Wisteria wondered if she ought to have blown the whistle twice rather than meekly step into this little boat. For that matter, she would have given much to know if anyone had been able to follow her this far. She did not look around, because she did not want her captors to think she expected help.

On the one hand, other than having her hands bound and an uncomfortable ride under a smelly tarp, she was fine. A jolly boat like this one could not navigate open seas, so they must be rowing for some other dock, cave, or boathouse, or a ship anchored out in the harbor. That last would have alarmed her more had the tide not been coming in and a strong wind not blowing from the northeast. No ship could attempt to sail until the tide went out this evening, and even then the harbor would be inescapable until the wind changed. If she had been followed this far, it should be easy enough for them to see where she’d been taken.

And if she wasn’t being followed any more, blowing repeatedly on the whistle would not make a difference anyway.

Moreover, she thought, there’s no sensible reason for them to go to all the trouble to kidnap me specifically if all they want is human cargo to haul to some distant corner of Paradise where slavery is legal. My parents would pay orders of magnitude more for me in ransom than any stranger would for possession.

What bothered her more – and this had not struck her until they reached the wharf – was that Lord Nikola arguably would fetch more money from some unscrupulous foreign power than from his own impoverished family. “May we talk about something?” she asked.

“Yer in no position to be askin’ any questions, sweetheart,” the burly Crit said.

“It doesn’t have to be about all of this, I just find this silence unnerving. Did you feel the Blessing of Newlant last night?” Wisteria said, more or less at random.

“Shut it, sweetheart.”

Wisteria sniffled and dabbed at her eyes, and Red said, “Give the poor girl a break, Crit. ’Course we felt it, miss.”

Wisteria wished she knew how to look grateful. Maybe I should use lavender more often. No one ever takes pity on my distress normally. “It’s my favorite part of Ascension,” she said, looking to Red. “That sense of the Savior’s presence. Lord Nikola was part of it, did you know? He was at the Palace to help with the Blessing. He looked so radiant afterwards.” She wasn’t sure what she hoped to accomplish here: perhaps to make some kind of human connection with the men, to make herself and Lord Nikola people in their eyes and not just inconveniently animate objects.

“Huh. Guess he would be,” Red said. “Being Blessed and all.”

Crit snorted. “Yeah, well, if he’d use that Blessing a li’l more we’d be done with this by now.”

Wisteria turned to him, perplexed. “Whatever do you mean? He uses his Blessing more than any other Blessed I know of. He scarcely does anything else.”

Crit didn’t answer her. The boat was silent for a moment except for the sound of the oars being pulled by the four men. At length, Red said, “What’s that about, Crit?”

“Shut it, Red.”

“Are you taking him to treat someone?” Wisteria asked. “Why not just petition?”

“Hah! I hate to break it to you, girlie, but yer sweetie ain’t as generous an’ all-givin’ as ya think he is.”

Wisteria wondered why he was responding to her and not his own fellow. She chose her next words with care. “You know that no Blessed can cure every ailment, do you not?”

Another snort. “I know that’s what they want you to think.”

“Sir?”

“Le’s jus’ say that everyone knows yer ailment’s a lot more treatable if yer rich and talk fancy and got a ‘Lord’ afore yer name. Code or no Code.”

“I’ve heard that’s the case with some Blessed, but it’s not true of Lord Nikola,” Wisteria said.

“Got ya wrapped around his finger, does he? Jus’ cause he’s a smooth talker don’ make ’im a good man, girlie.”

“No, I mean that I’ve done statistical analysis of his caseload. His treatment rates are not affected by—” Wisteria paused to sneeze, wishing her handkerchief were less sodden at this point and not about to ask her captors for a fresh one, or even to try to exchange it for one of her others. After blowing her nose, she finished with, “the perceived ability of the injured to pay.”

A couple of men paused at their oars to look at her. Red asked, “How’s that?”

Wisteria started to explain. “I’ve had third-party observers take note of his petitioners and compared their demographics to those of the surrounding area. Their socio-economic status does not—”

Crit shifted to grab her face with one thick-fingered hand and squeezed her cheeks between thumb on one side and fingers on the other, palm over her mouth. “Which that’s enough outta ya, girlie. Keep it shut or I’ll gag you. And same for you, Red! Just row.”

---

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Nik’s fingers were on fire while the rest of his body was cold, damp, bruised and soiled. His mouth tasted of vomit and the corners were raw from the gag. His throat ached from his muffled screaming earlier. Being alone was better than Brogan ripping off his three remaining fingernails, but not a lot better. Tied to the chair in the now-empty cabin, there was nothing to do or think about except for his pain and discomfort, and imagine what Brogan would do next. Sleep was impossible, kept at bay by the burning pain in his hands.

He didn’t believe that Brogan could capture Miss Vasilver. She wouldn’t be wandering alone outside at night, or even during the daytime: she was a gentlewoman, she’d always have an attendant.

An attendant who could be overpowered, granted, but by now someone would have noticed he was missing. Once they realized he’d been kidnapped, Miss Vasilver would take special precautions to ensure her own safety. She was a practical, sensible individual, unlike him. She’d be fine. He believed that. He had to believe that. There was nothing else he could do.

Even if I could get free, there’s no where I could go. I’m trapped on a ship in the middle of the harbor. Assuming they haven’t sailed yet. What am I going to do, steal a six-man boat and row myself back? Alone, with my hands like this? Or swim? He didn’t want to think about how salt water would feel on his hands. I’d freeze to death or drown first.

Death…

…if I could get free, I could kill myself.

He’d sworn to the Savior long ago not to kill himself. But the Savior was gone now, and Nik did not dare reach for him again. Everything in him drew back from even the thought, from that awful storm of emotion, from the horror of what he’d provoked his own god to do. I never felt him angry before. I did not think him capable of anger. What have I done?

Death would be better. An end to the torture. If he were dead, Brogan could not use him as an excuse to hurt anyone else, either. Nik tested his bonds, flexing and tugging at unyielding cords. He didn’t try to use brute strength; he had little left, and less endurance. He pulled, trying to rub them so they’d fray. He paused often to rest, panting and whimpering at the stabs of new pain just shifting his hands caused. But the cords did not wear, nor the knots give.

The chair, however—

The front joint on the right arm, where the arm joined the lower frame, creaked, just a little, under pressure. He focused on that part, pulling and rubbing the cords against the joint, trying to weaken it enough to break it apart. Time passed, a weary miserable interval. No one came to feed him or give him water, adding thirst and hunger to his list of miseries. I’ll die of dehydration eventually. That’s something. The chair teased him with its little creaks and groans, but did not yield.

It was light outside, perhaps after noon, when Brogan returned. Nik stopped moving then, stopped doing anything save shiver and sweat in terror. Brogan had a grim cheer about him as he went through the same preparations he’d done the night before; he took coals from the stove and put them in the pot, added the needles and pliers to heat, and set the whole on the table, too close to Nik. “Gotta get ready for our company.” Brogan grinned mirthlessly at Nikola. The captain dropped his gloved palm to rest over Nik’s damaged fingertips then, and ground down while Nik threw his head back and whined in helpless agony. “Just think how little Miss Vasilver will enjoy this visit.” He pressed harder, wriggling his hand, then left the cabin.

Nik screwed his eyes shut against tears of pain, a surge of anger rising against the horror and fear, and alongside it determination. I will not let this happen. After taking a few deep breaths, he renewed his work at loosening the arm of the chair.

§

For some minutes, Justin endured the most nerve-wracking slow-motion chase. After a couple of blocks of an initial spurt of speed, Anthser slowed to a stroll, uncertain of the exact location of the whistle (he said) and unwilling to rush to it even if he had been. “It was only one, so she doesn’t want us trying to rescue her. We have to trust her.” Then he’d hear another (single) whistle and trot in a different direction for a while before stopping and listening.

After several blocks of this, Justin convinced him to take to the rooftops where they’d have some chance of seeing what Anthser was (supposedly) hearing. “We can hang back on the rooftops. No one’s going to look up for pursuers.” Another several blocks, and Anthser was convinced the occasional whistle was coming from a covered cart. One man was pushing it and a second pulling, while a third walked alongside. They shadowed it for over a mile through the city, staying back on the rooftops. Justin caught glimpses of their target now and again with the spyglass, Anthser listening for the whistles. Whenever they lost sight of it, Justin was infuriated: “Your concern for being spotted is going to get her killed if they take her from that cart while we can’t see her, and she’s no longer able to signal us.”

As they neared the harbor, Justin had a different sickening idea: that the ruffians had taken the whistle from Wisteria when they first got to her, and stashed some complicit street urchin inside the cart while having Wisteria herself taken in a different direction. He had no idea what to do if that proved the case.

