Page 4

Chapter

Four

F oot traffic is heavy in the Midgarden district this morning, making it almost impossible to walk down the street as a wraith . After being bumped so many times I nearly fell into the path of an oncoming carriage, I was forced to become visible, relying on only a hooded cloak for disguise. Thankfully, my conspicuous attire won’t attract much attention from the crowd. With dark clouds settling overhead, almost everyone is bundled up as we prepare for yet another dreary day.

“What’s the rush, my lady?” a seductive voice croons as a pale hand reaches from my peripheral, attempting to grab my arm.

Before he can make contact, my own hand darts out, snagging his wrist in an iron grip. I push him backward, sending him stumbling into the brick wall of the shop behind him. Pedestrians scurry past us, only a few of them sneaking wary glances in our direction. No one intervenes. If Solmarian’s excel at one thing, it’s minding their own business.

The man raises his hands in a placating gesture, offering me a sheepish grin. He’s attractive in an artistic way, with high cheekbones and a nose so thin and straight that I’m sure one sharp hit would shatter it completely. My fist curls in anticipation.

“I was simply going to invite you inside.” He gestures to the building behind him. “Don’t you wish to see whatever your heart desires?”

A frisson of unease unfurls within me as I notice the blacked out windows that reveal nothing about the business within. There’s no sign hanging above the door, but based on what he asked me, it doesn’t take a genius to guess what he’s selling.

“Careful where you put your hands, mendax ,” I warn him.

Mendax are the most common type of Illusionists . While most of them are only capable of creating simple illusions, some have the ability to fabricate large-scale mirages that can leave you questioning reality. For a steep price, they’ll let you spend an hour living out your wildest fantasies, all within the safety of your own mind.

It’s bold of him to openly proposition people on the street. While it’s not technically illegal for a mendax to sell their services, they are prohibited from soliciting. Given the controversial nature of their talents, their customers must seek them out of their own free will. If the city guards catch him trying to lure pedestrians into his shop, they won’t hesitate to arrest him.

“Come now, lovely lady.” His eyes gleam as they stare into mine, as if he’s trying to peer inside my soul. “Surely you desire something…” He trails off, taking a step closer as his gaze turns heated. “Or someone ?”

Before I can respond, a mortal man stumbles out of the shop, his face ashen. His horrified eyes settle on the mendax as he shuffles toward him.

“You have to send me back,” he demands, pointing at the Illusionist beside me.

“Now, Mr. Saunders.” The mendax tsks, forgetting about me as he prowls toward his victim. “I don’t have to do anything.”

The man’s face crumbles as tears stream down his cheeks. He doesn’t even glance in my direction, as if the rest of the world is irrelevant to him now.

“Please,” he begs, his voice full of anguish. “Send me back to my little girl. I was just with her, holding her in my arms again. She was healthy and alive .” His voice cracks. “I have to go back to her.”

The mendax wraps his arms around the man’s shoulders, pulling him to his side.

“And you will, Mr. Saunders. First we need to settle the matter of payment. I gave you a discount the first time, but now I’m afraid you’ll have to pay full price.”

“I’ll pay!” The man nods frantically as he digs into his pockets to pull out a few measly coins. “I’ll give you anything you want if you’ll send me back to my baby.”

A sickening smile curls the mendax’s lips. “That’s what I love to hear.”

He leads the man back through the door, glancing back at me once more before they disappear into the dim shop.

“Coming?” he asks, one brow arched.

Offering him a sneer, I take off down the street and ignore the slight temptation that blooms in my stomach. There’s a reason mendax have a bad reputation. What they do can be addictive. Many of their customers waste away, spending every bit of coin they earn on another illusion.

Imagine escaping all your problems and living in a world where you have everything you’ve ever wanted. Your loved ones who’ve passed on are returned to you. Your biggest regrets are wiped away. Whatever you desire is yours for the taking. But then you wake up in the real world, and everything has gone back to the way it was before.

That crushing disappointment is exactly why I never partake in it. I know once I start, I’ll never stop.

My calf aches as I push down the busy street. I would have preferred to let the wound fully heal before traipsing through the city, but unfortunately, this couldn’t wait. I pull my cloak tighter, keeping my chin tucked as I pass two patrolling guards.

Suddenly, the contents of my satchel feel much heavier.

Distracted, I almost stumble into a group of people waiting outside Bryne’s Bakery. The mouthwatering scent of their famous chocolate-filled pastries wafts through the air, bringing a smile to my face. Morwen’s fiancé, Nolan, owns the bakery with his family. He often sends her to work with treats for me and Alva.

