Page 30 of The Thief and the Traitor Bride

Nore took the letter. It was thick paper, heavy in her hand. “I can do that,” Nore said.

It started with tasks like this, small and inconsequential, mostly when Edith was out of town: a letter here to a ship in the harbor, or a sailor in the pub, or an actress at the theater; a pickup from a seamstress in town, delivered to an address in the financial district; a case of wine sent to a nameless recipient in the capitol. Nore did not question any of these tasks, because to do so would be to question Celestine.

And she was rewarded, in her own way: she found a deep blue gown in her wardrobe ahead of the spring festival, and an extra bonus in her pay as summer took the city in a heat wave. As Nore dressed for the theater one night, to accompany Edith and one of her clients, Edith came in with a shimmering necklace of garnets.

“From the duchess,” she said as she secured the gold clasp around Nore’s throat. Nore touched the gems that glittered against her skin. She’d never owned anything so fine before. “She is pleased with you. You’d best keep it that way.”

“I will,” Nore promised, admiring the glow of the gems in the light.

Nore had no desire to violate Edith’s rules, but fate had other plans.

Her employer was away again on one of those desperately hot nights during the summer she was sixteen. Nore returned home to the big house that night, alone and sweating in the heat. She closed the door behind her and stood in the hall, relishing the silence. It was never quiet like this in Arlowe, and here in Nettlepool, the silence of Edith’s house was rarely restful.

She didn’t have to stand with her back straight. She didn’t have to keep her hair perfect. Without Edith’s watchful gaze following her, she could slouch, or slide down the banister, or run through the halls, or sing in the bath.

She could experience more of Nettlepool than the walls of this home and the offices of Miller & Sons, more than the fishy reek of the harbor and the dust of the warehouses.

“Miss Gordon,” Lula, one of the servants said, hesitating as she came down the hall. “Shall I lay the table for dinner?”

Nore looked at Lula, then at the closed door behind her. Her fingers touched the edge of her coat. “I will dine out tonight, thank you,” Nore said.

Lula’s brow wrinkled. “Shall I arrange a table for you somewhere?”

“No,” Nore said. “I think I’ll find my own way.”

It took just a second for Lula’s smile to grow before she snuffed it out. “Very well, Miss Gordon,” she said, inclining her head. “I take it this should remain between us?”

Nore curtsied, her head bowing low, a curtain of red hair falling forward over her shoulders as she freed it from its perfect bun. “If you don’t mind.”

“Of course not, Miss Gordon.” Lula started to turn, then rounded back. “There was a delivery for you. From the duchess.”

Nore spotted the waxed messenger bag on the hall table. “Right,” she said. “Thank you.” She went to it, scanned the instructions—it was meant for the theater—and slung it over her shoulder.

Twenty minutes later, Nore was in the alley behind the sprawling theater. There was a door back here that Celestine had instructed her to use, but she had only done it a couple of times before—she struggled to find it in the low lighting bleeding off from the street, and she was not good enough with magic to call forth a spell. But that was the adventure in it, Nore decided: testing herself. Finding her own level of comfort, her own version of safety.

Nore Gordon, sixteen years old and experiencing the city alone for the first time, was not nearly as smart as she thought she was.

She squinted into the murky dark, concentrating so hard that she did not hear the footsteps behind her until they were close.

“Gare’eve, ma’am,” a voice said in a thick Nettle accent. Nore turned to find a man behind her—not large, but larger than her, with glazed-over eyes and the smell of ornelwort smoke clinging to him. “How much for the likes of ye?”

Nore stepped back, holding the bag close. “I, um, I’m just lost—”

“I have the money,” he said, coming closer, crowding her. “I can pay whatever ye like, little moll.” His gaze tripped over her face and down, scanning her body, and she felt naked despite her too-heavy dress. Nore’s cheeks burned with inexplicable shame. She crossed her arms tighter over her chest.

“No,” Nore said, stepping back. “I’d actually like to be on my way now, thank you.”

The man smiled, his teeth glinting in the light. Nore felt quite like a trapped hare—but what was she supposed to do? Run?

“Maybe your way is my way,” the man said, reaching to take her arm.

“Mina!” another voice said. An arm slid around Nore’s shoulders and she almost pulled back, but it was a boy her age. He wore the loose shirt and tight trousers of the theater dancers. “They’re starting up again. I was looking for you.”

“I’m sorry,” Nore said, blushing even darker now that she was being carted away from the man and possibly toward some new terror. She wriggled out of the boy’s grasp; he let her go without a fight. “I’m not Mina.”

The boy sighed, holding open the door to the theater—the one she’d been looking for. “I know. You looked like you needed help there.”

She stood still for a second, mouth agape—but then he tugged her through the door, into the sweltering dark of the theater, and let the door slam securely between her and the man.