The Mud I Must Crawl Through

Viscount Cecilla laughed until he was slapping the arm of the sofa. Then, all at once, the laughter died, and he began to study me with a lingering, dissecting attention. He nodded to himself as he stared, and after a long moment muttered something I could not tell was meant for me or for himself.

"I thought so yesterday as well, but once you're dressed up, you're rather…"

"Pardon?"

"I see now that Lady Dvorden has clear blue eyes as well. Sisters, I suppose — the color is identical."

The one thing Dorothy and I shared — two sisters who otherwise looked nothing alike — was the color of our eyes. That he had never noticed mine until now was absurd enough, but what was this snake playing at all of a sudden?

I could find nothing to say and simply stared. Viscount Cecilla leaned forward and made his suggestion in a silky, insinuating tone.

"Have you given any thought to meeting the master of the Rose Garden?"

"Him?"

"A connection with him would be of far greater use to House Dvorden than any paltry gift of mine."

I nearly cheered out loud. I had planned to lower Viscount Cecilla's guard first, then find a way into the 27th Street Club. Unexpectedly, the path had opened itself.

"It would be an honor. When might I meet him?"

"Nothing would please me more than to introduce you to him this very moment, but he does not show his face just anywhere. You would first need to meet the gentlemen who can arrange such an audience, and cultivate their acquaintance."

"I'll do it."

I nodded, swallowing the urge to demand he take me to those bastards right now.

Viscount Cecilla lifted his teacup with a look of satisfaction, then cocked his head, the look in his eyes shifting as he asked a new question.

"Was there nothing of this in Dorothy's letters?"

The snake. Suspicious to the last. I paused, careful not to show any alarm, then answered as though searching my memory.

"There were so many names I can't recall them all, but a few stand out clearly. Count Noerd, for instance…"

I offered the only name that had actually appeared in Dorothy's letters, my heart in my throat. If that child's story about being bitten by a snake at the Noerd estate had not been the literal truth, then Count Noerd was almost certainly a member of the 27th Street Club as well.

Fortunately, my guess seemed to land. Viscount Cecilla nodded and drank his tea. He set down the empty cup and continued.

"Stay here from today onward. And from now on, have no further contact with Count Cayder or the Marchioness of Derian."

At that, I slowly lifted my own teacup.

"I'm afraid that won't be possible, Viscount."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Until I meet the master of the Rose Garden myself, I cannot place my full trust in you. I ought to have some insurance of my own, don't you think?"

"Did we not agree to be in the same boat?"

A laugh slipped out of me. We both knew what had become of Dorothy, who had been forced aboard that boat. That Viscount Cecilla could say such a thing with a straight face — I could not hold back a scoff. If I hadn't, I might have brought the teacup down on his skull.

"Think of this as a transaction, Viscount. Arrange a meeting with the master of the Rose Garden, and I will give you every original of Dorothy's letters."

"I cannot introduce him to someone who associates with Count Cayder."

"That's your problem to solve. If it's truly too difficult, I'll settle for the annual gifts."

Viscount Cecilla looked distinctly put out, so I lifted my chin and pretended to be triumphant. Anyone who didn't know the truth would think I was using Dorothy's letters to blackmail him into an introduction. It wasn't entirely untrue — except that he had another option entirely.

If things went against him, Viscount Cecilla would kill me without a second thought. What he needed now was time to deal with the variable I represented — or another sacrificial lamb to offer up to the 27th Street Club. It was painfully obvious that he was only pretending to cede control so he could use a greedy, foolish country bumpkin for all she was worth.

But for now, I had to let myself be fooled. Until I stood face to face with the prince, I had to take that hand. That was the mud I had to crawl through.

The ground already felt as though it were dropping away beneath my feet when Viscount Cecilla, convinced he had thoroughly deceived me, asked as if to confirm.

"You truly said nothing to Count Cayder?"

"Don't worry. He thinks I'm nothing more than a naive young lady grieving her sister's death."

