The Confectioner's Guild, page 17
As she closed the desk drawer, the knob on the door rattled. A clink of keys. Someone was coming in!
Wren launched herself into action, flying through the door into the bedchamber. Under the bed. She would hide under the bed.
She dropped to the floor and swore. The bed sat on the ground, its monster frame looming two feet tall. She jumped to her feet and spun in a panicked circle, looking for the next best place to hide. The wardrobe? No, if he opened it, she’d be a sitting duck. The curtains dropped to the floor. But her form might show…
The door opened, and Callidus’s unpleasant voice drifted in from the next room. The curtains it was. She moved silently behind them, swathing her body in the thick velvet drapes. She tried to make herself as small as possible, willing her body to shrink into itself until she was nothing. Why couldn’t her magic be something really useful? Like flight or invisibility.
A lamp came on in the bedroom, and Wren stifled the hitch in her breathing. Her heart thudded in her ears and her body had broken out in a cold sweat. If he caught her, she was done for. And so was Lucas.
Callidus was alone, but he was muttering to himself angrily. “Blooming servants, can’t do a thing right, two left feet…” He trailed off.
Wren peeked around the corner the tiniest amount so she could see a sliver of what was going on. Callidus was at his desk, wiping at his little notebook with a handkerchief. His jacket was off and a wine stain as red as blood blossomed across his chest. A small smile of satisfaction crept onto Wren’s face. Served him right, getting spilled on at his own party.
He finished dabbing at the pages and left the notebook open on the table, undoubtedly to dry.
Callidus unbuttoned his shirt and retrieved another from the wardrobe. Wren’s face flamed and she pulled back a touch as he took his shirt off to switch to the clean one, revealing pale skin and wiry muscles.
He put the new one on but didn’t button it, sinking instead against the bed, his head in his hands. She felt like an interloper in this surprisingly intimate scene, taken aback by how vulnerable and human Callidus had become without the armor of his scowl and starched suit.
“Oh, Francis,” he said. “Why’d you go and leave such a mess? I told you I never wanted any of this. I don’t think I can do it alone…”
Wren’s heart skipped a beat. Francis. Francis Kasper. He was lamenting Kasper leaving him? Of all the things she might have eavesdropped on in this room, this was the last thing she’d expected.
Callidus stood and crossed to the corner of the room, an arm’s reach from her. She froze, going as still as the grave, fearing Callidus would hear the drumbeat of her heart.
He didn’t. He retrieved an instrument from a stand, a lovely little mandolin, all playful scrolls and warm wood. He sunk back down on the bed and began picking a tune on the eight strings. It was the most haunting melody Wren had ever heard, a mournful song full of yearning and loss. His long, thin fingers danced over the strings, transforming from crafty spider-like digits to instruments of wonder.
Too soon, the song stopped, and it was as if the very air mourned its absence. She felt wrung out, raw, as he placed the instrument back on its stand, buttoned his shirt, grabbed his jacket, and walked from the room.
She heard the lock click as Callidus left his chambers, but she didn’t move. She stood behind the curtain for a long time, astounded at the certainty washing over her. She had seen a man’s soul tonight, and it wasn’t the soul of a murderer. It was that of a sad lonely man missing his mentor. And friend.
As her toes began to go numb in her heeled shoes, Wren finally emerged from behind the curtain, moving to the desk where the precious journal sat, pages drying in the dark air. Her enthusiasm at reading it had withered completely. She wasn’t sure what she would find within, but she no longer thought it was the plan for Kasper’s murder. She flipped through the pages under the low light of the single oil lamp Callidus had left on. She looked at it nervously. Perhaps he intended to return quickly. She needed to get out of here.
