“As I mentioned,” Phelan said, breaking my thoughts and handing me a leather satchel to pack my things. I carefully slid the book of nightmares within it. “I’ll be gone until dark. But you are more than welcome to remain here and have dinner with Deacon and Mrs. Stirling. In fact, she will probably be offended if you don’t.”
I smiled. “Then I’ll plan to have dinner here.” I buckled the satchel and slid its worn strap over my shoulder.
“Very good. I should go now, but perhaps tomorrow I can teach you how to divine a dream?” he asked.
I nodded, and we went our separate ways.
The duke was waiting for me in his drawing room. The chamber was wide and brightly lit. The walls were wainscoted, and thankfully no mirrors were present for me to sidestep around. Spires of golden candelabras were positioned behind couches and chairs. The hearth was cut from blue-veined marble, crackling with a slow-burning fire. Tasseled curtains framed the tall windows, which overlooked the front garden and the street. Busts of heroes sat in corners, and a small olive tree grew in a pot before one of the south-facing windows.
I paused to soak in the grandeur. And I smelled the duke before I saw him; there was a strange scent in the air, like rotting parchment, followed by the sweetness of bergamot.
“You must be Anna Neven,” he said.
I startled and spun to face him. My old etiquette training surged, and I dropped a proper curtsy, although the weight of the satchel made me look clumsy.
“It’s an honor to meet you, Lord Deryn.”
“Enough with formalities,” the duke said with a smile. The sunlight gleamed on his perfect teeth. “I am the one who is honored to meet you today. Phelan is destined to become one of the greatest magicians in Endellion, and I am pleased to know that he has found a good match.”
Destined to be the greatest, was he?
“Come, join me at the table,” Lord Deryn said, ushering me across the room to a round card table. A tea platter was set out for us, with ginger biscuits and small sandwiches.
I sat and carefully arranged the book of nightmares on the table while the duke poured us both a steaming cup of tea. He looked to be my father’s age, his hair an ashy shade of brown and trimmed short. The silver in his beard caught the sunlight, as did the trio of emerald rings on his slender fingers. He was dressed in black and gold, and beneath the brief flutter of his jacket, I thought I saw a small dagger sheathed at his side. But perhaps I was mistaken.
“Have you always been a resident of Endellion, Miss Neven?” he asked.
I took the teacup he offered and busied myself with adding cream and sugar. But my palms were perspiring. Lying to Phelan was not difficult, due to our history. Lying to Nura and Olivette was harder because I liked them, as was deceiving little Deacon. But lying to the Duke of Bardyllis’s face? I was weaving a dangerous web, one that might catch me. “I have, Your Grace. My mother was a seamstress in the west quarter.”
“Oh? Where, exactly?” he asked, settling into his chair across from me. He took note of my garments, which made me stiffen. “I am always on the hunt for a good tailor.”
I swallowed a scalding sip of tea. My toes curled in my boots, and I commanded myself to hold it together, to spin the lie. “My mother passed away this past spring, Your Grace. Or else I’m sure she would be honored to work for you. She was of the lower class and was not employed in one shop alone but drifted to wherever she could find work.”
“I see,” he said, and I thought he was studying me far too intently. “That is unfortunate. And your father? Was he the one to teach you magic?”
“I never knew my father. My mother was a magician and she taught me everything I know.”
“You must have been very close to her.”
I nodded and dropped my eyes to my tea. To my relief, Lord Deryn ceased asking me any further personal questions, and I prepared to record his dream.
“This nightmare occurred last night, Your Grace?” I asked, opening my ink and scrawling the date, his name, and his address on a fresh page.
“It did,” he said, crossing his legs and lacing his fingers together over one knee. “The dream begins in the red room of the mansion. It is spring at midday; the sunlight is pouring in through the windows, and pots of flowers and green vines are flourishing in the chamber, and I realize my brother is standing among the foliage.” He paused to give me time to catch all his words on paper.
“Do you dream of your late brother often, Your Grace?” I gently asked, thinking of the duke’s older brother, who had died years ago.
“I do,” he replied softly, as if the memory still ached. “Returning to the dream . . . he asks me to walk the streets with him, because he is weary of meetings and councils and being trapped indoors. I agree, and suddenly the room melts away and we are walking Verdaner Street toward the open air market. That is when I sense something is wrong. There are too many people, too many noises, too much movement. I tell Charles we should return to the mansion, but he is intent on something ahead of us, something I cannot see. I lose sight of him, but then the crowd opens up. I push my way through to step within the empty space, only to find my brother’s neck cut open, and he’s lying on the stones, bleeding out.”
I wrote every word, the quill’s nib biting into the paper. The ink turned gold as I wrote, some crafty charm of Phelan’s, and yet I wasn’t moved by the duke’s dream. I couldn’t begin to understand why it rolled off me like rain, as this sort of nightmare used to be the kind that roused my compassion.
Perhaps it was because the duke had dreamt countless nightmares of his brother’s death before, recorded in earlier entries. Perhaps it was because I had read so many nightmares as well as encountered them in the streets on new moon nights that I had begun to learn the slant of them.
This nightmare felt fabricated.
I didn’t believe Lord Deryn had dreamt it last night.
“I fall to my knees,” the duke continued. “I hold him in my arms as he dies. And I watch as his face turns pale as bone, and he tries to say something to me, but I cannot understand his final words.”
I finished the recording and gave the ink a moment to dry. I glanced over the sparkling porcelain of the tea, the untouched biscuits and sandwiches, and met the duke’s gaze. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. This is a very upsetting dream.”
He bowed his head in acknowledgment, and I sensed the deceit as if it were a diamond hanging from his neck, sparkling with each of his unsteady breaths, giving him away.
I closed the book and began to pack, but I waited to rise only after the duke had stood.
“I hope you will be prepared to face the new moon alongside Phelan this upcoming week?” he asked as he guided me to the front door. “You lack experience, do you not, Miss Neven?”
I gritted my teeth but managed a smile. “This is my first new moon, yes, Your Grace. But I have been studying and preparing myself.”
Lord Deryn waved his frantic butler away. Alone, we stood in the foyer; I was keenly aware that the duke had positioned himself between me and the door. The cloying fragrance of his cologne washed over me again. Sweet and musty. My head started to ache.
“I am reassured to hear that, Miss Neven. But may I ask you a few questions before you depart?”