"How did you come to be involved with that man?"

"He approached me first. He asked me to request an official investigation into Dorothy's death."

My answer was as good as the truth. Viscount Cecilla twisted his lips and sneered at Lyft.

"Idiots."

I may well have been among the idiots he was laughing at. Michael Cecilla leaned toward me and whispered a warning.

"He may treat you kindly now, but once you begin keeping company with our people, the situation will change. Should you find yourself in need of a place to stay, you are welcome at the viscount's manor at any time."

"If the situation changes, I'll do just that."

I summoned what little strength I had left and smiled back. The viscount rose and extended his hand. I swallowed the nausea rising in my throat and took it.

The conversation ended on a remark that landed like a curse: that he wished he'd known sooner what kind of woman I was.

I boarded the carriage under Viscount Cecilla's escort, and it rolled out through the gates of the viscount's manor. Inside, rattling down a boulevard I had traveled often enough to know by heart, I swallowed back the vomit that surged up again and again. Was this what it felt like to be covered in filth from head to toe? I wanted to drown myself in disinfectant.

After I returned to Daisy House, I vomited again and again. I retched up yellow bile until I collapsed onto the bed, exhausted. Noel came by several times, insisting I needed to eat dinner, but he only paced in front of me as I lay unable to rise, then left.

I fell into a sleep like a faint, then startled awake, then drifted in and out of dreams in which I could not tell whether I was hunting someone or being hunted. The night grew deep.

When I opened my eyes once more, I found myself staring into a pair of amber ones looking down at me. For a heartbeat I thought I had met a beast in my dreams. My father's hunting hawk — the one he had trained when I was a child — had had eyes just like that.

"Lady Dvorden."

I stared blankly into his eyes until a sigh came, followed by a low, resonant voice. I parted my lips to ask what he was doing here at this hour, but no sound came out. I sat up in alarm, and Lyft supported my back as he spoke.

"You vomited so violently your throat must be raw. Don't strain it."

He added that it would pass soon enough and held out a glass of water. I drained the warmed water, and Lyft set a tray across my knees. On it sat a bowl of soup with nothing solid in it. I shook my head and forced the words through my ruined throat.

"I don't want any."

"I was told you haven't eaten a thing all day."

Lyft pressed a spoon into my hand.

"How do you plan to take Viscount Cecilla's head with a body that collapses at the slightest provocation?"

A self-mocking laugh escaped me at being treated like an invalid. Dorothy had been the sickly one. I had been healthy since childhood. I had even learned swordsmanship as a girl, however briefly, and I could ride better than most men. Stamina had never once been a problem — and yet, not even a week in Caliwood, I was being treated like a frail thing that fainted at every turn.

Lyft was right. How am I supposed to cut anything like this? And it isn't even one neck I need to take.

I scooped a large spoonful of soup and swallowed it whole. I felt the thick broth slide down my throat. I feared the nausea would return, but it went down without incident.

Lyft watched me swallow every spoonful in silence. When I emptied the bowl and set down the spoon, he took the tray away.

"Would you like more?"

I shook my head. He set the tray on the table and came back to sit on the edge of the bed.

"I hear you've agreed to meet the members of the 27th Street Club."

"How did you—"

I looked up and found his eyes gone cold. In the dark room, lit by only a few candles, his pupils were blown wide — the eyes of a raptor circling for a kill.

Lyft opened his mouth, then closed it without speaking. The muscle in his jaw jumped and settled. He chose his words slowly, like a man fighting to keep his temper.

"I'll say it again. It's dangerous."

"Dangerous or not, I have no choice. He said if I get close to them, they'll introduce me to the prince."

"Did he also explain what 'getting close to them' actually means?"

"That's…"

I trailed off, dodging the question, and his jaw clenched again before he forced it to relax. I knew what he was afraid of. The gathering Viscount Cecilla intended to arrange would not be a genteel afternoon of chess and conversation. And I knew he was not offering to take me to the prince's garden to arrange flowers.