He half-expected the men to take the cart into one of the warehouses along the docks, but instead they wheeled it out onto a dock. “What are they going to do, drown her?” Justin hissed, one hand clutching at the scruff of Anthser’s neck.

“Why would they do that?” Navigating by rooftop had become difficult a few blocks earlier and they’d descended to street level, skulking along at a distance. Anthser drew out of sight behind a building for a minute when the men they were following looked around. When he risked another glimpse, the cart was abandoned on the dock and four men were rowing away in a small row boat, Wisteria’s dark-haired form seated among them. Anthser’s ears flicked back. “…crap.”

Justin tightened his grip on Anthser’s fur. “Did she whistle twice?”

“No.” He flicked his ears up again. “Once. I…uh…how do we follow that without being seen?”

Justin brought the spyglass to his eye and read the name on the stern of the small vessel: Little Lassie. If they made a run for it now – well, Anthser could swim. They could get to the boat. Not before the men could threaten Wisteria’s life. Not to mention Nikola’s. I hate this plan. Justin looked around. Like the rest of Gracehaven, or Newlant for that matter, little work was being done here on the day after Ascension, but the docks were not deserted. “We’re hiring a boat.” He pointed to a couple of men on an adjoining dock. “That way.”

---

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Ultimately, the Vasilvers provided three greatcats and three footmen to ride them. Justin offered the one of his greatcats that was on site, but Anthser rejected the individual as too clumsy and more likely to create trouble than solve it. Justin had not realized that greatcats could be clumsy, himself. But Anthser was the only one among them with any practical training in handling criminals and it would be folly to disregard his expertise.

Anthser did agree, to Justin’s surprise, to let Justin ride him to the site. Comfrey Manor was not far out of the way and it gave them an excuse to look as if they were going a different way from Miss Vasilver. At Anthser’s speed, it took only minutes to stop there and retrieve Justin’s finest large-game hunting bow and his dueling sword. The Vasilvers were able to provide him with a spyglass, a riding seat, and an overcoat borrowed from one of their employees in order to be a little less conspicuous than his own flashy one. The other greatcats and their riders had instructions never to get within line of sight of Miss Vasilver, because Anthser did not trust any of them not to put her or Lord Nikola in danger by doing something stupid. If Anthser saw anything that made him want them to move in, he’d roar. Otherwise, they’d be guided by Miss Vasilver’s cues. Some part of Justin, a part that wasn’t thinking find them and kill them all, rankled at taking orders from a woman and a greatcat commoner. I ought to be in charge. I ought to have a better plan.

But I don’t.

From his perch clinging to the seat on Anthser’s back, Justin could feel the tension in the greatcat’s body, a stiffness that made his gait jarring. Justin was used to the stress of competition, to giving his best performance under pressure. These stakes were far higher than any he’d ever played for before, but the same skills applied and his posture was easy in the seat, flowing with each stride and jump as Anthser navigated side streets like a wild thing, leaping onto buildings and running across rooftops. Anthser’s own competitive instincts or perhaps his training kicked in, because he lost the tense edginess that had impeded him at the start.

They were about halfway to 8th and Valence when Anthser’s ears flattened back and he doubled back.

“What?” Justin hissed. “If we forgot something it’s—”

“Whistle,” Anthser growled, jumping from a rooftop to a balcony, then bouncing to a lower one before dropping to the street.

“Once or twice?”

“Once.”

Blood and death, Justin thought, and hung on.

§

One block from Vasilver Manor, it occurred to Wisteria that it would be logical from a criminal perspective to meet her en route to the rendezvous rather than at it. So she had the whistle in her hand, concealed in a handkerchief. Her eyes were already watering from the scent of the perfume; she hated lavender. But it was good from another perspective: tears would make her look more appropriately distraught.

Perhaps even as distraught as she was. Wisteria was terrified and horrified. She kept thinking about the night before, how she’d wondered where Lord Nikola was, how she’d wanted to send a messenger to check on him but had not done so. Because it was inappropriate. Because young unmarried women did not send messages to men uninvited. What if I had? If we’d known twelve hours ago that he was missing, would we have been able to find him before now? She hated what she was doing but could think of no alternative that did not put Lord Nikola in even greater danger. No help for it.

Wisteria took an indirect path from Vasilver Manor to the meeting spot in an effort to avoid a possible ambush. Even so, she was suspicious of the bundled forms of three men with a handcart approaching behind her, and quickened her stride. It was a cold winter’s day, so hoods and scarves were not out of place – she wore a hat and scarf herself – but under the circumstances it was impossible not to be wary.

Thus, she was unsurprised when they too moved faster to draw up next to her. One of them, a stout broad-shouldered fellow, said, “Well done, sweetheart, ya spotted us. Now walk into that alley there with me and there’s no one as has ta get hurt.”

It would be just my luck to get accosted by random criminals on my way to meet specific ones, Wisteria thought, a flash of annoyance mixing with her fears. “Are you the ones holding my lord?” she asked, right before sneezing.

He took her arm and steered her to the indicated alleyway. “Yer in no position to ask questions, Miss Vasilver.”

Not random criminals, at least. She made a token resistance, lagging as she wiped her eyes, blew her nose and the whistle while she had her mouth covered. “If you’re not his abductors, you’re going to have to wait your turn, I’ve got other ruffians waiting on me.”

One of the other men pushing the cart laughed. “Hah,” the speaker said. “We got his gold-haired majesty all right. Now quit stallin’ an’ move!”

Wisteria complied. Out of sight of the street and with the cart further screening them, the man checked the pockets of her coat, took the coat from her, checked the pockets of her daysuit, found the perfume phial and took possession of it, along with her reticule. He didn’t try to take or examine her clutched handkerchief: she made a point of dabbing at her streaming eyes and nose with it during the search. She bore it, asking only about Lord Nikola. “Where is he? What do you want from us?”

He only laughed. “Dontcha worry, sweetheart, ya’ll be seein’ him soon enough. Anyone follow you?”

“No.”

“Ya tell anyone ’bout this?”

“No. Your note said not to. Have you hurt him?”

“Nothin’ that won’t mend. Least not with a little help,” he said. Wisteria felt ill.

He pinned her hands together behind her back and she felt a length of cord against them. She finally made a real protest. “Please, sir.” She glanced over her shoulder, blinking against the stream of authentic if lavender-induced tears. “Show some pity! I’ve done everything you said.”

Her interlocutor only grunted. Perhaps one of the other men had the rudiments of a conscience, because one in a too-small and tattered overcoat said, “C’mon, Crit, she’s just a girl. What’s she gonna do?”    

Crit grunted again. “Shut yer yap, Red.”

“Please.” Wisteria wriggled her hands ineffectually. “At least in front so I can still blow my own nose, sir.”

The broad-shouldered man sighed but turned her about and tied her hands before her. “Get in the cart.”

Wisteria looked at the cart. It had low walls on all four sides and no seat, like a farmer’s handcart. Or a fisherman’s, judging by the smell of the tarp over it. “What?”

“Get in,” Crit repeated, shoving her shoulder. Red pulled the tarp back.

Wisteria clambered in awkwardly, mindful of her handkerchief and whistle. “If it’s money you want, we’ll pay,” she said. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Which as we’ll get our money, sweetheart, dontcha fret. Ya’ll be on yer way with yer sweetie soon enough, there’s just one thing as we need from ’im first. Now, ya gonna be quiet or am I’s gonna gag ya?”

Wisteria closed her mouth, nodded, and lay down in the smelly cart without further objection. As soon as they were moving, she blew the whistle again. I hope this is as loud to the greatcats as they said it was. It was tempting to blow twice. Maybe with a handful of greatcats menacing them, these men would confess the location of Lord Nikola.

And maybe if there was any delay, they had accomplices who would move or kill him. I’m not in immediate danger, and they said they were taking me to him. So. The plan’s working.

…I hate this plan.

---

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Justin and Wisteria were in her office with her father and one of her brothers. Lady Striker and her greatcat had gone in person to impress the seriousness of the situation on the Watch. Justin had no intention of leaving the matter to whatever staff the authorities decided they could spare, in which respect he and Wisteria were in perfect accord. They were bringing Wisteria’s relations up to speed and going over maps of Gracehaven to organize the search. They intended to decamp to Anverlee after allowing a decent interval for Lady Striker to arrive ahead of them, in the event that Lord Striker was still being an ass.    

Wisteria was focused, intelligent, and efficient on the task of using their joint available resources, which Justin appreciated as he found himself checking his own temper at every foolish question or delay from some third party. Marshalling dozens of other people for the search was far more constructive than pacing the streets in person and demanding passerbys tell him where Nikola was, but Justin would far rather have been doing the latter.

