Midnight Jewel by Richelle Mead
“Well, aren’t you a ray of sunshine.” Tamsin ran a brush through her long hair. “Don’t write off her happiness just yet.”
“I’m not,” I protested. “I want her to be happy. But she’s such a romantic, and I don’t know if that’s realistic. I mean, we have two months to accept an offer. Do you really think we’re going to fall madly in love with someone in that time?”
“Stranger things have happened. I’d like to.” She nodded toward the Female Studies book lying on Adelaide’s bed. “It’ll make all that business a whole lot better.”
“Well, I’m not setting my sights on romance. And don’t look at me like that! You’ve never made any secret about your priorities either. You want the richest, most successful man you can find, and that’s what you’ll choose, whether love and attraction are involved or not. Me? I don’t need the richest. Someone who’s established—with a little to splurge—is all I want. That, and respect, of course. Those are my priorities. Maybe he’ll be handsome, and maybe I’ll like being in bed with him. If not, I’ll just deal with it. That’s being realistic.”
Shock filled Tamsin’s brown eyes, and she held the brush in midair, forgotten. “There’s realistic and there’s depressing, Mira. And that’s just . . . I don’t even know. Do you hear yourself? You make it sound like a household chore. I can’t believe you’ve already resigned yourself to a cold marriage.”
I shrugged. I couldn’t explain that I knew for a fact that it usually was pretty easy to turn off your feelings during unwanted advances. I’d done it plenty of times when my father had needed me to distract men for his missions. I’d flirted. I’d let them touch me and kiss me. And . . . I’d felt completely detached. It actually had been like another household chore.
“I just want to go to Adoria,” I said at last. Neither Tamsin nor Adelaide knew about Lonzo. I couldn’t breathe a word to anyone—not even my beloved roommates—that my brother was a wanted murderer in Osfro.
Tamsin made a face. “Well, I do too, and yes, you’re right that I’ll choose success over anything else, but I still hope I can snag some love and passion too. You don’t know what you’re missing out on.”
“I do. Well, sort of.”
“Oh?”
“I kissed a neighbor boy a few times back in Sirminica, and I liked that.” I savored those memories for a moment, the way those kisses had stirred something inside me. “I left for Osfrid before it ever went beyond kissing. But sometimes . . . I wish there had been more. I mean, if I’m going to settle into marriage with someone who feels like a friendly roommate, it’d be nice to have at least known what it was like being with a man . . . just for the pleasure of—”
“Stop, just stop. I don’t want to hear any more.” Tamsin sank onto her bed and gave up on brushing her hair.
“But you know what I mean. No deep romance. Just a lover to—”
“Yes, yes, I know exactly what you mean, and honestly I don’t know what’s worse: this likeable ‘roommate’ husband you’ll endure in bed or the illicit lover you don’t really care about.” Her expression turned affectionate and a little rueful too. “All I know for sure is you’ve got a lot to learn. Adelaide’s not even close to being the most deluded one here.”
Adelaide returned right at that last bit. “Deluded about what? You aren’t still going on about some conspiracy, are you?”
In the blink of an eye, Tamsin transformed from romantic advisor to the more familiar steely-eyed huntress we knew. “Something is happening! I can feel it. And not just the schedule change today. Did you hear Jasper mention that he was going to review files today? I’m telling you, don’t let your guard down.”
Her words startled me—but not because of the dire fate she foresaw. Our files. Mistress Masterson kept all sorts of paperwork in her office. Few of us had ever been in it, but the room had taken on an ominous reputation. Girls were afraid to knock on its door. And no one would dream of breaking into it. But . . .
Files. Files about all of us. Files about Clara.
I waited until I was certain Adelaide and Tamsin were asleep, and then, for extra precaution, I waited a little longer. I lay in the dark, my heart beating frantically as I clutched the pick kit in one hand. Even when I reached a point where I thought everyone in the house should’ve long since gone to sleep, I still hesitated. What if some insomniac was pacing the halls? What if someone wanted a snack?
But I knew that if I worried about those things much longer, I’d never leave. I’d stay petrified in my bed. I thought about Lonzo’s bravery, my father’s zealous determination, and even the fantastic deeds of legendary heroes that I still loved to read about in the one book I’d carried with me from Sirminica. I could do this.
Neither girl stirred as I slipped from our room. The hall outside was silent and empty, as was the lower level. I cringed each time the floor squeaked under my feet. It sounded deafening to my ears, and my journey felt like miles. Mistress Masterson’s office was in a wing of the house we rarely visited.
When I reached the door, I didn’t have a lot of light and had to do most of my work by feel. Many of the house locks I’d experimented with had been common and often straightforward when utilizing the right tool. This lock was new to me, and after some trial and error, I finally had luck with a twisty pick I’d never used before. It took a fair amount of finessing until I finally heard a click that I thought must’ve surely echoed throughout the manor. I opened and shut the door as silently as I could and lit a small lantern once I felt secure.
Sylvia had been called here once and reported back that Mistress Masterson kept her work lair so organized and pristine that it felt eerie. So, I was surprised to see a handful of papers lying haphazardly on the desk. Leaning closer, I spied forceful handwriting scrawled on them that I knew wasn’t our housemistress’s. This sullying of her sacred space was Jasper’s handiwork.
