Page 9

Chapter 7

August

August Wolffe was only still awake by the grace of four cups of coffee. He’d dozed off on top of his typewriter sometime around five this morning. Which now made three nights in a row he hadn’t slept at home. He hadn’t eaten a hot meal in two days. And all he had to show for it were a dozen photographs, twenty scribbled pages of notes, and exactly zero headlines.

He rubbed his eyes, strained from exhaustion and the gloom of the developing room, trying to focus on the pictures suspended in front of him.

For all their shouting about fair distribution of wealth, the Bullhorn was still a business. They paid by the headline. And August had nothing but a bunch of pictures of Modesty Holtzfall at the opening of her latest melodrama, waving under the marquee. A puff piece would be fine at any other paper, but not the Bullhorn . He could’ve written that her bracelet would buy half the city tickets to see her. But the Holtzfalls’ obscene wealth wasn’t exactly news.

August was already on thin ice.

Not just because every other journalist here had at least half a decade on him. Sometimes half a century. The Bullhorn was a place for idealists. For journalists who wanted to change the world by writing about how unfair it was.

A place for idealists…and seventeen-year-olds who’d been laughed out of every other paper for their age and inexperience. It wasn’t that August Wolffe didn’t care about the injustices of the world, he just cared more about righting his own station in life than telling everyone else how bad they had it.

He let out a frustrated breath as he leaned over the pictures spread across the table in the darkroom, his narrow shoulders straining against the suspenders that cut a line across his body.

“Is this newspaper so understaffed that you have to work the movie beat as well as the gruesome murder beat?” The voice startled August into looking up. Trudie, one of the newer secretaries, was leaning in the doorway, backlit by the bright magimek light strips of the bullpen against the red hue of the darkroom.

She was inspecting the pictures of Modesty still drying on the clothesline, with a single raised eyebrow that unsettled August, even though it was taking his tired brain a minute to work out why. “Do you write the housekeeping section too?” Trudie taunted. “ How to get tough ink stains out of shirts when you’re too poor to afford a Fairweiss charm ?”

Trudie’s accent was gone, he realized. That little rolling twang that marked her as a recent import from the countryside. And she wasn’t talking in that breathy rushed way she usually did either. Like if she didn’t get her words out quickly enough, someone might start talking over her.

She turned an uncommonly sharp gaze on him. “You’re A dot Wolffe?”

Trudie definitely knew his name.

“I am.” August’s hand had already begun creeping toward the developing acid that was sitting on the table. “But I think the real question is, who are you?” August’s hand closed around the bottle.

Fake Trudie’s lips quirked up just a little. “Oh, how rude of me.” And then, in a blink, where Trudie had been standing, another girl was lounging in the doorframe. “Honora Holtzfall, pleasure to meet you.”

August almost dropped the bottle.

“I didn’t really want to have to fight through a mob of journalists to get to you, so I ditched my honorable knight and borrowed a hair from one of your secretaries. I’m sure she won’t miss it.” She touched a small locket around her neck. A glamour charm, August guessed. All she’d have to do was feed a hair into it and she could look like whoever it came from.

Honora Holtzfall glanced down with sharp dark eyes. “Have you decided whether or not to throw developing acid at my face yet?” August realized he was still holding the bottle. He put it down quickly.

August had never understood the draw of Honora Holtzfall. She was just another wealthy girl in a city full of wealthy girls. But he’d never been alone in a darkroom with her before. He found himself scrambling to regain his footing. “I’d better not. Who knows how you’d get by without relying on those looks of yours.”

Honora Holtzfall’s lips drew into a genuine wide smile at the barb. Not exactly the reaction August had been expecting, but then again, it couldn’t be anything she hadn’t heard before. Every newspaper in town would tell you the Holtzfall girls were wealthy, beautiful fools and that was all there was to them.

Or maybe she wasn’t smart enough to realize it was an insult.

“And then of course there’s the small matter that developing acid is very different from the sort of acid that would peel my skin from my bones. That sort of acid is mostly used by mustache-twirling villains in chewing-gum comic strips and the terrible movies my cousin stars in.” Honora swept him with a look he had never seen in any of the sultry pictures of her in the papers. “And frankly, I don’t think you could pull off a mustache.”

The challenge in her voice drew August to attention, quicker than any of the coffee. “You don’t think it would make me look dashing?”

“Are you even old enough to grow a mustache?”

“So, you weren’t expecting me to be so young and dashing.”

“It worries me that as a journalist you don’t know that dashing isn’t a synonym for annoying .”

“Big word, synonym . You should stick to two-syllable words. That’s how many you need to order oysters, right?”

“Not if you want a proper dozen.”

August almost laughed.

Honora Holtzfall seemed to remember herself all at once, drawing away from their duel as quickly as she’d raised her weapon. Her eyes dashed from his as she tossed the newspaper she was holding onto the table, sending his pictures scattering. “Since you clearly think I’m as stupid as I am beautiful, why don’t you help me understand this?”

It was this morning’s edition of the Bullhorn . August had been so wrapped up in finding his next headline he hadn’t even seen today’s yet. The photo he had taken of Verity Holtzfall’s infamous crime scene graced the front page. The picture next to it wasn’t his handiwork. It showed Honora Holtzfall, like he was used to seeing her, tipsy and carefree. The headline wasn’t his either.

Spoiled Honora Holtzfall Gloats as Heirship Comes Within Reach

That had all the fingerprints of Walter Feuer, who despised the Holtzfalls.