As they finalized their search pattern and priority list, Anthser entered the study, brushing aside the footman who tried to present him. “I found his cufflink. I think,” the black greatcat said without preamble. The fel’s ears were canted backwards and whiskers against his cheeks, fur bristled. He lifted a paw to drop a gold cufflink on the table. “In an alley off Third, two blocks east and one north of Anverlee Manor. Too many other scents around, couldn’t trail him. No blood, no signs of fighting. Not positive he was there last night, but I think he was. Would guess he got into a cab or was otherwise carried away from the spot. Do you have anything?”

“Not yet,” Wisteria said. “We’re organizing the search now and will meet Lady Striker back at Anverlee Manor soon; she’s filing a report with the Watch.” Justin picked up the cufflink. He did not pay close attention to fashion in general, but Nikola only had two pairs of good cufflinks, and Justin had undressed him enough times to know both. This was one of his, gold with ruby chips on the face and a pivoting rod that served to clasp it.

Fel Fireholt gave a brusque nod and was about to go when Justin asked, “Did you find it like this?” He pointed to the rod, pulled straight.

The greatcat twisted to look at him, nodding again. “Why?”

“There’s a trick to straightening these, a push-then-pull. It doesn’t happen by accident.”

“So he dropped it on purpose?” Wisteria asked.

“Or someone took it from him and then dropped it?” This from her brother.

“I’d expect a thief to rip it off, not carefully unclasp it.” Justin stared at the cufflink, as if it could give the whereabouts of its owner.

A nervous young maid appeared in Wisteria’s office door with a folded note on a tray. “Begging your pardon, miss, but there’s a message just arrived, from Lord Nikola.”

All eyes went to the girl. Anthser, nearest the door, dropped his head to the paper and sniffed. “Who brought this?” he demanded.

“A street boy, fel—” she stammered.

“Is he still here?”

“I don’t—”

The greatcat didn’t wait for her to finish: he pushed her aside and bolted for the servant’s entrance. Wisteria, with perfect calm, had approached the door. She took the note and thanked the girl as she opened it. She read aloud, “‘Miss Wisteria Vasilver: We have your betrothed.’” Justin blinked. Betrothed? “‘If you wish to see him again, you will be at the corner of 8th and Valence, alone, at half-past two. If you value Lord Nikola’s life, you will tell no one of this. Come alone and without being followed or he dies. Notify the authorities and he dies.’” She paused. “It has the Fireholt seal.”

There was a brief, stunned silence. Well. Now we know what happened to him.

“Of course you can’t go,” her father was saying.

“The Watch already knows he’s missing.” From her brother. “We ought to give this to them.”

Wisteria glanced at a clock. “It will take twenty-five minutes on foot to get there from here. That leaves me fifteen minutes to prepare. Gentlemen, I am going. I would appreciate your help in this.”

Anthser reappeared, carrying a squirming ragged boy by the collar. The boy was trying to worm his way out of his clothes to escape. “I din’t do nuffin’ let me go!”

The greatcat deposited him on the office floor just inside the door. “This is the messenger. What did it say?”

The boy tried to dart past Anthser, saying, “I din’t bring no message!”

The black greatcat pinned him to the doorframe with a casual paw. “Your scent was on it.” He was looking at Wisteria. She repeated the contents back to him verbatim. His paw on the boy didn’t waver; there was something uncanny, shocking about the greatcat’s implacable use of force. Greatcats by nature did not use violence or even force against humans: warcats underwent extensive training that made them capable of violence in the execution of their duties, but even so Justin had never seen Anthser manhandle anyone before. The greatcat swung his head to regard the boy when Wisteria finished. “Who gave it to you?”

“Dunno – ow!”

“Describe the person.” Anthser didn’t appear to have moved. It struck Justin just how easy it would be for the greatcat to kill a man.    

“Dunno – grown-up, big guy. Like him.” The boy pointed to Justin: Anthser had his paw against the boy’s chest with his back pressed against the doorframe, so the urchin’s limbs were still free. “But not posh. Wharf guy. Wearin’ a scarf ’n hood. Din’t see no face.”

“Did he tell you to return with any message, or to let him know it had been delivered?” Wisteria asked. The urchin shook his head.

“How long ago?” Anthser asked.

“Dunno. Couple hours?”

“Where?”

“By the harbor, near dock three.”

“Thank you.” Wisteria retrieved a moneyclip from her desk and walked to the door to give the boy a mark. His eyes widened as his fist closed around the bill, jamming it into a pocket even as she said, “I’ll give you two more if you will accompany Mary here to the kitchen and stay there for the remainder of today. Agreed?” He nodded, and Wisteria continued, “Please let him go, Fel Fireholt. Unless you’ve more questions for him?”

The greatcat lifted his enormous black paw away from the boy, and Mary sidled out with the urchin and instructions from Wisteria to feed him.

“If he didn’t have instructions to say the note was delivered, they can’t know we got it,” Mr. Vasilver said. “Surely they wouldn’t kill Lord Nikola when you might not even be aware of their demand!”

“Perhaps they had someone watch the boy deliver it. It does not matter, Father: I am leaving here in twelve minutes. I suggest we focus on what precautions we might reasonably take.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Wisteria. I’m not letting you be taken as well!”

“Please stop posturing, Father. I am going.”

“You are not, not if I have to lock you in your room to stop you!”

“Fel Fireholt.” Wisteria was going through the drawers of her desk again. “This man is threatening to prevent me from helping you locate your master. Would you be so good as to assist me if he attempts to make good on this threat?”

“Gladly,” Anthser growled.

Mr. Vasilver looked outraged, but intelligent enough to realize that Anthser was the trump card in this situation. His own greatcat servants wouldn’t obey an order to restrain anyone, and human ones stood no chance against a determined greatcat. “I – you can’t do this! Wisteria, please see reason. Byron, tell her not to be ridiculous.”

Byron Vasilver jammed his hands in his pockets, looking like the sort of man who knew better than to try to talk his sister out of anything. Justin had held his peace through all of this, in part because Wisteria and Anthser had done without prompting everything useful he could think of, and in part because his mind was paralyzed by shock, churning out useless noise like find them and kill them all. He had reservations about Wisteria meeting Nikola’s abductors as well, but not sufficient to stake Nikola’s life on the chance their threat was empty. He found his voice to say, “We’ve already violated their command that you tell no one. I assume you do not intend to abide strictly by the other orders?” His own ability to sound calm astonished him.

“I intend to keep any that they might reasonably notice if I violated. Such as not appearing, or having someone beside me. Being followed by someone suitably distant and inconspicuous seems appropriate. Ah.” She produced a whistle from a lumpy envelope in her desk drawer. “This produces a sound inaudible to human ears.” She blew on it.

Nothing happened except that Anthser’s ears flatted back. A moment later, they flicked up again and the greatcat’s whiskers relaxed into a more natural posture for the first time since he’d arrived. “Really? You can’t hear that?” At the blank looks from the humans, he shook his dark head. “It’s piercing. I bet I could hear it from five blocks off. At least.”

“Good. I may need you to. I’ll bring this with me if I need to signal you.”

Byron Vasilver cleared his throat. “Teeri, audible or not, a hardened criminal won’t let you blow on a whistle!”

“I’ll put it in a handkerchief and pretend to be blowing my nose or somesuch.”

“You’re going to fake a reaction?”

Wisteria paused, considering this. “I’ll wear Mother’s lavender perfume. That always makes me sneeze and I want to have a scent that will be easy to track anyway.” She rang for a servant.

“Wisteria, what can you hope to accomplish from this?” her father asked. “Are you trying to get yourself abducted as well?”

“That’s one possibility,” she said, matter-of-fact. “I think it’s more probable that they intend to tell me their ransom demand, negotiate the terms of his release, and impress upon me their seriousness by frightening and threatening me.” A new servant appeared, and Wisteria continued without pause, “Oh, Richard, would you bring me a phial of Mrs. Vasilver’s lavender perfume? At once, this is urgent. Thank you.” As he departed, she returned without break to her earlier train of thought. “But if they do attempt to abduct me, I want Fel Fireholt and any other available greatcats to follow us at a discreet distance. Assuming they don’t take me, I’ll try to mark them with a scent so that the greatcats can follow them. Trailing the kidnappers is our best chance of finding Lord Nikola.”

“Teeri, why’d the note call him your betrothed?” Byron Vasilver asked. “Uh…you’re not betrothed, are you?”

“Of course we aren’t, and why they think we are – in fact, why they’re contacting me at all and not the Strikers about a ransom – is an interesting question. It suggests information a few weeks out of date, that they know the Strikers can’t afford a ransom, that we can, that marriage was considered but not that it was rejected. I am not sure what source would provide such an angle. Be sure to tell the Watch about it.” She walked to the door as a breathless lady’s maid returned with a bottle. “I should be going now. Here’s a sample of the scent.” She dropped a dollop on a spare handkerchief and dropped it on the table. “Do arrange for the greatcats – oh, hello, Sally,” she said as a grey-and-black-striped greatcat appeared in the doorway. “I’m sorry about the whistle. The gentlemen will explain. It’s very important. In any case, the address is on the note if you need it for reference. I wish to have support out of sight and via an indirect route. Be careful about leaving the house so that it doesn’t appear you’re following, in case someone’s watching for that. I’ll try to whistle once if my position changes but I believe I am safe and do not want intervention, twice if I believe I’m in danger and desire intervention. Good day.” She walked out with her father still sputtering objections.