As much as I love their delicious creations, I’ve never actually been inside the bakery. There’s only one reason I come to this part of town, and I try to remain unseen while I’m here. If any of their customers recognized me, they might be able to notice a pattern in the timing of my visits, sparking unwanted connections to certain illicit activities.

Slipping past the crowd, I duck into a narrow passage and hurry down the L shaped path. By happy coincidence, Bryne’s Bakery shares a back alleyway with another business one block over.

MASQ, situated on the Midgarden side of Aogan’s Cove, is one of the most successful clubs in Solmare. It’s mostly empty this early in the day, but I still wouldn’t risk entering through the front. Steel is cold against my fist as I deliver exactly six sharp knocks before slamming my open palm against the door. It’s a simple code, but we’ve found it effective.

Only a few seconds pass before I hear muffled shuffling, followed by several dull thuds as someone unlatches various locks and deadbolts. When the door swings open, a stunning woman with warm brown skin stands on the other side.

“Come in,” Della orders. “Quickly.”

Her eyes scan the alley behind me as I slip past her into the large kitchen. Once she’s sure I haven’t been followed, she immediately closes the door behind me, her hands deftly moving over the locks to seal it shut. Releasing my illusion, I lower my hood and use my fingers to comb through my hair and smooth the wayward tresses. I don’t bother to remove my cloak since I won’t be staying long.

“I got your message.”

“Obviously,” she says, her tone blunt. “I didn’t think you were stopping by for a chat. But you’re late.”

I roll my eyes, unbothered by her rudeness. Della has a right to her resentment.

“I was detained,” I tell her.

Huffing at my vague explanation, she turns without another word and exits through a long hallway on the other side of the room. Used to this kind of behavior, I follow without complaint. She may be annoyed by my tardiness, but if I told her the real reason for it, she’d be furious. The mere mention of Baylor gets her hackles rising.

As she walks, her dark curls bounce against her lilac dress. For such a stern woman, her appearance is the complete opposite. Standing at only five feet and two inches, even with shoes on, she barely reaches my shoulder. Her big doe eyes radiate innocence, despite the fact that she’s anything but.

Dellaphine Cardot is a walking contradiction.

“We need to make this quick,” she tells me as we reach the door to her office. “I’ve got guests upstairs who will be waking soon, and it’s best they don’t see you.”

Overnight guests aren’t rare at MASQ. There are over a dozen guest rooms on the second and third floors, each available for a fee. While most guests pay by the hour, some prefer to spend the night.

“It must be important if Morwen risked giving me the signal in front of a witness,” I probe, curious what this meeting is about. “Alva could have seen her.”

My sweet mortal maid has no idea about any of this. And it needs to stay that way.

“It’s time sensitive,” Della says, offering no further explanation.

The front rooms at MASQ are styled in a sinful, dramatic aesthetic, but back here in Della’s private quarters, the decor is soft and feminine. The warm glow of the fireplace casts an inviting warmth onto the cream settee. I notice that there’s a fresh canvas on the easel next to the window and a few stained brushes laid out beside it.

Like always, my gaze is drawn to the painting that hangs behind her desk, featuring a dark-haired woman coyly glancing over her shoulder. Only half her face is visible, a sly smirk curling her lips while her eyes are cast down. There’s something haunting about the image, something that makes you want to lift her chin and see her full visage for yourself.

But I don’t need a portrait to remind me of what she looked like; her face is seared into my mind with perfect clarity.

I push those thoughts away as I settle on the sofa while Della heads for the desk in the corner. She lifts the silver key that hangs around her neck, using it to unlock one of the drawers. Thunder rumbles in the distance as she pulls out a piece of paper before relocking it.

“It’s good to see you’re alive,” she says as she sits down next to me.

Six white candles burn on the candelabra before us, while a lonely maroon one sits in the center unlit. Della reaches for it, lighting it on one of the open flames. Instead of placing it back where it belongs, she holds it in her hand, letting the hot wax trickle down the sides and drip over her fingers like blood. If it burns her skin, she doesn’t show any reaction.

“Was there cause for concern?” I ask.

She shrugs, but her eyes dance with secret knowledge. “One of our patrons thought so.”

It’s not hard to guess who she’s referring to.

I recognize the candle she’s holding as one of Darrow’s creations. As long as the wick burns, anyone touching it can’t be overheard. You could be shouting across a crowded room, yet no one would hear you except your intended audience.

This is where he ran off to last night?

“Do me a favor, let him go on thinking that.” I grin at the thought of his distress.