“You didn’t take the morning off from drinking martinis and come all the way down here to scold us for calling you a spoiled brat, did you? I mean, that can’t have been news to you.”

Honora’s eyes dashed up from the paper so swiftly that they startled him straight into the snare of her gaze. Photographs didn’t do her justice. That thought shot through August’s mind too quickly for him to chase it away. “Firstly, you wouldn’t catch me dead with a martini before midday. Secondly, your newspaper’s tendency to spell brat with two t ’s is really the only thing that surprises me.” She flicked to the front cover. “My mother is wearing jewelry in this photograph. Do you see why that might be strange, or do I have to spell that out for you too?”

Now, that got August’s attention.

He hadn’t noticed any jewelry when he’d shot the picture. He’d been distracted by other things, like the fact that he was looking at the dead body of the Holtzfall Heiress, and getting out of there before the police confiscated his camera again. But as he peered at the image in the dim light of the darkroom, he saw that Honora was right. The flash of light at Verity Holtzfall’s throat was from an immense jeweled necklace. And there was a ring on her hand. And a thin bracelet too, glittering in the flash of his camera.

He felt his heart pick up as realization dawned. “Muggers don’t usually leave a million zaub’s worth of jewelry behind.”

Honora Holtzfall made a noise at the back of her throat. “Try thirty million. They’re all from Rosenkwitz’s Charmerie, you know.” Rosenkwitz was the most renowned charmier in the city. Technically speaking, you could make a charm out of anything that would conduct magical energy. Tin or brass worked just fine for everyday charms. The heating charm in August’s apartment was made from a half-rusted bicycle spoke. Though most winter months he and his mother struggled to scrape together enough to afford to power it. But charms worked better if the symbols were inscribed onto silver or gold. And then, of course, there were the rubies and sapphires imported at great cost from the Ionian Peninsula, ensuring anyone outside the upper circles was priced out. August could work his entire life and he’d never be able to afford a hatpin from Rosenkwitz’s Charmerie. He could barely afford a hat .

No mugger in his right mind would’ve passed up the chance for charms like the ones Verity Holtzfall wore.

Which meant the mugging was a cover-up.

August had been hunting for a headline for days. Only for one to saunter into his darkroom in a pair of shoes that cost a year of his salary.

Honora’s dark eyes were still fixed on him, her mind clearly far from just how many papers this could sell. “I am hoping, Mr.Wolffe, that you have a good explanation for why, out of hundreds of photos taken that night, yours is the only one where my mother is still wearing her jewels?”

And finally August understood why she was here. He forced his tone to stay light as he answered. Forced his eyes to stay on the paper so she wouldn’t see the rising anger there. “Why, Miss Holtzfall, are you accusing me of being a criminal?”

“I don’t know what I’m accusing you of yet.” Even without looking up he felt her gaze sweep him. “But judging by how many times that shirt you’re wearing has been darned, and the fact that you’re working here , I don’t think I am accusing you of jewelry theft, no.” In spite of the insult, August felt his shoulders ease. He had spent five years fighting tooth and nail not to follow his father’s lead. Getting jailed over false accusations from some rich girl would be a real kick in the teeth. “Besides,” Honora added, “the Herald broke the story about Lukas Schuld, not the Bullhorn . And no one would be stupid enough to set up a man for murder only to be scooped by a better paper on their own frame job. Not even a dumb heiress like me.”

Honora Holtzfall really wasn’t what he’d been expecting, August had to admit. Not that he’d expected to ever come face-to-face with her at all. “I’ll make you a deal.” August fought to sound casual. “I’ll tell you everything I know, if you get me into tonight’s Veritaz Ceremony.”

Honora drummed her fingers along the table. “Could I perhaps interest you in a large amount of money as a bribe instead?”

“Tempting,” August lied. “But I’ll still take that invite.”

“Are you sure?” Honora said. “I am very rich, you know.”

He did know. And he was all too aware of the empty cupboards in his apartment. Of the twice- and thrice-repaired clothes in his closet. He had no doubt that Honora Holtzfall could make his Bullhorn salary look like loose change. He also had no doubt that he would despise himself for putting a price on his integrity.

The murder of Verity Holtzfall being a cover-up was the sort of story that could make August’s career. Stories like this came along once in a journalist’s lifetime. A decade ago, a journalist at the Herald had broken the story that Albertine von Hoff had faked the kidnapping of her baby for ransom money from her famously tight-fisted father. Now that journalist ran the Herald . If August broke this story, he could leverage it into a real job at a good newspaper. One with a career path and a decent salary. But until then, he still had bills to pay. And the Veritaz party tonight, now, that was a headline.

“Wish I could help you.” August shrugged.

It was no small ask, and they both knew it. The only journalists invited tonight to witness the ancient Holtzfall ax being handed over to the Huldrekall were the ones who could be counted on to fawn over the dresses, the décor, have a few drinks, and write a tidy little story about the glory of traditions being upheld. The Bullhorn didn’t make the guest list.

“Do you own a tuxedo?” Honora Holtzfall sighed finally.

“Oh, sure, I wear it to drinks every weekend with the boys from the polo club.”

“Get a tuxedo, and we have a deal.”

A spark of exhilaration ran through August, the prospect of a story making him more alert than the coffee ever could. “It’s a date.”

“Believe me, it’s very much not.”