Anthser stared after her. “She is my new favorite human ever.”

Mine too. Justin leapt to his feet after her. “A moment, Miss Vasilver.”

She did not turn, striding through her antechamber and into the hall. “My mind is set on this point, Lord Comfrey.”

“I do not wish to alter it.” He touched her arm, turning her to look at him. “Thank you,” Justin said, forcing the impotent rage at Nikola’s abductors aside. More than I can ever say, thank you. “And – if it comes to a question of money, I will pay any price. Any price. So long as his safety is assured. And yours.” He wanted to add more, to kiss her again while he still could. I love you went through his mind, sentimental foolishness that could not be true, brought on by the stress of the moment. He confined himself to a nod in response to hers and released her arm. He returned to the office and the task of determining how many of Vasilver’s greatcat employees could help.

---

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Justin woke too early the next day, or “later that morning”, to be accurate. He felt refreshed despite having slept little, and basked in the remnants of an impossible but delightful dream involving a nude Nikola and Wisteria disporting with him in an enclosed coach that was somehow also a sizable canopy bed. He spent some minutes daydreaming a continuation of the theme before conceding that neither sleep nor the actual dream was going to return. He hauled himself from bed and went downstairs to perform his usual morning routine of calisthenics and weightlifting. Justin lacked his usual focus, distracted by the memory of Wisteria half-naked beneath him in the carriage. Mmm. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d fantasized about a woman.

Justin was still thinking of her after washing off and breakfasting. As he dawdled at the dining room table with a disregarded newspaper at his side, he knew he wanted to see her again. Today. Now was good. This was a terrible idea. For one, they’d parted just seven hours ago. For another, dancing half the night with one woman and then calling on her the next day was sure to excite hopes and gossip.

…Do I care if I excite hopes and gossip, here? Some gossip that he was serious about a girl would do his reputation good, at this stage of his life. He’d so studiously avoided anything that would appear to oblige him to a girl that his reluctance itself was a topic of gossip. That would make a break in the pattern juicy to gossipmongers, but even so it would be more normal than his current habits. Not a bad thing, for a man with secrets such as his. As for hopes—

—well, if undressing her in my carriage did not excite any hopes in Wisteria, I can’t imagine what would. Unless she’s one of those who believe that men despise any sign of sexual interest in a prospective bride, and so assumes that her complaisance puts her outside the bounds of such a possibility. Which, given her remarks last night, she might well think.

That Wisteria might regard herself as unfit for marriage was an oddly unpalatable thought. Justin rose and rang for his valet. Screw this. I’d rather she think I am courting her than that I find her unsuitable for such, and no one else’s opinion matters.

When Justin arrived at the Vasilver residence, he wasn’t surprised to see the Anverlee gig there. Nikola must be here to apologize for his inability to return last night.

He was surprised, however, when Anverlee’s greatcat stepped out of harness to call out to him. “Lord Comfrey!”

Justin blinked; the individual was vaguely familiar – a very large specimen, with blue-gray fur turning white about the muzzle – but he could not place the gender, much less name. “Yes?” He glanced over his shoulder but continued up the steps to knock at Vasilver’s door.    

“Begging your pardon, Lord Comfrey, but did Lord Nik stay at Comfrey Manor last night?” The impertinent draycat followed him, head raised almost to his level as the greatcat stood with forepaws on the lower step.

What? “No, he did not. Did he never come home?”

The greatcat shook his head.

“That’s odd. He left the ball early for some sort of medical emergency; perhaps it’s still keeping him?” Justin hazarded. Twelve hours later?

But the greatcat was shaking his head again. “No. The emergency was at Anverlee and he finished with it not long after midnight. He went back to the ball.”

A chill stole over Justin. “No, he didn’t.” Vasilver’s footman opened the door and Justin entered mechanically, waving the Anverlee greatcat to follow and nevermind propriety.

“You’re sure of that?” the draycat asked.

“Absolutely.”

He could hear Lady Striker in the Vasilver parlor, and caught the end of her question: “—did you last see him?”

“Shortly before midnight, my lady,” Wisteria answered in her calm way. “I stayed until around five. He did not return. I’d assumed the emergency took longer than he anticipated.”

“It’s not – did you by chance quarrel or anything, any reason that he might not have wanted to see you?” Lady Striker asked. Justin entered the parlor without waiting for the footman to present him. Lady Striker stood before Wisteria, stout and round beside Wisteria’s graceful slim height. Lady Striker looked older and grayer than Justin had ever seen her, the lines in her face engraved by worry. Wisteria didn’t answer her question at once, and Lady Striker placed one hand on her arm. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean that you would have, it’s only—”

“I did not see Lord Nikola after midnight, either,” Justin interrupted. “He would not have been avoiding both of us.”

“Oh! Lord Comfrey!” Lady Striker turned to him, arms extended in a beseeching motion. “He did not stay with you last night either? I know he was avoiding us at the ball, but he would be, yet I was sure he’d be home by now. Rukert says he was probably dodging – everything, because with the Blessing over he could, and that he was out all night doing – well – and I am a silly old woman for expecting my grown son to answer to me. But I…” She ran out of words, blinking, then added, “Am I a silly old woman?” As if hoping she was.

Justin looked to Wisteria. “Lord Nikola told you he’d be back last night? If he could.”

“Yes, my lord, if he wasn’t kept too long. But perhaps he was only being polite?”

“No.” I might excuse myself thus, but Nikola never would. “Something must have prevented him from returning. Which greatcat was taking him back?” Justin asked Lady Striker.

“I don’t know.” Lady Striker wrung her hands.

From the parlor entrance behind him, the greatcat answered, “He told the night footman he’d get a cab. There were no greatcats at Anverlee last night.”

Justin turned to stare incredulously at the greatcat. “He went to get his own cab?”

“He always does that sort of thing,” Lady Striker said. “Too impatient to wait.”

Wisteria asked the greatcat, “Then the last anyone saw him was when he left Anverlee Manor at half-past midnight? Have you sent runners to check the Gracehaven infirmaries?”

“Gunther, Meredith, and Kevin are checking the infirmaries. Anthser is trying to track him by scent, but none of us expect that to work,” the greatcat answered. “His scent’s all over Anverlee anyway, and once you get to the street there’s been too much other traffic to cover it.”    

“Have you reported his disappearance to the authorities?” Wisteria asked.

“Not yet,” Lady Striker said, at the same time as the greatcat said, “I sent Kathy to tell the Watch, but without the Strikers making it official they won’t do much of anything, unless he ended in lockup somehow.”    

Lady Striker stared at her greatcat. “Jill! I gave no such order.”

“You sure didn’t, m’lady.” The greatcat sat on her haunches, green eyes unblinking. “Kathy doesn’t work for you, neither.”

“Well, I – he’s my son! How dare you! Think of our reputation if this turns out to be nothing!”

“With all due respect—” and her insubordinate tone made it clear Jill did not consider much respect due at the moment “—I am thinking of Lord Nik’s well-being, and whatever happened to him is definitely something.” She snarled the last word, and glanced back to Wisteria. “Meredith’s gone to my son’s place with a message asking him to get the neighbor greatcats together. They’ll start searching the streets.”

Justin was not in the habit of involving himself in other people’s disputes with their servants and had little tolerance for backtalking himself, but in this case his sympathies lay with Jill. He ignored the squabble, thinking about what they might be overlooking. What were the possibilities? An accident was most likely, which would leave Nikola at an infirmary if he were lucky, or on the street somewhere between Anverlee and Dawnfell if he were not. “That’s something. I’ll send one of my draycats to mobilize my own people,” Justin found himself saying. Mechanically, he stepped outside to give the instructions. Lady Striker made some confused noises combining appreciation and objection, which he ignored. If Nikola hadn’t been in an accident, then he’d been assaulted. If he’d been murdered—

Don’t think that. You don’t need to think of that. If he’s dead nothing matters. Therefore, he cannot be dead.

Wisteria cleared her throat. “I am sure we have some people who could be spared, as well. It would be best if we coordinated our efforts. Preferably from Anverlee Manor, as that’s closest both to where he was last seen and where he was last headed.”