Some of the notes appeared to be directions from him: Reach out to contacts. Schedule Miss Garrison. Others were lists of names, including the girls from the other three manors the Glittering Court maintained. Each girl had a number by her name. Mine was 200, which I assumed would be my marriage fee. It was the minimum for any girl. Adelaide had 250 and a question mark while Tamsin boasted an impressive 350. Another cryptic list displayed fanciful names like Spirit of Henrietta and Good Hope, with dates written beside them. It was all interesting, but Jasper’s leftovers weren’t what I needed.
I discovered what I’d been looking for in a wooden filing cabinet—locked, of course—that contained folders bearing each of our names. Clara’s immediately jumped out at me, but I reached for my own first. Most of the papers within it were copies of my standing so far, recording the results of all the major tests and assessments. Looking at my progress as a whole, I realized it was pretty respectable. But far more interesting was a document that was essentially my dossier.
It contained my name, my last known address, and a brief biography that simply said I’d come from Sirminica and lived in Osfro for two years. There was no mention of Lonzo. In fact, my family was listed as NONE. The contact provided was to an elderly couple I’d lived with in the Sirminican district. Cedric was identified as my recruiter, and the field asking for how I’d been discovered simply said Referral. A few other comments in Mistress Masterson’s neat writing mentioned my life at the manor thus far and contained a backhanded compliment: Progressing well for a Sirminican.
Wright was next to Viana, and swallowing my guilt, I took a peek at Tamsin’s folder. Much of it I already knew. She’d worked for her laundress mother and came from a big family. Jasper had recruited her. The comments on her performance were unsurprisingly spectacular. One special note, however, directed a sum of three gold to be delivered monthly from Jasper’s own account to Tamsin’s mother. There was no explanation.
Adelaide’s also held a few surprises. The section covering her progress thus far was lengthier than m
Ashamed at my snooping, I shoved Adelaide’s folder back in the drawer and finally perused Clara’s. Much of it was unremarkable. She was Jasper’s recruit, born to a butcher’s family with seven other daughters. Her reviews were solid, but there, at the bottom of the page, was a special notes section like Tamsin had. Except Clara’s was of a very, very different nature than Tamsin’s.
I read it twice and then placed it back in the drawer with a smile. “You were right, old man,” I murmured to myself. “Information is real power.”
CHAPTER 4
I DIDN’T USE THE INFORMATION RIGHT AWAY. I BIDED my time, holding out for exactly the right moment and also working to gather a few more details. My opportunity came almost a month later, when Clara was tormenting another of her favorite targets.
For three days now, poor Theresa had been plagued with an outbreak of red bumps on one of her cheeks. Mistress Masterson hadn’t been concerned. “Blemishes happen all the time to girls your age. Either that, or it’s a reaction to something new. Perfume. Fabric. You’ll have to conduct an inventory yourself. Regardless, it will go away.” She’d left Theresa with a pot of noxious-smelling ointment and instructions to use a heavy hand with her cosmetics until the skin cleared.
“What if she’s wrong?” Clara asked, her voice sweet with faked concern as we filed into the conservatory for a music lesson. “What if it doesn’t go away? I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Theresa blanched. “Sh-she said it would. I’ve been using that cream.”
Clara scrutinized Clara’s cheek. “It doesn’t seem like it’s gone to me. I think it’s worse.”
“It is not,” said Adelaide. “You can hardly see it under her makeup.”
“Well, you can certainly see all that makeup. Everyone’s going to notice it’s heavier on one side.” Clara pressed a hand to her mouth and gasped. “Oh! I hope it’s all cleared up by tomorrow. Mister Thorn is coming, and you know how picky he is. You can worry about these classes all you want, but it’s our looks that really matter over there. He won’t bring a girl who’s . . . well, flawed.”
Compared to the rest of the world’s problems, Clara’s teasing seemed trivial. But Theresa’s pained eyes said otherwise. It was the power of words in action again. A small thing could have a big effect.
“Do you have any ideas that might help her, Clara?” I asked mildly. “You used to live over in the Fountain District, didn’t you? There are all sorts of apothecaries there. I remember hearing about a really good one on Hightower Street.”
The simpering smile on Clara’s face froze. It grew tighter and harder, becoming more like a grimace, as she stared at me. Our instructor entered and called us to attention. Clara swallowed and replied in a stiff, quiet voice, “You’re mistaken. I lived in the Butchers’ District.”
I smiled back with a sunniness Adelaide would’ve envied. I said nothing more about the Fountain District in class. I said nothing about it at dinner. Clara couldn’t take her eyes off me all day, and when we were finally released from studies in the evening, she pushed her way toward me as we all meandered up the stairs. I linked my arm through Adelaide’s and very loudly invited Sylvia and Rosamunde to study with us. I kept people close until bedtime, never giving Clara the chance to catch me alone.
At breakfast, her face was so ashen that Mistress Masterson asked if she was ill. Clara shook her head, still watching me. I pretended not to notice and made conversation with Tamsin until her expression suddenly filled with alarm. Her gaze lifted to something beyond me, and I turned to see Jasper breezily enter the room. We’d had no warning he was visiting.
