The man’s grinning mask tilted as he appraised his guests. “You do not have her soul?” He looked from one of them to the other and back again, his gaze settling on Chloe.
“How does one even…?” she began, but her voice fell away to nothing.
“Amateurs. The soul or spirit is energy—not unlike that inside your common stormcells and stormlights. When a person dies, especially in a traumatic fashion, their soul wings away because, being power, it is attracted to power, even residual sources and especially tumultuous sources of it. What stormlight was closest to her when she died?”
“They were all dead.”
He straightened sharply. “Ah. Lady Astraea.”
Chloe clapped her hands over her mouth, eyes wide.
“Word travels fast whenever the Weather Workers arrive. There will be a stormlight near her body’s location that will still have the faintest of glows to it. It will shine with a color and hum without the power of the Hub. Bring me that stormlight with the crystal intact and I might revive her to nearly her natural state.”
“Nearly her natural state?” Chloe asked.
“This is science. And science is an imperfect art. But frequently improving. Hurry now.”
Both servants turned toward the door, but Chloe grabbed John. “No. You have your keys. Stay with her. Guard her,” she whispered, looking at the strange man. “I’ll feel better if you do.”
“But.” John glanced toward the door and the darkness beyond. “The streets—”
“—were my home before either of my two households took me in,” she assured. “I’ll be fine.”
Yet, hearing the door latch behind her, she drew her arms tight around her body and hurried back toward the Hill and the Astraeas’ dark estate crowning its top.
The Road To Holgate
The carriage holding Jordan captive jostled its way across the Hill and meandered down the zigzagging road that descended along properties of decreasing value.
The Councilman perched on the overstuffed leather seat across from Jordan was glaring. “This would all be much easier if you admit that you are what you are,” he growled, leaning back until the seat squeaked. He picked at his fingernails and shook his head, making little tsk-tsk noises.
“But I am not a Weather Witch,” Jordan insisted, rubbing at her cheeks to stop the flow of tears. “I have no affinity with storms—I don’t even particularly like them. The only thing I like about a cloudy day is that I do not need to carry a parasol to avoid getting an unsightly tan. Or freckling like some washerwoman.”
“You summoned a storm. A large one.”
“No. I did not! I have never summoned a storm—I cannot. I am Grounded. Besides, that was not even a large storm considering our weeklies. Magicking a storm is simply not within my capabilities nor my bloodline.”
“Your bloodline is corrupt. Your mother no better than a filthy whore.”
“Take that back,” she hissed, her manicured fingers curling into claws as her lips twisted in a snarl. “No one speaks of my mother that way. Lady Cynthia Astraea is one of the most noble women to walk this Earth…”
“Slut,” the Councilman said, lacing his fingers together and peering over them at her with cool detachment in his eyes. “Whore. Two-bit Molly.”
A growl grew in Jordan’s throat and she leaned across the aisle, eyes bright and sharp. “You stop now or I swear…”
The man grabbed a metal bar on the carriage’s curving wall, fingers wrapping tight around it as he watched Jordan, a wicked grin on his lips. “You swear you’ll do what, Miss Astraea? Or shall we give you some other name since Astraea should not belong to a bitch whose mother was nothing but a common coney?”
Shrieking, Jordan lunged across the aisle but the Wardens flanking her simply held tighter. For a moment she hung in the middle of the aisle, her mouth moving soundlessly as she fought for words to hurl at the Councilman and the cold-eyed Tester at his side. No words came and finally she flopped back into her seat, shaking with sobs as fresh tears seeped free of her eyes.
The folded paper star pressed into her sleeve was a bitter reminder of how far she’d already fallen.
Across the aisle the Tester cocked his head, cooing a single word, his eyes on her hands the whole time. “Interesting.”
Jordan sniffled and turned her head to the carriage’s barred window, watching her world slip away, lights and familiar sights streaking and blurring to nothing as the last beads of rain raced across the window’s glass.
Chapter Seven
For it’s always fair weather
When good fellows get together …
—RICHARD HOOVEY
Philadelphia
Rowen wandered down the stairs, his fingertips trailing along the low banister as his nose sucked in the familiar scents of the kitchen. Freshly baked bread, sweet biscuits, and stew … It was hardly appropriate that he should spend so much time fraternizing with the staff—they were all at least two ranks below him, but Rowen had never cared much for societal norms when it came to friendships. He had grown up with brothers who couldn’t be bothered with him and parents who only wanted him to fit a mold. Most of the time he did.
And most of those times willingly.
But there were times as a boy Rowen broke free—disappeared—and had to be hauled back to the house, streaked in mud and laughing like some wild child, clothing torn and hair full of “unmentionable natural objects,” as his mother would say. Jonathan was his most frequent accomplice and remained a friend (though that word could never be used around Rowen’s mother—it was unseemly having a manservant as a friend). So it was only natural that Rowen headed to a place he knew Jonathan would find him.
A place his harpy of a mother would dare not visit.
He stepped through the kitchen’s doorway, his mouth watering and his eyes tearing at the mix of scents. The butter churn sat empty in the corner, the day’s butter made so early in the day Rowen preferred to think of that time as night. Between the spices, the meat sizzling as it turned on the spit over the always-smoky fire, and the pungent scent of the small turn dog working the wheel to keep the spit moving, the kitchen featured the richest atmosphere in the entire house.
The cook raised a hand in greeting and returned to chopping vegetables for the next day’s meals. The serving girls all smiled in Rowen’s direction, a few curtsying. They were all keenly aware that Rowen was untouchable and had become like sisters to him as a result, some older, some younger, all undeniably fond of him and perhaps a bit too protective.
Nancy spun about to greet him, her hair held in a tight bun at the back of her head and yellow as cooked corn, fists on her generous hips, apron covered in flour and grease. “Well if it isn’t the hero home again,” she joked, her cheeks plumping as she smiled. “Did you show Miss Jordan the trick you’ve been practicing?”
For a moment the serious set of his face softened. “Yes. I did. I surprised her. Twice.”
“Twice was it?” she teased, picking up her rolling pin to jab him in the stomach. “Twice is a respectable number of times to do a thing.”
He let out a little oof, his expression going boyish and goofy.
“She wanted an encore, did she?” She winked at him, her eyes sparkling.
She needed one, he thought, remembering slipping the pin to her in a sly fashion. His face fell into a more somber expression. “Where’s Jonathan?”
“In the wine cellar.”
His smile returned for a moment. “Thank you, Nancy.” He slid past her, taking the steps at the kitchen’s far side down into the cellar. The difference in temperature was remarkable and Rowen snugged his shirt tighter to him and adjusted his waistcoat and cravat. In the wine cellar the smells were as different as the temperature. A chill was ever-present, the moist smell of water on stone overtaking all other sensations. Rowen’s boots echoing on the stairs muted the noisy hum of the kitchen at his back.