Justin nodded agreement; that was sensible. If Nikola’d been injured or knocked unconscious (not killed he can’t be dead) during a robbery, he might have been left in some out-of-the-way place by the robbers. It’d be worth broadening the search from the most probable routes between Anverlee and Dawnfell. Focus on the sketchiest neighborhoods? There were only a couple of miles between the two, and the area as a whole had historically been the best in the city, but some of those old entailed estates were in the hands of other impoverished nobles like the Strikers. Those ill-tended grounds could make for good hiding places. Searching private property was best done by the law – “Lady Striker. You are his next of kin. You must give the Watch official notice that Lord Nikola is missing and ask them to assist in the search.”    

“But…Rukert thought…” Lady Striker quavered under Justin’s stare. “…do you think it best, Lord Comfrey?”

“I do.”

“Very well,” Lady Striker agreed meekly. From the doorway, Jill gave an un-servant-like snort.

---

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CONTENT NOTE: Entry depicts torture and suicidal thoughts.

When Nik was thirteen, he had attempted suicide.

He’d tied a stone about his ankle and jumped from the footbridge into the river that cut through his father’s estate in Anverlee. At the time, he’d thought it would be quick and painless, but it hurt, as if his lungs were on fire and then he was choking on water and that hurt more. He’d panicked and was making a futile attempt to untie the rock when Jill fished him, rock and all, from the river. She had seen him take the plunge from a hilltop and been racing to his rescue. He’d begged her not to tell his parents, and she’d agreed on the condition that he swear, first, never to attempt suicide again, and second, to seek his great-grandmother’s help immediately. Nik had always been grateful for her intervention.

Until now, when he would have given anything for death, for release from this nightmare.

The pain from his hands was driving him to madness: he could see the knots of trauma growing in his own mind, in flashes as he tried desperately to distract himself from the inescapable agony.

The process had become horrifyingly familiar: Brogan would hammer one burning hot needle after another under one of Nik’s fingernails. Eventually, Brogan would pry the fingernail itself off with heated pliers and move on to the next finger. He’d completed the cycle on three fingers of the left hand and then switched to the right. It did not seem possible that such a small part of the body could cause so much pain. The worst of it was that it wouldn’t kill him, that it was unbearable yet he had no choice but to bear it. Nik would have done anything to make it stop, would have begged, pleaded, sold himself, denounced the Savior, confessed to any crime, if only it would end. But even if Mrs. Brogan’s disorder had been in his power to diagnose, Nik could not have discovered it under these conditions. He was unable to focus on anything beyond the agony, the horror of what Brogan was doing to him. His face was streaked with tears, he had soiled himself, vomited at the smell of his own burning flesh. Brogan had stopped for that last, briefly, to remove the gag while Nik had been in danger of choking to death, then stuffed it back in as soon as Nik finished retching. Nik had stopped trying to suppress his nausea after that, hoping for another respite or, even better, death. It had worked a couple more times, but unfortunately there wasn’t enough left to choke on any more and dry heaves barely made Brogan pause. The torturer only muttered to himself about Nik’s ‘cursed stubborn pride’, or an occasional lunatic outburst like, “Do you think I want to do this? This is your own fault! You could stop this any time you want!”

Nik prayed through the tears, pain, humiliation: for release, healing, death, he hardly knew what. He could feel the Savior’s presence only dimly, the love of a god as powerless as he was. If you loved me, you would end this, he thought bitterly. Why do you need me to see there’s a problem with her? Why can’t you just heal her? Just this once, this one time, find it for me, please, please, I beg you, heal her! He opened himself to Mrs. Brogan – none of this is her fault – and let the Savior flow through him, feeling again the keen edge of the Savior’s grief. Hah! Your grief! What about us? He held the channel open despite the additional discomfort of his god’s sorrow, as if forcing the Savior to look. Look at her! Look at me! You’re our god do something! The undirected power swirled through them, the sense of grief swelling with it, and something under it that the Savior was shielding him from. Nik was past caring, hurt and lashing out at the only thing left to him. Does it bother you? Then I’m glad! You deserve this! If it wasn’t for you, for this fucking curse-of-a-Blessing, I wouldn’t be here! Look at us!

Power washed over them like a growing storm, and then there was an awful sense of a dam breaking, a terrible flood of emotions not his own, an overwhelming, unfathomable mixture: horror rage love desire determination hope need pain GRIEF—

—it was too much, unbearable, a tidal wave covering his mind, and Nik was drowning.

§

Nik regained consciousness still tied to the chair, raw fingers oozing. His mind felt strange. He could not feel the Savior’s presence and he shied away at even the thought of the god, terrified by the memory of that last encounter. Brogan was at the table, looking at a sheaf of wet papers. Nik didn’t want to move but an involuntary whimper escaped anyway, and Brogan looked up. Nik flinched and avoided his gaze.

“You just don’t care how much I hurt you, do you?” Brogan said. “Too proud to stoop to help a poor old woman. I’m almost impressed, you bastard. I’ve seen better men than you break sooner.”

I am broken, you lunatic. Nik would not have spoken even if he could have. Nothing he’d said so far had done anything but provoke the madman. Fresh tears leaked from reddened eyes: even without new torture his hands felt as if they were on fire.

“Well,” Brogan said, “we’ll see how it is when it’s someone you care about who’s suffering.”

Nik stared at him. No. No, you can’t have – no one else would have walked into the arms of your bully boys like I did—

The torturer gave him a black grin, and slapped the wet pages against the table. “Oh yes. We’ll see how long you last when it’s your pretty little betrothed begging for mercy.”

Her contract. It was in the pocket of my coat…Nik closed his eyes as Brogan rose and strode from the room.

---

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The captain’s mind clung to the demon, resisting treatment. He jerked his knife backwards and cut the gag free at the same time that he yanked his other hand out of contact. “None of your tricks now!” He pointed the tip of the knife at Nik’s face.

I am dealing with a madman who does not want to be cured. Nik shivered violently. “What tricks? What do you want of me?” he asked, voice hoarse and shaken.

Another grim smile. “Same thing I’ve wanted all along, m’lord.” The door opened, and the demon-ridden man turned to it. “Thank you, Crit.” He took a woman’s arm and guided her into the room. She was middle-aged, with similar features to the captain. Her eyes were vacant, gait a clumsy shuffle. “I want you to heal my mother.”

Nik’s stomach sank as recalled them both now. They’d come to petition a few weeks ago: the woman was unresponsive but was not demon-ridden and had no deformities in her mind that Nik could detect. Her son had threatened him then too, but Anthser had intervened before it came to blows. “Sir, the reason I did not heal your mother is that I cannot.” What was their surname? Brock? So many petitioners since then.

“I don’t think you understand your position here, m’lord.” The captain’s thin brows drew down. “You will heal my mother. No warcat is going to turn us out now, and I don’t care how much time it takes or what you expect to be paid. You will cure her.”

“It is not a question of time or money, sir. I cannot diagnose her. I cannot heal her.”

The curly-haired man released his mother’s arm and stepped forward to strike Nik with the back of his hand. “You lie!” he snarled. “You are the best! I know you can do it and you will!” Even as Nik reeled, whimpering, he tried to cast out the demon again at the contact, and felt the Savior’s sorrow at being refused. The captain shook his hand as if it stung. “What are you trying to do to me?”

Nik hunched his shoulders against another assault. “Mr. Brock, you are not in your right mind. You’re possessed by a demon. You must allow the Savior to cast it out.”

“Brogan.” The captain took a step back, reaching into his pockets for thick gloves. “My name is Brogan, and I am not the one who needs healing. Look at my mother!” He grabbed Nik by the hair with one gloved hand, hauling his head about to force him to look at the woman. “Look at her! Are you trying to convince me she doesn’t need help? Do you think I’m stupid?”

Tears stung at Nik’s eyes and he hated the whimper that escaped as he tilted his head further to ease the tug on his hair. “I am not saying she doesn’t, but I can’t—”

“Shut up! Shut up!” He moved to hit Nik again and this time Nik raised his bound hands in time to deflect the blow.

“Don’t hit me!” Nik yelled back, wishing he sounded angry and not pitiful, begging, trembling with fear. “I’ll try, all right? Let me try again with her. Please don’t hit me.”

Brogan grunted and released his hair. Nik swallowed, still shaking. I can’t. I know I can’t. What is he going to do to me when she’s not healed? Brogan led his sleepwalking mother closer. Nik licked dry lips. “I need to touch her face to mine. I can see her mind best that way.” His captor pulled another chair adjacent to Nik’s and sat her in it. Awkwardly, Nik leaned over to rest his forehead against hers. Her mind was much as he remembered it: he’d spent several minutes studying it the last time. It’s not that I didn’t try. I tried. Looking again isn’t going to change what I see, and everything is…fine.