“Good morning, girls,” he said, more cheerful than I usually heard him. He picked up a few rolls and wrapped them in a cloth. “Forgive me for not joining you, but I’ve got to eat in my office today. We’ll talk more later.”
Tamsin’s eyes turned from worried to wary, and I could see her thoughts spinning. When nothing noteworthy had happened after our surprise linguistic assessments, she’d finally stopped voicing her fears aloud . . . but I knew she still had them. “This is it,” she murmured. “I warned you.”
Adelaide patted her on the arm and offered a comforting smile, but it had no effect. “Tamsin, he stops by all the time. It’s normal.”
Tamsin just shook her head.
It was the weekend, and classes couldn’t shield me from Clara any longer. I didn’t mind, though. I’d only wanted to avoid her long enough to build up her paranoia. Now it was time to deliver the blow.
“Why did you ask about the Fountain District?” she hissed, pulling me into a quiet corner later in the day.
“I just thought I’d heard you were over there a lot.” My voice mimicked the angelic one she used. “And that you saw an apothecary on Hightower, one you knew very well. But now I realize I must be mixed up. The apothecaries are a few streets over, right? Hightower’s all residential. Lots of fine homes. Lots of fine gentlemen—and their families.”
Clara grew pale and then bright pink. “I don’t know what game you’re playing—”
“You know exactly what game I’m playing.” I dropped the sweetness. “I know, Clara. I know all about the favor Jasper did for Mister Wakefield, and if you bother me or anyone else in this house again, everyone is going to know about that favor. And I don’t just mean gossip anymore. You say or do anything I don’t like—if you even look any way I don’t like—this is all coming out.”
“No one will believe—”
“I have proof.” That wasn’t exactly true, since I couldn’t steal the paperwork from Mistress Masterson’s office, but my attitude was convincing, as was the mystery of how I knew about this at all. “When they see that proof, they’ll all believe—and Jasper is not going to be happy. Enjoy the rest of your day.”
I left her there gaping and had to stop myself from grinning like an idiot. The special note scrawled in her dossier—in Jasper’s own handwriting—had read:
Taken on as a favor to Martin Wakefield, following repeated indiscretions in his Hightower residence. Upon discovery by Mistress Wakefield, Clara needed immediate removal. She’s pretty and clever and will fit in well here. She’s smart enough to know how lucky she got, and I doubt the behavior will be repeated. Still, the sooner she’s married, the better.
A few inquiries to Cedric had provided the rest of the details. He didn’t know anything about Clara’s backstory, but he’d heard of Martin Wakefield. He was a businessman of some standing and owned apothecary shops in districts all over the city. He couldn’t risk a scandal.
I didn’t have long to exalt in my victory because a frantic Tamsin found me a few minutes later. She grabbed my arm. “It’s happening.”
I couldn’t bear to tease her when my mood was so good. “Tamsin, you’ll worry yourself sick. Take a break, and we’ll go find a game and—”
“No!” she exclaimed. “I’m not imagining this. The word just got around—Mistress Masterson wants us all in the ballroom as soon as possible. Where’s Adelaide?”
A little of Tamsin’s paranoia began to creep into me. “In the kitchen, I think. Today’s her chore day.”
Tamsin, still clinging to my arm, dragged me forward. “Come on, we can’t waste time.”
Adelaide, per her way, was doing a haphazard job of washing dishes, and we managed to save her from destroying a copper kettle before finally heading off to the ballroom. We were among the last to arrive and fo
When workmen entered and began setting up tables of food— far more than we needed—Tamsin looked ready to hyperventilate. She started rambling about how this must be a surprise quiz on entertaining large groups of posh guests. “No problem. We can do this. We can do this better than the others because none of them have realized what’s happening. We’ve got an edge.”
She was still rattling off advice—which seemed to be directed more to herself than to us—when the predicted guests began to enter. They didn’t look very posh, but they caused a big reaction. Our housemates began leaping up from their blankets with wild cries, flinging themselves into the arms of those visitors. And in moments, Tamsin was among them, running over to a smiling, tearful cluster of red-haired people.
Adelaide and I sat alone, taking in the sight. “Their families,” I murmured. One of the Glittering Court’s rules was that during our instruction period, communication with family back in Osfro could only be maintained via letter. We were in our eighth month, which was a long time to go without seeing loved ones.
I watched the reunions with a wistful smile. Adelaide, beside me, did too, and I remembered how her file had also been marked with NONE. Suddenly, two familiar faces walked through the door, and after a moment of shock, I ran forward to embrace Pablo and Fernanda Gagliardi. Lonzo and I had traveled with them from Sirminica, and they’d let us live with them in Osfro. Their small apartment had been only a little bigger than my bedroom at Blue Spring, but they’d been unfailingly generous to those in need.
“What are you doing here?” I exclaimed. The two of them were well into their sixties, and our manor was a long ride from the capital.
“Making sure you’re staying out of trouble,” said Pablo. More gray streaked his black hair than I recalled. “And I think we’re eating. That’s all they told us.” The sound of my native language was like music.