Page 5 of The Thief and the Traitor Bride

And if someone was robbing her… if someone was targeting the samples specifically… it appeared that Nore’s hand had been revealed.

I know there are lines that must not be crossed—but is Finch quite all right? On our voyage, she was quieter than I’ve ever seen her before, and drawn, as if facing some great sorrow.

Tern to Sparrow, 1631 United Common Era (UCE)

Focus on your work. Finch is not your concern.

Sparrow to Tern, 1631 UCE

two

AT EXACTLY SEVENTEEN PAST the hour, the carriage rolled up in front of the offices on Mead Street. Nore stepped out from the shadowed overhang, crossed the walk in the rain, and slipped inside. It had plush, dark velvet inside, tasteful and black, with the windows darkened and the shades drawn. The carriage was otherwise empty.

Nore leaned back and closed her eyes, letting the rocking of the carriage soothe her thoughts, which kept returning to the missing cases. Removed from Kota’s influence (and her beseeching, guilty gaze) Nore was again considering firing the sixth clerk, but that would do nothing to solve her problems.

Someone knew there was more than just wine coming in Nore’s shipments. At first, it had been nothing more than a gut feeling—but in her experience, a gut feeling was merely an understanding that had not yet been quantified.

Why else would they be targeting only her samples?

Nore had few enemies—there was professional jealousy among the other merchants in Nettlepool, perhaps, but she did her best to keep her business unimpeachable and out of public scrutiny. She maintained her relationships with her suppliers and clients with perfect grace—she needed them for information just as much as she wanted their money.

Finch, on the other hand, had quite a few enemies—or, at least, Nore suspected she did. She realized she had been rubbing the boning of her bodice on the left side, absentmindedly tracing over the scar that lurked under her dress.

She grimaced, lacing her fingers together in her lap. Forced herself to behave.

Nore had her ways of keeping her identities separate, even though one relied on the other in a delicate balance. And now someone was stealing from her, and the information she gathered for the duchess was at risk. Nore pressed the heel of her palm to one throbbing eye.

It was more likely that it was not an enemy of Nore, or of Miller & Sons. Tensions were always sparking and fizzling with Marous, and they were always looking for allies against Lindan—the latest attempt was to interrupt an ongoing trade agreement with Isbeta. And there were the negotiations with the tariffs between Lindan and the northern territories; and she had recently returned from a trip to Arkun to try to find out what was happening with the South Central Partnership.

In short: there were a thousand times she could’ve been caught. Hundreds of people who wanted her information. Perhaps just as many who, if they knew who she was and what she did, would find peace in her death. And Nore felt herself spread so thin over all of it, her time in demand and her presence required, that she had somehow allowed herself a vulnerability.

Feeling the familiar edge of panic, Nore forced herself to stop thinking. It was always better when she was as calm as possible when meeting with the duchess.

When the carriage stopped, it was on one of the unremarkable streets out of the city’s center. Nore drew her hood and pulled her cloak tight. She stepped from the carriage and entered house number forty-three without knocking.

Inside, it was just as nondescript as outside. The walls were papered in patterns almost a decade out of date, the furnishings worn but comfortable. Pale, nonmagical light glowed through the room, distracting from the fact that all the curtains were drawn. The only thing remarkable about the place was the woman who perched on the sofa, drinking tea, surrounded by the skirts of her satin gown.

“Ah, darling. You look exhausted,” Celestine said, her voice high and sweet, her accent rounded and noble. She waved a hand, heavy with rings, at the armchair to her left. “Come, sit.”

Nore removed her cloak and hung it next to the door. She took the seat requested and remained still as the duchess leaned close to grip her chin, examining her more closely.

Celestine de Roullier, the Duchess of Arlowe, master of Her Majesty’s spies, was a woman in her late forties. She sat on the sofa in a fashionable day suit of stiff brocade over starched satin. Celestine’s strawberry blonde hair—no sign of gray, never for Celestine—was coiffed to perfection. Her milk-pale skin was perfect, blemish free, cheeks rosy and lips showing no sign of cracking in Nettlepool’s cold.

To those who didn’t know the truth of her—which, to be fair, was most of the country of Lindan, and the continent beyond—she was an icon of fashion, a shining gem in Lindan’s court, the epitome of grace and high society. A favored cousin of the queen, she’d been married off to a Maroushan noble, then widowed soon after. In the years since she’d begun to understand things, Nore had realized that it was a convenient marriage for the crown—and an even more convenient widowhood. It only came out later that Celestine’s husband had been responsible for arming Lindle rebels against the crown, but it was very tidy, how everything had turned out in the end.

Though, it wasn’t any of Nore’s business what other people did in their marriages.

Gently, Nore pulled back, out of the duchess’s grasp. “It’s good to see you, Your Highness,” Nore said, trying to speak like she wasn’t exhausted to the bone. She didn’t like to show weakness to Celestine, whom she’d spent so many years trying to impress, and the duchess had already seen too much in her close scrutiny of Nore’s face.

“You look tired, Elinore,” Celestine said. When they were alone, she always defaulted to Nore’s full name. Late at night, alone in her bed, Nore wondered bitterly if she did the same with other spies, or if it was something she reserved for Nore.

“I was out late,” Nore said.

Celestine leaned back, folding her hands in her lap. Nore did not feel the scrutiny lessen, and she wondered if the duchess knew about her meeting with Hands the night before.

She probably did. It was always safer to assume her employer knew everything. Nore’s thoughts turned to the stolen cases, and her stomach twisted.

“Would you like a drink, dear? Water? Tea? Anything to make you more comfortable?”