Minds were astonishingly complex and varied, and it was all but impossible to learn what was wrong with a defective mind without guidance of some kind. Most of what he’d learned about non-demonic problems had been from either his great-grandmother, who had shown him what to do on her petitioners, or from her grandfather’s papers. The rest had been from observation of healthy minds: studying all the ways a particular mindshape might look when functioning properly helped in recognizing when it wasn’t. On rare occasions, re-examination of those he could not quickly diagnose let him see a problem he had missed, but it had never, not once, taught him to identify a new cause of dysfunction.

Maybe this time would be different. Or maybe it was something he’d missed.

Nikola subjected her mind to the kind of scrutiny he reserved for study, the kind he’d given to his great-grandmother when she was teaching him to identify various mental structures and how they interacted. He’d examined perhaps a dozen volunteers – greatcats, family members, Fireholt subjects – this closely. He mapped the shapes of Mrs. Brogan’s mind now, outlining each part, the borders of different emotions, types of memories, connective webs, the texture, color, shape, feel of each piece. The last time, he’d focused on motor control and the centers that controlled sleep and dream states. He intensified that search, looking for any granule that might be an irritant, any hint of wrinkling that might indicate dysfunction, anything at all.

Nothing.

He invoked the Savior anyway, to wash over the seemingly undamaged mindshapes, and felt his god’s too-familiar sorrow, unable to help. Nik moved to the other parts of the mind, though he could imagine no way a defect in hatred or love or compassion could cause her condition. He examined slowly and thoroughly, aware that he was stalling, aware there was nothing he could do but stall.

About halfway through this examination, Brogan hit Nik, knocking him out of the trance. “What are you doing?” Brogan snarled. “Why haven’t you cured her yet?”

“I am looking for the problem, you imbecile!” Nikola yelled back, and received another blow for it.

“I don’t believe you.” Brogan glared at him, eyes narrowed.

“Demons and angels! What possible reason would I have to lie?”    

Brogan flexed his fingers. “Reputation. You don’t want anyone to find out you’ve been turning away petitioners you could cure out of greed. I won’t tell a soul, I swear. I just want my mother back.”

Nikola stared at him. “Sir, you are not in your right mind. There’s a demon—”

“SHUT UP!” Brogan punched him again and Nik cringed, whimpering. “Stop lying! Stop wasting my time! I know what your problem is – you’re just not motivated yet.”

Nik swallowed against mounting terror. He’s insane and I can’t cure him because he doesn’t trust me and I can’t make him trust me because he’s insane and oh Savior he’s going to kill me because I can’t—   

Brogan turned away, moving out of sight behind him. Nik twisted as much as he could while secured to the chair, trying to project calm, willing it to be contagious. “It’s not a matter of motivation, Mr. Brogan. I am doing everything in my power—” which is nothing there’s nothing I can do Savior help me “—please let me—”

From behind, Brogan struck the back of Nik’s head with something hard. “Don’t lie to me! If you were doing ‘everything in your power’ she’d be cured now!”

Dazed, Nik said thickly, “I need time—”

“Shut UP!” Brogan forced another gag into Nik’s mouth. “I don’t need to hear your excuses! I don’t need anything from you except for you to cure my mother, and you needn’t talk for that.” He knotted the ends of the gag behind Nik’s head then circled around to his front. He dropped a leather roll onto the tabletop nearby – something inside it clinked – and grabbed Nik’s bound hands to tie his left wrist to the arm of the chair. Panicking, Nik struggled. He nearly toppled the chair he was secured to but Brogan just backhanded him until Nik was too dizzy to resist. Then his captor finished tying down his left arm, cut apart the rope holding his wrists to each other, and tied down his right. His feet remained bound to the legs of the chair. Brogan removed Nik’s gloves next, then tilted Nik so that the side of the lord’s head touched the cheek of the unresponsive woman in the chair beside him. “This stops,” he told Nik, “when she’s better. Not before.”

Nik tried to focus on the woman’s mind again, but his heart was hammering, eyes tracking Brogan as the man unrolled the leather wrap he’d set on the table. It was a toolholder, little pockets holding an array of metal implements, from long thin needles to slim metal picks, pliers, tongs. Brogan fetched a pot and filled it with glowing coals from the stove. He pulled several needles and a pair of pliers from the toolkit, and dropped them into the pot.

Brogan positioned a chair before Nik and sat, splaying Nik’s shaking fingers and eyeing them with a clinical detachment. “Cure her, Blessed,” he growled.

Nik choked around the gag, struggling to breathe. If he could have willed himself to faint, he would have. Savior oh Savior please – eyes squeezed shut, Nik scanned desperately over Mrs. Brogan’s mind – how can he do this in front of her, Savior, unresponsive is not the same as unaware – praying for some new insight, invoking his god anyway, feeling the Savior’s grief mingle with his own despair.

Brogan used the toolkit’s small tongs to pluck a needle from the brazier. Nik could feel heat radiating from it, Brogan’s hand forcing his fingers straight when he tried to fist them, the shocking, excruciating pain as the searing needletip bit into his finger just under the nail.    

The only thing that stopped him from screaming was the gag.

---

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Nik lost track of time as well as distance while the cart rolled along. His captors spoke little aside from directions like “Stop” or “Wait” or “Left here” from Knife-man. Uncomfortable and frightened, Nik alternated between uselessly rehashing every mistake that had led to him to this predicament – not waking Meredith to take him back, letting Anthser have the night off, not telling the footman to find a coach-for-hire for him, not taking the glass coach back to Anverlee Manor – and speculating just as uselessly about where he was going and what these men wanted of him. Whenever he heard the sounds of a carriage or other voices, he considered making a commotion to draw attention to his plight. The sting of the cut on his cheek and Knife-man’s threat deterred him. Miserable coward.

After an unknown interval, he heard the susurration of waves in the near distance. We’re by the harbor? The clatter of cart wheels over stone changed to the quieter but less even rhythm of crossing wooden planking. They’re taking me out of Newlant? Savior, what if they’re not planning to ransom me at all? Maybe they mean to sell me to some foreign king as his pet mind-healer. Saints, no, I can’t let them take me out of the country. I have to get away. The sack over his head wasn’t tied in place; by pressing his cheek against the bottom of the cart and wriggling, he worked free of it. He shifted position, trying to minimize the noise as he got into a posture where he’d be able to rise quickly. His mind recited a litany of terror: This won’t work, I’ll get myself killed, I can’t stand fast enough, they outnumber me, these curst dress shoes are not meant for running, how far can I get with my hands tied, oh Savior I don’t want to die.

But above all was a mortal certainty that if his captors took him from Newlant, he’d never see anyone he loved again. I have to try.    

The cart rolled to a stop. He heard one of his captors call out a hallo. A new voice answered from some distance. “Any trouble with the job?”

“Nope, all clear.” Footsteps moved away from the cart.

Now. Nikola surged upwards, staggering as he threw off the tarp. Even without the sack, he might as well have been blind: no light on the dock save the directed beam of a shuttered lantern, which swung towards him as the holder yelped. “Hey!”

Nikola jumped the side of the cart, landed awkwardly, and ran in what he hoped was the direction they’d come and not, say, off the pier and into the water. The sound of feet behind him spurred him to greater speed despite his bound hands. One captor cursed as he made a lunge for Nik and missed, but Nik’s triumph was short-lived as another man tackled him to the dock. He struck the wooden planking face-first with a cry muffled by the gag, unable to use his hands to break his fall. Knife-man yanked Nik’s head back by his ponytail, bodyweight pinning him to the dock. “Bad move, yer highness. Shame. Been doing so well. C’mon.” Knife-man stood and hauled Nik upward by his hair; Nik scrambled to get his feet under him, teeth gritted around the gag and whimpering.

Nik complied as Knife-man steered him to the boat, but made another attempt to escape as they lowered him into it, kicking and writhing in their arms as a man in the boat grabbed his legs. Taken off guard, his captors dropped him into the water. The weight of his Ascension finery dragged him down; Nik kicked frantically for the surface. He was almost grateful when strong hands from the boat seized his collar and shoulders and hauled him into it. Saltwater stung his cut cheek.

“Feisty, is he?” the newcomer remarked.

“Must be you, Brick. Was sweet as a lamb ’til ’e heard your voice.” Knife-man kicked Nik into a prone position on the floor of the rowboat. “Just row, will ya?”

Three of his captors manned oars on the boat and rowed. Knife-man watched Nik for the first few strokes, then aimed an impersonal kick at the small of his back. “Jus’ makin’ it harder on yerself, yer highness. Gonna stay put this time?” Nik nodded, face screwed up against the pain, half-drowned and hopeless.

Knife-man manned an oar then. In the dark still night, they rowed for the distant pinpricks of lantern-light from a ship moored out in the bay.

Before they were a quarter of the way there, Nik was shivering violently and blue with cold, only the gag keeping his teeth from chattering. His captors had a brief argument over his state, which Knife-man ended with: “Need ’im alive. Which there ain’t no point to havin’ taken ’im if ’e up and dies of exposure. Get ’im out of those clothes and give ’im your coat, Red.”

