“Of course, Your Grace.” My fingernails dug into the strap of the satchel, marking the leather with crescents.
“If Phelan is wounded on the new moon . . . would you abandon him in the street to save yourself?”
“I would never abandon my partner.”
“Even if it meant your own pain or demise?”
My mouth was parched; I drew in a shaky breath, a medley of bergamot, old wet paper, and my intense desire to leave. “Even so, Your Grace. I’m not one to abandon my duties.”
The duke took a step closer to me. I resisted the urge to shift backward, but I had a spell ready. One that would freeze him to the floor if he so much as tried to touch or threaten me.
“Are you aware that Phelan was wounded a few months ago, Miss Neven?”
“Yes.”
“Did he tell you what wounded him?”
“No.”
“Perhaps you should discover it, then. As you are his partner, he should confide in you.”
“You don’t know what happened, either?”
“He hails from a very secretive family. But I have no doubt that you will soon be privy to the truth. Or perhaps encounter it on the new moon. If you learn of anything, Miss Neven, you will inform me, won’t you? I pay well for information—riches, jewels, prestige. Position. If you wanted to be warden elsewhere, I could make it happen for you.”
“Y-yes, Your Grace,” I said, and the words were thick as thistledown in my mouth. I felt numb as I sorted through the tumble of what he was asking of me, what he was offering me.
Did he know who I was? But how would he? I had never met or spoken to him before, when I was Clementine. And then I realized . . . he thought I was trying to climb the social ladder among wardens. Becoming Phelan’s partner was a swift way to do so, in particular for a homely girl with meager beginnings.
At last, the duke unlocked and opened the front door for me.
I curtsied and swiftly departed. I felt his gaze as he watched me walk the stone path and slip beyond the iron gate. But I didn’t dare glance behind to meet it.
I sensed he was coercing me, lying to me. A game among nobles.
And I was beginning to think he knew I was lying, too.
17
“You have to stay for Seven Wraiths!” Deacon begged me after dinner.
Night had just stained the windows, and I was anxious, waiting for Phelan to return from his council meeting. Suspicions of the duke and his fabricated dream continued to roam in my thoughts; I wondered if I should say something to Phelan.
“Maybe tomorrow night, Deacon,” I said, carrying my plate into the kitchen.
Deacon intercepted me. “Please, Miss Neven!”
“Seven Wraiths sounds like a frightening game,” I said in a teasing lilt. But my upbringing inevitably reared; all those times my father had told me how harmful the game was. That I should never play it.
“It isn’t too scary,” he insisted. “I promise. My grandmama plays, and she doesn’t get scared.”
“Deacon? Where are those plates?” Mrs. Stirling called from the kitchen.
“Please,” the boy pleaded.
“All right, but just one round,” I said, and let him take my plate. “I still need to get home tonight.”
“You should stay the night here, Miss Neven! I saw Mr. Vesper had a room prepared for you!” Deacon chirped before he slipped into the kitchen.
At last, I thought, weary of all the precautions I had to take in order to arrive at my mother’s unnoticed. Weary, and yet something else pulsed within me, similar to the feeling I experienced before a new moon unfolded.
I stepped into the drawing room.
Mrs. Stirling had already stoked a fire in the hearth and lit the candelabras. The chamber was a dance of shadows, light, and the flash of golden trim, and I looked at the grand mirror hanging on the wall. As if it had set a hook in me, I walked to stand before it.
My reflection stared back at me. A face I had nearly forgotten. A face that felt like a stranger’s now, as if a girl I had never met stood on the other side of the glass, watching me as I watched her.
You’re not trying hard enough, said the girl in the mirror, touching a stray thread of copper hair. You’ve been passive here, Clem. Do you expect this family’s secrets to rise and meet you on their own volition?
I turned away from the mirror, but my blood was coursing. I sifted through what I had gleaned so far. My father had once worked with the countess, and there was bad blood between them now. The countess was an artist. Her husband had died, years ago. The duke was fabricating nightmares and seemed far too interested in Phelan. Phelan had been wounded by something he was afraid to name and the duke was desperate to know. Lennox wanted Hereswith for reasons I had yet to learn. The seventeenth of November may or may not be a date of importance. But I didn’t quite see how this all worked together or how I was going to regain control over my ability to return home.
My thoughts broke when Deacon arrived, wide eyed with delight. He made a beeline to the game cupboard, rustling around its shelves for a deck of cards. Mrs. Stirling joined us, bringing in a tea tray with sugar cream pie, and the three of us gathered around the card table.
I watched as Deacon expertly dealt five cards per player between a spoonful of pie.
“Do you know how to play, Miss Neven?” he asked, crumbs falling from his mouth.
“No, I’ve never played this game, Deacon. Why don’t you explain the rules to me?”
“You know the legend of the mountain duchy, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course I do.”
“Then you know about the seven members of court who were cursed when the duke was killed?” Deacon queried.
“Yes. . . .”
“You know what they were cursed with, Miss Neven?”
“They cannot die or dream,” I said.
“Right,” he confirmed with a mischievous smile, as if this were a delightful fate. “So we call them wraiths. Anyway, there are seven wraiths in this deck. They’re bad—if you draw one, you’ll want to find a way to get rid of it by trading with one of us.”
“Why don’t you explain the game from the beginning, Deacon,” Mrs. Stirling suggested.
“Oh, yes,” he said, sheepish. “You have five cards in your hand, Miss Neven. Don’t let me or my grandmama see them. You want to be able to discard one of your cards here, but it has to match in suit or in number. If you can make a match, you don’t have to draw from the deck. If you can’t make a match, you have to draw a new card, or you can try to trade a card. The goal is to be the first person to get rid of all your cards, but it’s tricky, because you might have one of the wraiths in your hand. And that’s the last thing you want at the end of the round. If you lose, you’ll have a terrible nightmare when you fall asleep.”
I studied the five cards in my hand. Two diamonds, a spade, and two of the wraiths. Beginner’s luck, I thought with a snort, but then studied the first wraith card closer.
It depicted a middle-aged man dressed in blue robes. Moons and stars were stitched on the edges of his sleeves. His face was melancholy, his head bent, one hand over his heart, the other lifted as if he were in the throes of making a plea. His hair was blond until I tilted the card and the color changed to a fiery red. Or perhaps it was a cascade of blood, which began to drip from the ends of his hair, marring his raiment.