Page 5 of The Gargoyle and the Maiden (Nightfall Guardians #1)

F ace scrubbed and clothes freshened, Idabel followed Betje down an unfamiliar street, one of the many that circled the human king’s palace in layers of importance.

She’d never been to the palace quarter where the diplomats and courtiers lived.

The women in Maiden Hall who worked there reported that it felt like visiting the moon, the people were so cold and high-minded.

She’d had a hard time picturing anyone higher-minded than the keepers, but now that she was there herself, she understood.

Even her best skirts looked shabby here, every spot and worn edge obvious.

And though it was just past dawn, a time when the streets around the apothecary were bustling with news-callers and bootblacks and milk delivery, the wide avenues here were quiet.

An occasional uniformed footman or housemaid scurried by without greeting, but otherwise it seemed the whole quarter was still abed.

“Must be nice,” Idabel muttered, fighting the weights that dragged down her lids. She’d get no rest before she had to report to the Tower for another long day of climbing ladders and hauling buckets.

Even Betje, who was usually a clockwork, had bags under her eyes as they stopped in front of a white marble townhouse and rang at its silver gate.

“A nobleman?” Idabel guessed, craning her neck to admire the carved stonework on the building’s face.

“Yes, but he’s just a man at the end of the day. Don’t be intimidated.”

They were admitted and shown into an extravagant receiving parlor. Everything in it was marble and cream. Even the cleanest finger would leave a smudge. Idabel didn’t dare sit on the delicate brocade settee where Betje plopped down like it was an old cushion on the kitchen hearth.

She patted the seat beside her. “Don’t be shy.”

Before Idabel could argue, they were interrupted by the appearance of a butler. “Wilkin, Lord of Lamont, and Lady Hannalinde,” he announced to the room in general before stepping smartly aside so the pair could enter.

The lord, a distinguished-looking man with graying temples and a glittering array of gems pinned to his lapel, raised his brows when he saw them.

His companion, a much younger woman with moon-colored hair and skin so fair that it must never see the sun, appeared as fragile and pointless as the settee, just another decoration in the room.

Idabel dropped into a unpracticed curtsy, unsure of the etiquette. But she must have gotten it wrong, because Betje didn’t move a muscle, just smiled like a barn cat who’d recently dispatched a rat.

“What have we here, Betonyne?” Lord Wilkin drawled, looking Idabel up and down. Apparently, he and Betje were well acquainted, given his familiar tone and use of her full name. “Don’t tell me you interrupted my daughter’s breakfast to introduce me to your country cousin.”

The daughter’s cheeks stained crimson, and she gave Idabel a tiny, apologetic grimace. Perhaps she had her own thoughts and was not just decorative after all.

Betje snorted. “Do we look like cousins? Idabel is my apprentice.”

Warm shock jolted through her at Betje’s impulsive promotion. Or maybe it was a sideways reminder that her apprenticeship hinged on agreeing to whatever this Lord Wilkin wanted. She rubbed her sweaty palms on her good skirts, bracing herself for whatever he had in store.

“Go on,” he said impatiently.

“She also works in the Tower.”

Understanding dawned on Lord Wilkin’s face, and his expression instantly warmed. “My dear girl, do sit down,” he urged Idabel. Reluctantly, she perched on the edge of the settee next to Betje, who patted her shoulder reassuringly as the two nobles took seats across from them.

A tray arrived, courtesy of a footman, and Lady Hannalinde sprung into action, solicitously pouring each of them some tea and arranging the accompanying pastries so they could reach a full selection.

Idabel sipped the hot, fortifying liquid gratefully.

“Do you find your work enjoyable?” Lady Hannalinde asked politely. Her father smiled into his cup at the question but held his tongue.

“I like working at the apothecary very much.”

“And the Tower?” The lady’s tone was light, but from the crafty look Betje wore, the question was anything but.

“I’m grateful for the position,” Idabel stuttered, unsure of the right answer. She crammed a lacy cherry-and-almond pastry in her mouth so she had more time to think.

“You don’t find the gargoyles…overbearing?” Hannalinde raised her brows, expression pure innocence.

Idabel swallowed her dry mouthful. “I work while they’re asleep. I’m not allowed–—”

“She has keys to nearly every room in the Tower,” Betje interrupted. “And she often toils well past sundown.”

Idabel winced. So Betje had noticed her lateness after all.

Lord Wilkin’s gaze bored into her. “You could arrange to meet one, then. To be alone with one?”

She was instantly on guard, bristling at the implications, but Betje patted her arm again. “Not tha t. Just listen. She is trustworthy, Wil,” she added. “She has no love for the creatures.”

Idabel lost her patience. “Can someone please tell me what’s going on?”

The pale daughter reddened again, and Lord Wilkin set down his teacup.

“Apologies. I should not have been so circumspect. Betonyne and I are part of a group who believe that the gargoyles have too much hold over life in Solvantis. We feel humans should have more freedoms. The freedom to own magical items, for example.”

“To grow plants inside the city walls,” Betje added, with a meaningful look.

“Flowers,” Lady Hannalinde breathed so quietly that Idabel could barely hear her.

Lord Wilkin gave his daughter an indulgent look.

“I try to influence the king in that regard, but the work is slow. The gargoyles have a tight grip on his opinion. He believes their protection is the worth the price. Of course, we humans could better protect the heartstone and ourselves if we had tael-infused armor and weapons, but he won’t hear it! That is where you come in.”

“Me?” Idabel asked, still bewildered how she fit into any of this.

“We need evidence,” he explained, sounding like a kindly father.

“Of what?”

“Of their potential to do us harm.”

Idabel jolted with a different kind of shock. “I thought they were incapable! Isn’t that part of their vow?”

The heartstone vow was the crux of the ancient agreement between their two species.

The gargoyles swore to watch over human cities at night, and in return, humans guarded the heartstone during the day.

Whoever possessed it could command all of gargoyle-kind.

No one wanted it to fall into other, more dangerous hands.

And other hands were definitely interested.

Like the hands that destroyed her farm and family.

Flames licked the inside of her eyelids. Idabel shuddered, pushing the image away. Betje must have sensed her distress, because she took her free hand, squeezing it.

Lord Wilkin nodded sagely. “They cannot kill us without penalty. But I think we can agree that death is not the only kind of harm. Don’t mistake me—we need the gargoyles.

But they need us, too. They could loosen their grip a little.

They treat us like infants when we could be equals, and people are beginning to believe it. Even the king.”

He was right. It was refreshing to hear someone voice what she’d been thinking since she arrived in Solvantis. “The keepers treat them like gods.”

“The gods are dead,” he returned crisply. “That’s exactly what we must remind people of. There are no more gods.”

She’d never agreed with anyone more fiercely. Neither gods nor gargoyles had protected her when the goblins came. “What do I have to do?”