“Why my coat?” a thickset man whined.

“On account of I said so. Shut yer yap or ’e gets yer trousers too.” Knife-man cut Nik’s bonds. “Ya hop outta this boat, yer majesty, and I’m gonna let ya drown this time, got it?” Nik nodded. He knew how to swim, but suspected the cold would kill him before he could make it to shore and shelter, even if his captors didn’t grab him again. He needed no encouragement to strip out of his icy soaked clothing and hunker inside Red’s coat. Knife-man re-tied his hands, in front this time, and put the sack over his head again.

When they reached the ship, they used a sling of canvas and rope to raise Nik into it. Brick said, “As I’ll tell the captain”, and two sets of footsteps departed. The remaining three led a shivering Nik across the deck and handed him below through a hatch. After a dozen paces and a turning, Knife-man pushed Nik into a cushioned wooden chair and tied his feet to the chair legs.

Nik hadn’t heard the sounds of anyone else aboard so far. Shouldn’t there be more? Could the rest be asleep? He knew little of ships, but had a vague idea that a vessel large enough to have multiple decks required a sizable crew, with sailors up at all hours. Perhaps not when moored? Perhaps they were on holiday for Ascension, like so much of Newlant.

“Can I’s have my coat back?” Red asked.

“No. Set a fire.” Knife-man said.

Nik’s mouth was dry and his throat ached from choking on seawater earlier. He tried to moisten his tongue, wishing they’d take off the cursed gag even more than he wanted to drink. He tried to muster some outrage to combat the sick sense of fear that made him tremble almost as much as the cold. He was still wet under the coat, his long ponytail dripping cold saltwater down his back. Though warmer than the frigid winter night outside, the cabin was still chilly. Nik turned his head and started to lift his bound hands.

Knife-man snapped, “And what do ya think yer doin’, yer majesty?”    

Nik rolled his eyes beneath the hood. Ungag me and I’ll tell you, cretin. Moving slowly to show he planned no surprises, Nik brought his tied hands to the back of his neck.

“Hoy! Don’t ya be tryin’ ta get that hood off, boy. What’re ya thinkin’? Answer me!” Knife-man’s voice moved closer. Nik cringed, spreading his fingers in the most placating gesture he could manage.    

“’E’s gagged, Crit. ’E can’t answer,” Red commented, mercifully.

“…I knew that. D’ya think I’m stupid? What’s the matter with ya? Get that fire goin’!”

With the man no longer yelling at him, Nik clawed the ribbon from his hair with numb fingers, leaving the hood in place but separating strands of hair so it’d eventually dry and be less cold.

Red finished lighting the stove. Footsteps sounded outside the cabin door and Nik’s captors rose. At the opening of the door, the bully-boys murmured, “Cap’n” in respectful tones.

“This is him?” a new voice asked, dubious.

“Which as it is, sir. As there was a mishap what ended with him sopping, we shifted ’im outta ’is fancy clothes. But got ’im coming out of that big fancy house o’ his. Caught ’im all alone, sir, so’s we didn’t need the catsbane neither.”

Catsbane? Nik hadn’t heard of that before.

“Mph. Good enough. Dismissed.” Feet shuffled out the door, but the captain must have signaled for Knife-man-Crit to lag behind, because a moment later he muttered, “Bring her up, Crit.” Crit assented and left.

The new man pulled the hood off of Nik. A single lantern and the faint glow from the stove illuminated a cabin furnished as combination dining room and study. The captain was better-dressed than his men, clothing unpatched and a warm ivywool frockcoat left open in the growing warmth of the cabin. He had curly brown hair and a narrow face with a pointed chin, looking young to be in charge of a ship. The man’s mouth twisted in a grimace of a smile. “Hello again, Lord Nikola. Want that gag off?”

Again? Nikola nodded, trying to place the man’s face.

“All right. I didn’t want to do it this way, you know. Tried doing it your way, but you wouldn’t oblige.” The man slid the blade of a knife under the gag to cut it off, and Nik winced involuntarily. His captor steadied Nik’s head with a hand on his hair. Savior! Nik reflexively reached for his god as he saw the man’s mind:

Demon-ridden.

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Justin had not meant to do more than kiss Wisteria; certainly not to undress her less than twenty minutes from her home. But she had been so much more encouraging than he’d anticipated that he had let impulse get the better of him.

He had been hyperalert, concerned that her neutral expression and few nonverbal cues would make it difficult to take the proper measure of her interest. In the event, it had been obvious: she was no passive fainting creature, merely allowing him his way, but an active participant who stripped him with a flattering eagerness, as ready to caress and kiss as to be touched. Her enthusiasm had been unmistakable.

As unmistakable as the moment when it ended. As those flat words: “I hate this.” Which proved as effective an antiaphrodiasic as any icy plunge, unpleasant in the moment and surprisingly painful in recollection. Had he misjudged her earlier interest? What else could have been signified by her eager touch, her passionate embrace? What had he done to make her hate the experience? Was it specific to him or something about the act itself?

Let it go. You pushed beyond what she would accept, you stopped, done. Forget it.

But despite his success in smoothing over the awkwardness with her, his mind continued to pursue the question. Why had she said she was sorry? What could she have been sorry about? Why not demand an apology of him? He was the man, the instigator. Why wasn’t she angry? Was she angry? He studied her sidelong in a vain effort to gauge her mood. Her expression was exactly the same as on the dance floor, or at the poker table, or even while he cupped her bare breasts. A total cipher. You are not going to read the answer in her eyes or manner. If you want to know, now or ever, you will have to ask.

Everything in him rebelled against asking. To speak of such actions was a greater breach of etiquette than to commit them, especially after such an unequivocal rebuff.

“I hate this.”

Curse it all. “Forgive my impertinence, Miss Vasilver, but I must ask – when you said you hate this—”

Wisteria interrupted him before he could finish, though her gaze remained fixed on the carriage seat opposite. “Oh, my lord, I did not mean you, or what we were doing,” she answered at once. “I was thinking of the greater society, of the unwritten rules that dictate something so wonderful and desirable is also forbidden. That I am wrong for wanting your attentions and worse for permitting them. I hate that I am a whore if I do not object and I hate that I objected, if that makes any sense. I wish I could just be normal, or failing that, embrace my abnormality and be indifferent to all expectation. I am so very sorry to have led you on as I did.”

The intensity of Justin’s relief surprised him, heart gladdened by the assurance that she did want him. It took him a moment to marshal his thoughts and reply. He took her hand politely, like the gentleman he so often pretended to be. “Miss Vasilver, I will allow no one of my acquaintance to employ such an epithet as that against you, and that includes you yourself. I must insist you retract the slur at once.”

Wisteria still wasn’t looking at him, but she tilted her head to cant her ear to his voice. “Or what? Will you pout at me again?”

“Were you a man, I would be forced to challenge you to a duel for your honor. As you are not, I must consider what options are available to me. I hope you will not force me on this.”

“I must note that, technically, I did not ascribe it to myself but merely noted that there were possible conditions that would make it truth.”

“Weasel words; the insinuation remains unacceptable and moreover—” Justin lifted one hand to her chin and turned her face gently to meet his gaze “—untrue. There are no possible conditions, no actions you might take or refrain from taking, which would make you anything less than a gentlewoman in my eyes. My dear, I ask you again: withdraw the remark.”

She regarded him with pale brown eyes, beautiful, unreadable, the skin under his fingers smooth and soft, unwrinkled by expression. “I rescind it. I intended no offence to you, my lord.”

“Thank you, my dear.” Justin dropped his hand before his thumb could wander to trace her lower lip. The urge to kiss her again nearly overwhelmed him. Just one little kiss – no. Down, boy. “And, indeed, the problem is that you intended no offense to me. Had you insulted me I could have laughed it off, a matter of no consequence. But an insult to my friend Miss Wisteria Vasilver: that I cannot overlook. I hope you appreciate the distinction.”

Her eyelids drooped, lending her features a sensual cast. Knowing her, an unintended one. “I do appreciate it, my lord. Very much indeed.”

Justin caressed her knuckles; holding her hand had seemed harmless at the time he took it, but now he was less certain. Down, boy “Newlant is stuffed full of narrow-minded busybodies, Miss Vasilver, a fact beyond your power or mine to change. But I do not care for anyone who would demean my friends or soil their reputations with foul accusations, particularly about something so harmless as one’s very private and personal desires. I imagine that unfortunate souls blessed with fewer privileges than myself, without title or wealth or the right to issue a challenge, may find they must tolerate such gross wrongs. But happily, I need not.”

“But what if the accusations are true?”

He gave her a significant look. “A true accusation? That is even more intolerable. I would never sit by while my friends were dragged through the muck by the truth.”