On each page of the journal was a name. Notes were scribbled beneath them in a cramped, sloping handwriting. Some she recognized. Pike. Sable. Beckett. Some she didn’t. Hythia. Nix. Castlerock. The pages seemed endless, containing every person Callidus had ever met. As she scanned the writing, she realized what this was. Not every person Callidus had ever met. Every person Kasper had known. Callidus’s investigation into Kasper’s murder. Each page contained his notes about the person’s whereabouts, motives, connections to Kasper. Her eyes widened as she flipped through more pages, feeling foolish. Her own “investigation” was a raindrop compared to this ocean of connections and knowledge. He had everyone in here! Even Olivia and Greer… the maids, the guild controller. She hissed in a breath when she came to her page.
Her name had been circled, and then crossed out. What did that mean? Did he mean to be rid of her? But as she read down, squinting in the low light at his handwriting, she came to understand. He had ruled her out as a suspect. The notes were simple enough. “No connections to Kasper.” “No connections to other guilds.” “No motive.” “No means of obtaining poison.” “Unaware of Gift.”
So… he believed her? Wren let out a little laugh of disbelief. Then why in the Beekeeper’s name was he still singling her out? Why had he all but pointed his finger at her at yesterday’s assembly? Did he just… hate her?
She turned back to the journal, wanting to shake it for answers that weren’t forthcoming. She set it back down, a feeling of helplessness washing over her. She wanted to stay here with this journal forever, analyzing the secrets within its pages. But she knew she had already pushed her luck. So Wren set the journal down, and with one final longing glance at the mysteries contained in its wine-soaked pages, she left.
The moon was high in the sky, its cheerful face incongruous with the turmoil within her. Wren needed to talk to Lucas. Now. She still had the note with Callidus’s handwriting hidden within her dress, though she suspected glumly that it would not contain the answer she had once hoped for.
Where could she find him? She didn’t know where he lived. But she knew someone who did.
The Temple of the Sower looked as it had two days prior. Soaring ceilings, intricate paintings, flickering candles, and the ever-present feeling of her skin crawling that came upon her in the presence of the Sower or one of his priests.
“Virgil?” she called, her voice echoing throughout the temple and earning her dirty looks from the two devout worshippers who sat in the pews. She didn’t care. She didn’t have the patience to leave the button and wait for him to find her the next day. She needed to talk to him now. Besides, anyone who might take interest in her meeting with Lucas was likely at the Appointment Gala.
“Virgil!” she called again, louder this time, trying to keep the edge of hysteria from her voice.
“Wren?” He appeared at the front of the temple, his visage so much like Lucas’s that her heart twisted painfully.
He hurried to her side, shepherding her towards the back of the temple. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I met your sister today. And your brother Patrick. She told me what Lucas did for me. What it means that he vouched for me.”
His face softened. “You didn’t know?”
“Why does everyone assume that I did? Is it such a common occurrence, someone dooming themselves for another?”
“No, of course not. We were trained at the palace in every conceivable facet of Alesian life; we forget sometimes that not everyone has the benefit of such an education.”
“Why would he do that?” Wren asked. She couldn’t shake the thought from her head. Why had he done it? Was Lucas truly that selfless a man, or was it something more? Something personal?
“Only Lucas can answer that,” Virgil said.
“I need to talk to him,” Wren said. “Can you tell me where he lives?”
Virgil raised an eyebrow. “At this hour?”
“Please. It can’t wait.”
“Very well,” he said. “Give me a moment. I’ll write down the directions.”
Virgil returned in a moment with a scrap of paper, and Wren’s lip quivered. She felt as if she was coming apart at the seams. She looked at Virgil’s kind eyes and concerned expression. She thought she could see the truth of him, that he was holding himself open to her as a peace offering, and what she saw was that he was cut from the same selfless cloth as his brother. He was nothing like Brother Brax or the other priests at the orphanage. “I think I owe you an apology,” she said. “We started off on the wrong foot. And now… now I’ve taken your brother from you.”
He shook his head, a kind smile crossing his face, so alike Lucas’s that it took her breath away. “No apology needed. And at the risk of delving too deep, I suspect that I owe you an apology.”
“Why?”
“On behalf of my order. And my god. For whoever wronged you deeply.”