“Always one for the dramatics.” She rolls her eyes, handing me the note she took from her desk.

Unfolding the parchment, I quickly scan the first few lines to find the name of a familiar pub I frequent in the Dockside District. But as I read what’s underneath, my blood begins to boil within my veins.

“I’ve got people working on the girl already,” she tells me. “But I’m leaving the father to you.”

“It will be handled before sunrise,” I promise her.

I don’t bother asking if she’s double-checked the information. Della always authenticates her leads before giving them to me.

She nods, taking the paper and tossing it into the fire. She blows out the candle, signaling the conclusion of our business. A faint trail of smoke dissipates into the air while I work up the courage to give her what I brought.

Usually, I don’t linger once she’s relayed her information. The less time I spend here, the better. It would cause problems for me if our association got back to the king. Given the rumors that used to swirl through the city, he’s always had a certain distaste for Della. I should already be on my way out the door, but today is different.

“I have something for you.”

I barely hear my whispered confession over the sound of rain gently pattering against the window, such soft accompaniment to such a heavy scene.

Della narrows her eyes, appraising my strange behavior. Unable to bear her gaze, I pull the contraband from my satchel, desperate to rid myself of the terrible memories it carries. She takes it hesitantly, as if it will explode in her hands.

Her mouth falls open with a gasp as she unwraps the parcel, revealing the porcelain plates I stole from the palace earlier. Her body goes limp with shock, causing the plates to nearly tumble from her lap. I lean forward to help, but she pulls them close to her chest, shoulders curling inward in a protective stance.

“Don’t,” she whispers sharply.

My calf twinges as I rise from the sofa, but I relish the pain as I put space between us. Della gazes down at the plates reverently. Her fingers tremble as she softly brushes them against the painted lilacs, as if she can feel their petals against her skin. Is she remembering how much her lover treasured the gift?

“How?” Her voice is small, barely audible.

“Someone in the kitchens must have thought they belonged to the palace by mistake,” I explain, my voice small. “They were on Baylor’s breakfast table this morning. He didn’t recognize them.”

She looks up at me, her expression darkening the way it always does when someone mentions the king.

“But you did?” Pain and accusation are heavy in her tone.

She carefully sets the plates down on her desk before moving to the back wall and lifting the portrait with care, placing it on the desk. I notice her gaze lingering on the face of her lost lover before she tears herself away.

With the painting gone, a hidden safe has been revealed in its place. Taking a knife from her boot, she lightly pricks her finger and smears her own blood against the metal. There’s a dull thud as it unlocks and swings open.

Inside is a teacup, the same pattern as the plates I’ve just given her, as well as a few pieces of jewelry, folded garments, drawings, letters, and a bottle of perfume.

All belonging to the late queen.

Della’s hands shake as she places the plates inside. Taking a step back, she gazes upon her shrine to Leona. She makes no move to wipe the tears that run down her face, unashamed of this physical display of her pain.

Della’s grief is a palpable presence, one she holds onto with both hands. Sometimes we curate our own hauntings, desperately crafting ghosts from faded memories as we beg our dear ones not to depart. As if our desperation alone could pull them back from the veil.

Deep within the dungeons of my mind, a ghostly scene slips through the cracks of its cell.

Would you do anything for me?

A shiver skates up my spine as I recall the way his lips brushed against my ear that night.

Of course, I would .

A foolish response from a foolish girl.

A flash of pain pulls me from my silent reverie. Uncurling my fists, I find my nails have left a row of crescent-shaped cuts marring my palms. I wipe them on my cloak, the wool roughly pulling at the torn skin. Grabbing my now empty satchel, I hug it against my chest, its weight somehow heavier than before.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

Not bothering to wait for a response, I flee from the room, undoing the locks with haste. I don’t stop sprinting until I reach the alley where I lean my head against the brick wall, gasping for air. Shame burns hot in my stomach as I throw the bag to the ground, along with my cloak. The skies open up, soaking my silk dress quickly and cooling my heated skin. My broken fingernails dig into the bricks as I frantically try not to slip away into the past again.

In the aftermath of Leona’s death, I spent months caged within my own mind. Reliving the memories. Rewriting my perception of them. I don’t have time to replay it all now.

Della gave me a name. A purpose, if only for a night.

Pressing my cheek harder against the wall, I rebuild the dungeon that houses the memories I can’t face. I imagine myself filling the cracks, eliminating any chance of escape.

While Della and I are both the architects of our own hauntings, she welcomes her ghosts.

I imprison mine.