected to find beyond it. He was not disappointed. Row after row of shelves held black candles, daggers, and dried animal parts. Bones dangled among dried herbs from the ceiling, and sinister statues crowded a corner.

Was magic truly practiced so openly here?

“Blood, you’re beautiful!” someone barked.

Will had not noticed the man emerging from the shop, and now the stranger was staring at him with wide eyes. The sharp retort on Will’s tongue died when he realized how young the man was—perhaps eighteen at most, still slender, with delicate shoulders and a smooth face, much as Will’s had once been. Only his hair was tousled and fiery red.

“Thank you?” Will stepped away from the window.

The young man’s eyes were rimmed in black, and his fingers were stained dark as well, like the witches in old stories.

“You can still come inside,” the young man said, leaning against the doorframe with deliberate ease and running a hand through his hair. “For you, I’d gladly stay open an hour longer than is sensible.” He flashed a mischievous grin. It was sweet, the way he tried to disguise his awkwardness with confidence.

“I have nothing to do with magic,” Will replied, glancing around. The alley was narrow and the houses dark, as they were everywhere in Bloodgrove, making it difficult to tell whether he had wandered into a disreputable neighborhood. Yet the street was empty, and the long rays of the late-afternoon sun cast the opposite wall into a harsh relief. No daylight seemed willing to touch the occult shop.

The young man looked up at the sign as though he had momentarily forgotten what he sold, then laughed. “Right. That was exactly what I meant.”

“Perhaps another time.” The sea was already calling him onward. Sometimes he missed it with such fierce longing that it felt like missing his mother.

“I’m Saint, by the way.” The young man stepped boldly toward Will. “You’re the visitor from the Capitol, aren’t you?”

“News travels quickly…” Will could not decide whether to feel flattered or concerned.

Saint moved closer still, even rising onto his toes, though the mischief in his expression had given way to a sharper look as he studied Will’s eyes.

“What kind of pact did you make? Your magic tastes so…different.”

Will leaned toward him, his hands clasped behind his back. “The kind that has no patience for insolent boys like you.”

Perhaps he, too, had once thrown himself so shamelessly at older men who adored him for his fragile body. By now, he had outgrown that role and had spent a night or two with young men himself. It surprised him how much he enjoyed taking control and having someone gaze up at him with longing.

What did Duchess Ormonde think when she tipped back her head to speak to him?

Confused, he shook the thought off.

“I have to go.” He did not understand why he was thinking of his client now, except perhaps that she possessed some of the same rebelliousness.

Saint laughed as though he had accomplished precisely what he intended, then turned back toward the shop door. “Should you ever need vampire fangs or siren scales, I have the freshest in the city. You’re welcome anytime.”

Without waiting for Will’s answer, he disappeared inside, and the bell above the door rang out into the street for another moment.