She stiffened, drawing back, fighting her natural urge to flee, her mind’s ringing warning of too close, too close.
He held up his hands to her, as if comforting a skittish horse. “If you ever wish to talk, it would be a great honor. If you never wish to talk, I understand. We each must own our story and live with it how we see fit. But as for my brother, do not underestimate him. He is not lost to us yet, not by a long shot. And neither are you. Don’t give up hope.”
Don’t give up hope. Those words took root in her frayed soul, buoying her. She nodded and squeezed his hand once before slipping out the door into the night.
Lucas lived in a flat over a bookshop on the edge of the Lyceum Quarter. After ten minutes of running, Wren slowed to a walk to catch her breath. She smoothed her hair, wiping the sweat from her brow. Her stomach flipped nervously at the thought of seeing him, and she found she didn’t want to look a total fright when she arrived.
Wren let herself into the front door of the building, turning the lock on the gated entry easily. Her hairpins had been busy tonight. She climbed the three flights and found herself standing before the door to number 303. She blew out a breath, finding her nerves jittery. She tried to calm herself. She was here to discuss the case. His vouching. Her heart was hammering from her run, that was all.
She rapped firmly on the door, trying to look composed.
The peephole went dark for a moment, as if someone was looking through the other side.
Lucas opened the door, standing in a pair of half-buttoned trousers, holding a lamp in his hand. His hair was mussed, and the lamplight cast golden shadows on the muscles of his chest.
Her breath stilled for a moment.
“Wren,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“I… I need to talk to you. It’s urgent. May I come in?”
He opened the door wider to let her pass. “Let me get a shirt,” he said, disappearing into the other room.
Lucas’s flat was tidy and sparse. A gray sofa, a table and chairs, a quaint white kitchen with a two-burner stove and a small icebox. The only thing that spoke of Lucas was a bookshelf lined with books and the stacks of volumes that sat on the side table, the kitchen counter, the floor by the door.
Lucas returned, fully clothed, to Wren’s slight disappointment. He lit another lamp and bid her to sit on the couch. He didn’t sit beside her, instead pulling one of the dining room chairs out and swiveling it around.
“You look… fancy,” he said carefully. “Did you come from the gala?”
She smoothed her dress, suddenly feeling foolish and tongue-tied. Part of her had wanted Lucas to see her in this dress, to see her at her most beautiful. What was she playing at? Lives were at stake. This wasn’t the time for crushes or romance. A fancy gown wouldn’t save her from the gallows.
“I met your sister at the gala,” she said, meeting his gaze. “And your brother Patrick.”
He stiffened, his face growing wary. “Did you?”
“She was… not kind in her assessment of me. She was quite distraught at the thought that you might die for my crime.”
He looked away, running his hand over his hair.
“Tell me it isn’t true, Lucas.” Her voice was harder than she’d intended it to be. “Tell me she misunderstood. That it doesn’t work that way. I never would have asked you to put your own life in danger. It’s not right.”
He looked at her, his expression soft. “It wasn’t right what they were doing to you. Willings and Callidus. I had a way to delay it, to give you a chance. So I did. It was my choice, Wren. You have nothing to feel sorry for.”
“But you barely knew me. You barely know me now. What if I really did murder Kasper?”
“I’m an excellent judge of character,” Lucas said. “I was confident you were innocent.”
“An excellent judge of character?” She let out a huff. “That’s madness. You’re a prince! You’re worth ten of me. How could you risk yourself?”
“Wren, I’m not the saint you make me out to be. Yes, it was a risk, but a calculated one. It is because I’m a prince that I could vouch for you. I knew, however right or wrong, that my father would think twice before he executes me. The case will get the consideration it might not have warranted if it was only a guild apprentice’s life on the line. No offense…”
“It’s fine. I’m no stranger to how the world works.” She stood, pacing across the room, unable to look at him for fear the warmth filling her heart might spill out.
