“I’ve missed you,” Nim said.
The playfulness fell from Margery’s expression. “Oh, no. I knew an urgent message from Allister wasn’t a good sign, but I hadn’t expected it would be this bad. What is it, Nim?”
She laughed helplessly. “I hardly know.”
There was a light knock at the door, and a slender maid brought in a tray of tea and cakes. She eyed Margery carefully as she crossed the room then settled the tray on a low table near Nim.
“For the sake of—please stop being so jumpy in front of guests. She’ll think I’ve abused you in some horrible manner.”
The girl gave her an accusatory glance, and Margery huffed. “Fine. Last evening’s cakes were entirely acceptable. It was only that I was in the mood for lemon. Are you satisfied?”
The girl’s narrow chin rose before she gave a brief nod of acquiescence then turned to leave the room. Nim’s lips turned up at the corner as she took a gingerbread piece from the dish of tarts and custards. “I much prefer her to the last one. She has pluck.”
Margery gave Nim a narrow look. “We don’t speak the last one’s name in this house.” She made the sign to ward off curses then winked. “Now, tell me what I can do for you, my dear.”
Etiquette might have had Nim inquiring about any number of less dire things first, but she’d been friends with Margery for as long as she could remember, and Nim knew better than to make her wait. “I need information.”
Margery shrugged one shoulder. The request was nothing new, and besides, Nim knew Margery trusted her with any bit of information she came across. It was easy enough, given that Nim had no one to repeat the information to—Margery was the only member of court willing to risk association with someone tossed from good society.
Nim had led Margery to believe the information was used in business dealings, and though Margery understood the dealings were private, she’d no idea that it was because they were at the behest of the worst sort of bad society.
Nim’s fingers ran across a pleat in her skirt. She glanced at the doorway.
“You’re safe,” Margery told her. “No one can hear you, and they’d be fools to pass on a word either of us says.”
“It’s… more complicated than usual.” It was evident Margery’s patience was wearing thin, so Nim pushed forward. “There could be more than a bit of risk for you, and I want you to understand, truly, that I’ll not hold it against you if you prefer to pretend I never asked.”
Margery’s brows drew together. “Curses, girl, what sort of plot have you gotten into now?”
“What do you know of the seneschal?”
The teacup tottered in Margery’s hand, and some of the liquid sloshed onto the deep red of her gown. “The…”
Nim nodded, leaning forward to blot the dampness from her friend’s skirt.
Margery snatched the napkin from Nim’s hand and clasped her fingers as their gazes locked. “Are you in over your head?”
“Yes. But there’s no need to drag yourself down with me—”
“Hush,” Margery snapped. “I’ll give you everything I know. More, if you need it. That’s my promise.”
Nim squeezed her fingers tighter. “I don’t deserve you.”
“No one does, love. It’s why I’m alone at five and twenty.”
Nim’s startled laugh came out in a rush of breath, and she had to push back the emotion she felt welling in her chest. Margery hated that sort of nonsense. “Five and twenty?” Her tone was coy, but surely, they both felt the tension beneath it.
“Five. And. Twenty,” she repeated. She set her teacup on the table, brushing her palms together as if doing away with all the rest. “Now, let us delve into the depths of the king’s venerable seneschal.”
Chapter 3
Margery had told Nim what she knew of the king’s household, the castle layout, and the habits of the seneschal of Inara and had promised to send over what other information she could find. And Nim, alone at her favorite writing desk, was about to do something more dangerous and foolish than she’d ever planned.
Nim’s father had fallen behind on his payments when she was only a girl. It hadn’t been long after when Nim’s freedom had been taken in exchange for his life. A poor bargain, because he’d had no life at all. She’d been young and foolish—she surely would have agreed—but she’d not been given the chance. Calum had stolen her blood, touched her flesh to parchment, and bound her without consent. That was all it took to steal someone’s freedom: fresh blood, clever terms, and the magic of the Trust.
Calum had been younger then but just as vile. And the bindings tied her stronger than most because she had been touched by the magic of her father’s bargain—one made directly with the head of the Trust, a dark queen whose power was unfathomable.
Nim’s father had been trapped in the dark cells deep in the undercity, beneath the weight of a magic that had slowly devoured all that he was, a sacrifice like so many others who’d fed the magic of the Trust.
Nim would not let the same happen to her.
She tapped her quill into the ink pot, resigned to the words. The decision had been made, and there was no going back on it.
She would never be free until the debt was paid, regardless of whose bargain it was. There was no way to reclaim her freedom from the Trust on her own. She needed help. She needed leverage.
People like Nim weren’t embraced by the king’s court, but that didn’t mean she had to ask for favor. If only she could manage to hold something the seneschal wanted, she might be able to bring him to her aid. There was the certain risk of being hanged, but Nim had never feared the king’s men as much as the contract on her life—as much as Calum.
Despite the substance of the letter amounting to extortion, she finished with a polite “I look forward to our meeting” then rested the quill back in its place, folded the paper, and sealed it with wax. “Sealing my fate,” she muttered, glancing up just in time to see Allister come in.
He inclined his head, and she gestured toward the waiting pile of correspondence near the edge of the desk. “Have these delivered by this afternoon. Tell the staff I plan to take dinner in my rooms. I’ll not be disturbed this evening.”
Allister nodded, his dark eyes on her but his manners and uniform entirely in order. “Anything else, your ladyship?”
Nim’s gaze drifted in the direction of the high vaulted ceiling. “Nothing that can be helped by you, I’m afraid.” She pushed to standing, straightening her skirt before meeting the valet’s gaze. “Thank you, Allister. I’ll check in with you tomorrow.”
He dipped his head at the dismissal and spun, silently disappearing from view. Nim knew he could be relied upon. There were two people in the world Nim trusted, and Allister was one of them—he would see the missives delivered and ensure her evening ventures would not be found out.
She made her way through the long corridor to her suite of rooms in a house that was not hers—an owned woman could possess no real property—but indeed was no less free for her use while its proprietor was enjoying an extended visit to the countryside, one from which he might never return.