As they reached the last stretch of the path to Quona’s house, the Estillan envoy appeared before them, crunching through the light covering of snow.
His face brightened at the sight of them, with a cheerfulness that didn’t quite match the touch of sarcasm in his voice. “Good night to you, Giddon,” he said. “Good night, Hava.”
“Good night, Cobal,” said Giddon. “Have you had a nice visit with Quona?”
“Always,” said Cobal, continuing past them toward the Cliff Farm.
“Why are those two so chummy?” asked Hava in a low voice.
“Poodles, supposedly,” said Giddon.
“What?”
“A kind of dog.”
“Right.”
As they stepped into Quona’s foyer, Quona, who was ascending the steps to the second floor, turned to greet them.
“Welcome home,” she said. “Was it a nice party?”
“Very,” said Giddon. “We just met the Estillan envoy on the path.”
“I invited him to dinner,” said Quona. “He loves my cats. I want to hear all about your party, but I’m so tired, I’m dropping. We’ll talk at breakfast.”
But when Quona joined them for breakfast the next morning, Saturday, she seemed to have forgotten her curiosity, along with her manners. Barely acknowledging them, she sat, then pulled a cat into her lap, which she didn’t usually do at meals. She began to eat with bleary distraction.
“Did you sleep well?” asked Giddon.
“Terribly, I’m afraid,” she admitted. “I’m going north again today, so please make yourselves comfortable. My staff will see that you’re well taken care of.”
Though Hava said nothing, Giddon could feel the change in her energy. Today they would get into that attic room.
* * *
—
Hava had memorized the schedules of Quona’s staff members, but still, she made Giddon stand lookout in the sitting room below while she worked in the attic with the lock picks.
“If anyone comes by, look noble and innocent, then have a loud coughing fit,” she said.
The only person who came by was that pale gray cat, who tugged at Giddon’s heart by jumping into his lap and cuddling against him in a way that reminded him of sitting with Bitterblue and Lovejoy in his big chair at home. She was soft and warm. “I still don’t know your name,” Giddon said.
Above him, Hava tapped on the floor—his ceiling—three times, which was his signal to come upstairs.
* * *
—
He found her standing triumphantly inside the small room.
“Good work,” he said.
Aside from a large desk and its chair, the room was empty, uncarpeted. The walls and floor were built of wood, finished but unadorned. It looked like a tiny, stark office. Hava was leaning over the desk under a single, high window.
“No foxes?” he said. “Or severed heads or sacks of money?”
“Just a desk with a million drawers,” said Hava, who was pulling on each drawer, peering inside. “Containing millions of papers.” When she got to a locked drawer, she pursed her lips in interest. “This would be a useful time to have Trina’s Grace,” she muttered.
“Except we don’t know what we’re looking for,” said Giddon. “Can you pick it?”
“The lock is very small,” she said, “but I guess I’ll have to try.”
It took her a long time, much longer than the door had done. While she worked delicately with her smallest lock picks, Giddon lit the lamp on the desk and began to look more closely at the papers in the drawers.
“Records of airship sales,” he reported. “Records of—” He paused, then raised a paper closer to the light. “Hava,” he said, “do you think it’s odd that Quona should have letters written to people who aren’t her?”
“Like who?” said Hava.
“Like Ada Balava,” he said. “Do you remember that name? She’s one of the importers who was cheating Bitterblue out of zilfium. In fact,” he said, skimming the page before him, “this seems to be a letter on that very topic.” He read aloud in Keepish. “‘You’ll find the queen to be selling her rock detritus at an advantageous price, to put it mildly. We suspect this price will last only as long as the queen’s ignorance, so we should buy now while we can.’ It’s from Ada Balava’s director of foreign operations.”
“Weaselbugger,” muttered Hava. Then there was a click and she made a satisfied noise. Sliding the drawer open, she began to rifle through it.
Suddenly, she cried out, “Giddon!”
“What?”
She was flipping through a small notebook. “Are these the scientific formulas for varane?”
“I’m not much of a scientist,” said Giddon, looking over her shoulder.
“‘Proprietary property of Minta Varana’!” Hava cried, speaking the words in Keepish. “‘Varane’! It says it right here! Oh,” she said, grabbing her own hair. “I’m so stupid. I should’ve guessed this. Look, the cover of this notebook has little dents in the edges!”
“Dents?” said Giddon in bewilderment.
“Tooth dents!” she said. “Her secret foxes steal this stuff for her!”
“Well, this is unexpected,” said a voice behind them. “Isn’t it, my darlings?”
* * *
—
In the doorway, Quona stood watching them with an aspect of absolute amazement.
She wore a long, white fur coat, cold radiated from her body, and blue foxes were perched all over her person. One balanced on her shoulder. Two peered curiously out of her hood. One watched Giddon and Hava from her pocket, and two more stood on the floor at her feet.
“Where’s the seventh?” said Hava, staring back at her coldly. An instant later, the seventh fox trotted into the room, shining golden eyes up at them.
“Aren’t you clever, Hava,” said Quona, sounding like she meant it.
“Why are you back?” demanded Hava.
“I changed my mind,” said Quona simply.
“Or you lied,” said Hava, “so you could catch us snooping.”
“Indeed,” said Quona, with a warmth to her voice that almost sounded like laughter, “I would never have known to try to catch you snooping. You’ve taken me entirely by surprise. How did you guess?”