“It’s not fine,” Lucas said, standing too, laying his hands on her shoulders, and turning her around gently to face him.
His touch sent a rush of heat through her, and she tried to focus on the words he spoke, not the fine stubble at his jaw, the stretch of exposed skin showing through his haphazardly buttoned shirt.
“I became an inspector because I wanted to help people. Growing up around my father, I realized that Alesian justice was a malleable concept; it depended entirely on whether you had money or connections. It infuriated me. I wanted to have some small role in setting that right, even if it was one case at a time, one person at a time. I had never seen Willings go for someone with the vengeance that he went for you. It wasn’t fair. So yes, I had an opportunity to use my position to help you when you needed it, and I took it. I won’t apologize for what I did, and I don’t regret it.”
A knot grew in Wren’s throat. There had been so few moments of true kindness in her life. Selfless sacrifice, white knights in shining armor—those were stories meant to distract from the cruelty of reality.
But here one was. A man of myth.
“Don’t worry,” he said. He reached out and touched her cheek, tracing the line of her jaw with the rough skin of his thumb. “It’ll be fine. We’ll both be fine.”
Words were lost to her, unsatisfactory vessels to convey the depth of what his gesture had meant to her. What he meant to her.
So she kissed him. She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her lips to his, desperate to say what she didn’t know how.
He tangled his fingers in her hair and pulled her body flush against his, parting her lips with his tongue and the heat of his breath. The muscles of his body were hard against her, and excitement trilled inside of her at the knowledge that he wanted her too.
But then his kiss was gone, empty space left between them. He pulled back with a shuddering breath, pushing her shoulders from him, his head down with a curse. “Wren.” He growled the word. “You don’t… owe me anything.” He met her eyes, his own smoldering in the lamplight. “I made my choice freely. Don’t do this because you feel you have some debt to repay.”
She blinked in surprise, embarrassment and shame flooding through her like a bite of a hot pepper. He thought she had kissed him to pay a debt? That her only currency was her body? That there could never be anything real between them?
She stepped back, pulling away. “I’m not a whore, Lucas. I don’t pay people with…” She gestured to herself. “This. That you would think that of me shows that you don’t know me at all.” She turned towards the door, wanting to flee. Of course, even in his rejection of her, he’d be noble. It had been a mistake to come here. A mistake to kiss him.
“Wren.” His voice was tender. “Forgive me. That’s not what I meant. The fact is, I’m terrible at interpreting the language of women, and so I’ve always found it better to be clear upfront. I wanted to make sure this was what you wanted. That you wanted… me.”
“Do you have so many women kiss you out of obligation that you’ve had to establish a protocol?” Wren pointed out. But his expression when she turned around was so miserable that she softened, her anger cooling.
“No, of course not.” He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Well, thank you for clarifying. I do owe you much, Lucas Imbris,” Wren said. “But I kissed you because that’s what I wanted, not just because it’s what I thought you wanted.”
“Wanted?” His eyes were pleading, and he took her hands. “Don’t tell me I ruined this, Wren. Let’s start again. The last thirty seconds never happened. Where were we…? Yes. I was telling you not to worry…” He stroked her cheek with his thumb once again. “Which doesn’t seem right at all since now you seem like you’d rather pummel me than worry.” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
She pursed her lips to stop the grin from spreading across her face. “I wanted to pummel you then, too,” she said. “For selflessly risking your life for mine.”
“The truth is, I vouched for you for selfish reasons,” he murmured, taking her face in his hands. “Not for justice, or because I’m a champion for the disenfranchised. It’s because you were the fiercest and loveliest thing I had ever seen, sitting on that couch without a trace of fear, and I couldn’t imagine a world where I didn’t get to know you.”
His words broke through the last of her anger and hurt, and she kissed him again, soft and sweet this time. She wanted to be that version of herself, the version Lucas had glimpsed. The version without fear. She had lived half a life, letting fear rob her of the rest. She wouldn’t let it rob her of this, too.