“Not even if the truth was, let us say, that he had defrauded your company through a series of corrupt loans funding nonexistent capital improvements?”

Justin raised an eyebrow. “A man such as that I need not consider my friend. Now, my dear, I apologize: it is too late an hour for me to attempt this fencing with words. Let me try speaking plainly instead, and forgive my lack of polish at it: I so rarely do. I do not think you are ‘all wrong’ or even wrong at all. Normal people are a myth: I have never met one, only a great many of us gifted at pretending we are. I am glad you are not one, for it would mean you did not exist and I should be very sorry if that were the case. Furthermore—” Justin crossed his eyes, trying to recall what other points he had wanted to make and failing. Ten years ago he would have thought ‘screw this, let’s screw’ and tried to overcome her objections. But he could get a lay anywhere, and people he truly liked – not just ‘was entertained by’ or ‘found amusing’ or ‘had a use for’, but those who held his attention with their ideas and conversation – well, those were far fewer. “…furthermore, I have had a delightful evening, so thank you. And I must remember to thank Lord Nikola for abandoning you as soon as I get the chance. And do not fret for my discretion, not least because nothing happened but also because if I said anything to impugn your honor I would be forced to challenge myself to defend it and where would we be then?”

Wisteria tilted her head at him, the red jewels still studding her black hair glittering in the lantern light. “You truly do not have much practice at speaking plainly, do you?”

“None at all. Terribly sorry.”

“I forgive you. Would it be very awful of me to want another kiss? Just a kiss and nothing more?”

“It would not be awful of you at all,” Justin said, and kissed her.    

He was still holding her – chastely, and proud of himself for that fact – when the carriage slowed as they neared Vasilver’s drive. The lead greatcat announced their approach, and Justin reluctantly released her. He checked them both over to make sure all was in order: becoming tendrils of hair had escaped from her elaborate style, but that had begun when she was doing no more than dancing and should not excite comment at this hour. The sophisticated fabric of her gown had resisted wrinkling despite the treatment it had received. Her calm expression betrayed nothing, and he trusted his own would do the same. He escorted her to the door and left her in the capable hands of Vasilver’s night footman.

As his carriage bore him to his own home, it struck Justin that all those improper things he’d wished to do with Wisteria would be legal – well, with certain exceptions and no one cared about those laws – had they been married. It was a thought he’d rarely had, first because he’d long ago stopped caring about a certain subset of laws and second because marriage had never been an option before. But it is here. Isn’t that interesting?

I wonder if it would be so bad?

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Wisteria shouldn’t have been surprised when he kissed her, but she was anyway. Oh. That’s how you do it without asking first. It did feel natural, as if the logical consequence of bantering was of course kissing. What a splendid result. It was different than with Lord Nikola: Lord Comfrey was more assured, firmer, and tasted of wine instead of champagne. Of course they would both taste intoxicating. She closed her eyes and drank him in, lightheaded, eager; her hand slid of its own accord from his cheek to cradle the back of his neck. His arms enfolded her, one around her shoulder and the other her lower back, kissing hungrily, nibbling at her lower lip, kissing the corner of her mouth. She was dizzy with desire as his lips pressed against her jawline. He shifted, moving her as if she weighed no more than a doll, laying her back against the seat with himself on top, one leg braced to support some of his weight. One of his hands was at the nape of her neck, deftly undoing the tiny buttons. This struck her as a fine idea, as she was suddenly much too warm. He must be too warm, too: she ought to help him with that jacket. This was difficult, since she had her head tilted up so he could kiss the underside of her chin. But he paused when she tried to worm her hands between them, then he lifted away enough that she could start unfastening the buttons. Lord Comfrey’s expression turned from sober to smiling, chuckling as he drew the jacket off and tossed it to the bench opposite them.

“Let me help you with that, my dear,” he murmured, rolling her over to unfasten the buttons down her back. For each loosed button, he pressed a kiss in its place, pushing aside the cloth to caress the soft exposed skin of her back.

She arched into his touch, not sure if she wanted him to hurry or stop or continue at exactly this pace. Her behavior was immoral, she knew, but her mind was much too incoherent to marshal the willpower to stop him as he unlaced her underclothes. His caress felt better than silk against her shoulders, hands easing the sleeves from her arms. She turned over to help him, then a shred of modesty made her catch up the cloth and hold it to her exposed chest. “It’s not fair.” Holding the front of her gown to her chest with one hand, she sat up, reaching for him with the other.

Lord Comfrey had dropped his hands when she held her gown up, and he perched sideways next to her as her legs were stretched out on the seat. “What isn’t, my dear?”

“You’re still all dressed.” Wisteria fumbled one-handed at his waistcoat.

He laughed again and helped her with the buttons, opening shirt and waistcoat for her. She’d seen bare-chested men before, sailors on her brother’s ship, but Lord Comfrey was different, as muscular as the largest of them but with unmarred skin, smooth and rich golden-brown by the light of the carriage’s lantern, dusted in dark curly hairs. “Better?” he asked.

“Some.” Wisteria tried to push the shirt and waistcoat off one-handed, and he helped her again by removing the garments and sending them to join his jacket on the opposite bench. She let the top of her gown pool around her waist as she ran both hands over his chest. It was nothing like she’d imagined, muscles firm but not unyielding, skin velvety, warm, inviting. She curled a few of the chest hairs around a finger: not so soft as his hair but not as wiry as beard hairs either. “You feel wonderful.”

He ran his hands down her bare sides, then back up to cup her breasts. “As do you, my dear.” His thumbs brushed over her nipples and she gasped with the intensity of the sensation, aching with need. At her sound, he shifted to kiss her, pulling her hard against his chest and then laying her back against the seat again. She writhed under him for the pleasure of feeling his bare skin against her, hands stroking his back. His hips rubbed against hers and she arched into him instinctively, wanting so much to feel more. He shifted lower, kissing her throat, her collarbone, mouth engulfing one breast. She whimpered again, and he covered her mouth with his hand to muffle the sound. “Shhhh,” he said, breath cool against her damp skin. He shifted some of his weight from her and tugged her gown down her hips.

Abruptly, the situation became more real. A refrain of I shouldn’t be doing this whispered in her mind, alongside whore and slattern and other designations she was no longer sure she wanted to accept as the price for her choices. Is this what I want? Well, yes, but ought I want it? Her hands fell away from Lord Comfrey’s back, fear spiking through her. You already invited this, you cannot stop him now. It was almost a relief, not to be responsible any more.

But he did stop, a few moments later, with her clothes still half-on. He scooted high enough to look into her eyes, brushing a few wisps of hair from her face. “Is something amiss, my dear?”

Everything. She could hardly breathe, never mind explain. “I hate this – I’m sorry, I shouldn’t – I – I am all wrong, please, I—” Wisteria tried to pull up her clothing, to put herself back into the same stupid safe facade she’d worn for so many years.

“Shhh.” He kissed her lips, lightly, and then her forehead. “It’s all right.” For a moment she was half-afraid and half-hoping that he wouldn’t let her withdraw, that he would continue anyway. But then Lord Comfrey shifted his weight from her to perch at the edge of the seat once more. She sat up, wriggling back into her clothing, putting her arms through the sleeves. “Let me help you.” He stood so she could put her feet down, then turned her back to him. With a gentleness at odds with his earlier passion, he laced her underbodice back together, smoothed the straps, and buttoned the gown over it. Then he put his own clothes back on with smooth professional care, as if he dressed in carriages without the aid of a valet every day. “Better?” he asked, shrugging into his jacket and pulling his long hair free from the collar.

Wisteria nodded, ashamed of herself. “I’m sorry, my lord. I did not mean to—”

Lord Comfrey laid a finger across her lips, as Lord Nikola had, and she felt worse. “This was not at all my intention when I offered you a ride, but I have no regrets, my dear. I forbid you to have any either.”    

“You forbid me?”

“Indeed. This carriage, I will have you know, acts an extension of Comfrey’s demesne; I am therefore lord here. As viscount of Comfrey, I thereby insist that you regret nothing.”

She tilted her head at him. “Is it in truth?”

“No, but I am going to make this irrational and baseless demand anyway. I hope you will be so good as to humor me.”

“…and if I do not?”

“You leave me no choice. I will be forced to pout at you.”

“Pouting does not work on me, my lord.”

“Does it not?” Lord Comfrey gave the most exaggerated, comical pout she’d ever seen: outthrust lower lip, dipped chin, wide puppy eyes peering at her from beneath arched eyebrows. Even she could tell his pout was insincere. She would have wagered it was less convincing than her own smiles.

“…I yield, my lord. I will not regret, I promise.”

“Splendid.” His expression cleared, smile returning to narrow lips. Wisteria suspected her promise would be easier spoken than kept, but in the moment, with Lord Comfrey beside her and his manner so ordinary and kind, her heart was at ease.

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