The street narrowed into an alley and soon I found myself alone, the sun going down at my back. The streetlamps were still unlit, but the shop windows down the hill were filled with candlelight as the apprentices closed up.
A sound like a heartbeat echoed between the brick walls and I stopped, turning toward the water. It was the feeling I always had—like I was being watched. But the street was empty except for two women making their way down the hill. I waited another moment before I started again, keeping my steps quiet so I could listen more carefully. I didn’t know if it was the dimming light or the darkened windows overhead, but a chill crept up my spine and I was suddenly aware of just how bare the streets were. I was alone in a city I didn’t know, night falling by the minute. In another hour, it would be dark.
I swallowed hard, picking up my pace. Murrow hadn’t offered to come with me, and I hadn’t had the courage to ask him. Certainly not in front of Ezra. The last thing I needed was for any of the Roths to think I needed taking care of.
The sign hung from the northeast corner of the warehouse, the numbers one and four crudely etched into the metal with what looked like the tip of a blade. I’d never have seen it from the street, but I was beginning to realize that the buildings sprawled over the hill were probably all called piers, no matter their distance from the water below.
I tucked the parchment into the pocket of my skirt and followed the uneven cobblestones around the side of the building until I found a door. It was lined with iron rivets, no handle in sight. The cold iron stung my knuckles as I knocked, and I shook out my hand, watching the narrow alley behind me. There was no one, but I still had that feeling, as if someone’s eyes were following me.
When there was no answer, I knocked harder, and without warning, the door flung open, almost slamming into me. A thin man wearing a worn woolen cap stared down at me with an irritated look that turned inquisitive as his eyes adjusted. “Yes?”
My gaze went past him, into the dark warehouse, where there were rows of long tables lit with lanterns. From the acrid smell coming out, I guessed it was some kind of precious-metal workshop. Palladium, maybe. “I’m looking for Arthur.”
The man almost laughed, his hand slipping from the edge of the door. “Arthur?”
“That’s right,” I said, impatient. At the end of the alley, the streetlamps began flickering to life one by one.
He stared at me before he let the door close, leaving me standing out on the street. “Arthur!”
His voice echoed behind the walls and I stuck my cold hands into the pockets of my skirts, waiting. A workshop like this one would supply merchants like the watchmaker, refining metals before they were melted down for jewelry and other items. But I wasn’t here for silver or gold or palladium.
I pulled the small, folded envelope Henrik had given me from my pocket, turning it over. There was no inscription, and it wasn’t sealed. Inside there would be lists of ships that came and went from the harbor the week before and what was in their cargo holds. There were only three types of people who bought that kind of information: traders who wanted to know what was moving at each port, merchants who wanted to keep an eye on their competition, and people like the Roths, who were looking to take what wasn’t theirs. Arthur was one of probably dozens in Bastian paying the Roths for copies of the logs.
When the door opened again, a large man with a head of curling black hair appeared. He grimaced when he saw me, leaning on the doorframe with one shoulder. “Well, what is it?”
“Are you Arthur?”
His eyes swept the street behind me, as if he expected someone else to be there. “I am.”
I lifted the folded parchment into the air. “I’m here for pickup.”
I recited the words just as Henrik had told me to, but before they’d even finished leaving my mouth, Arthur’s expression shifted from annoyed to uneasy.
“What is this?” he growled.
“I’m…” My eyes went to the tables inside. “I’m here for payment. For Henrik Roth.”
He stared at me, as if deciding something. And before I realized he was moving, he’d pushed out into the street, nearly stepping on me. His gaze drifted from one corner of the alley to the next before he snatched up my arm by the wrist, yanking me forward. The log slipped from my fingers, landing in a puddle at my feet.
“What are you—” I tried to pull away, but his hand clamped down harder until pain was shooting up into my elbow. He shoved up the sleeve of my frock, tearing the tiny pearl button from where it was sewn.
“This some kind of joke?” He let me go and I stumbled backward, almost falling into the street. “A stunt by the harbor watch?” He turned toward the door, not waiting for an answer. “Get the hell out of here.”
I cradled my arm, watching the light on the street shrink as the door began to shut. But I wasn’t returning to my uncle empty-handed. Before I thought better of it, I caught the edge of door with one hand. “Wait.”
He whirled on me, his hand flying through the air so fast that I hardly saw it coming before it struck me across the face. My head whipped to the side and I hit the brick wall with my shoulder, gasping.
The explosion of pain in my mouth made me pinch my eyes closed and the taste of iron lit on my tongue. I tried to draw a shallow breath, and two footsteps sounded behind me, followed by the heavy door of the pier slamming shut.
Tears welled in my eyes as I looked up. I was alone in the alley. The steady, warm drip of blood streamed from my chin and I swallowed down the aching cry in my throat. My hands shook as I wiped at my mouth and when I looked down at the sleeve of my dress, the purple linen was stained almost black. The button at my wrist was gone where the man had torn my sleeve, a bright, red scratch trailing where his fingernail had scraped me.
The smooth, pale skin of my forearm was milk white in the darkness and a sinking, uneasy feeling settled in my gut when I realized what he’d been looking for. He was looking for the mark of the Roths.
SEVEN
I’d never been struck in my life. Not by anyone.
I stood before Henrik’s desk in his empty study, my eyes locked on the portrait that hung on the wall. The four Roth siblings looked down at me from the gilded frame, their mouths set in straight lines and their chins lifted. They looked as if they each belonged there side by side with the other members of the family. I wondered how long that had taken, what it had taken, to be true.
Murrow came through the door and handed me a damp, folded cloth that smelled of pungent vinegar. I’d heard him arguing with Sylvie in the kitchen, who was demanding to know who was bleeding.
I pressed the linen to my swollen lip, wincing. I could still taste blood despite the shot of rye Murrow had given me when I came through the door. It was as if he’d been waiting for me, sitting there at the table in the dining room with the bottle and a single glass.
We could hear his footsteps before the door of the workshop opened and Henrik appeared, his apron still tied around his middle. There wasn’t even the slightest flinch in his eyes as he looked at me.
“Bryn. You’re back,” he said, simply. As if my cut-up face was the most normal thing in the world. He patiently tugged at the strings of his apron and pulled it over his head, hanging it on the wall. “And? How did it go?”