As if he’d read my mind, he stood, dropping it on the desk. “I’ve been working to secure this patronage for months, but word had it that Simon was considering offering himself as patron to Arthur. As soon as the story about him laying his hands on a young woman, especially one as pretty and proper as you, started circulating last night, I knew Simon would be forced to cut ties. It doesn’t matter what kind of slum he came from, he wouldn’t want to be tied to someone wrapped in rumors.” Henrik was absolutely gleeful. “Now, it’s time to get to work,” he said, throwing his acute attention on the others. “You all know what needs doing. And we have five days to do it.”
Casimir, Noel, Ezra, and Murrow answered with nods and grunts, but my stomach was twisting on itself, nausea climbing up my throat.
He’d used me.
I knew when I came to Bastian that Henrik would have plans for me, as he called it. Sariah had made sure I understood that much. But he’d willingly sent me to that pier knowing I’d be hurt. And he’d done it for his own gain.
My eyes trailed up to the portrait on the wall, to where my mother looked down at me. The pendulum swing of my uncle’s wrath and affection was a dangerous, shifting wind. In only a few days, I’d seen it firsthand, and I knew there were much darker deeds in this family than the ones I’d witnessed. This was only the beginning.
TEN
It was going to take more than fine garments to impress the watchmaker, but a visit to the couturier was a start.
The nimble-fingered work of a talented seamstress was more than enough for the usual commissions of frocks and jackets, but Sariah had taught me that if you wanted garments cut for the likes of a guild member, a seamstress wouldn’t do.
Sariah’s wardrobe had been the envy of Nimsmire, every stitch and seam perfect, every bead exquisite. While the other women went to a seamstress, she went to the couturier—the skilled tradesmen that crafted the finest suits and boots.
There was only one in the Merchant’s District, and I’d sent a message ahead to reserve the shop for the entire afternoon. I would need his full attention if I was going to outfit the whole family and I needed first pick of the fabrics that had arrived on the ships that morning. With a little charm, I’d have my pick of trimmings, too. Buttons made of animal horn or polished onyx, thread that glistened with the shimmer of gold.
My freshly shined boots clipped at a quick pace as I followed the street curving through the Merchant’s District. I’d put on one of my nicest frocks and pinned my hair back with emerald-studded combs. I had to look the part if I was going to get the couturier to take me seriously.
Nearly everyone in this part of the city was cleaned of the grime of the sea and docks, the red, windblown faces replaced with smooth ones. Traders didn’t come this far from the taverns down by the water. They rarely had need to.
The family had been in a flurry since the invitation had come, with Ezra getting straight to work on the pieces they would present to the guild in the exhibition. There would be no fake gems or sleights of hand. These would be the creations of a master silversmith, the best curated work to convince the guild of Henrik’s worthiness of the merchant’s ring. My uncle had placed an enormous amount of trust in Ezra and that was more than a little puzzling. For someone not even related by blood, he held the family’s fate in his scarred hands.
If Henrik got the merchant’s ring, everything would change. With enough time, coin, and recognition, the sullied reputation of the Roths would fade into obscurity. Henrik would be allowed to trade as a merchant, building his own inventory outside of Ceros. It was something my great-grandfather Sawyer and my grandfather Felix had only ever dreamed of. But with the winds changing in the Unnamed Sea with the fall of Holland and the Narrows rising in influence, there was new power to be found. If Henrik had his way, he’d be climbing the ranks of Bastian by the next winter.
Copper jingled in my skirt pockets as I walked, and my hand curled around the smooth case of my watch. It felt like an anchor, seeing my initials engraved into the gold. As if that single thing gave me claim to what I was about to do. In the next several days, it would be up to me to refine the Roths into some semblance of acceptable company.
The wealthy were as much concerned with association as they were coin, because they were intrinsically tied together. Until now, the Roths had relied on their brutality to get what they wanted. But breaking noses and bribing apprentices wasn’t going to help them edge into this corner of society.
A tall building appeared ahead, its smooth white face standing out from the others. Two large lanterns were lit on either side of the double doors, with dancing flames despite the early hour.
The commission. I stopped, staring up at the seal of Bastian carved into the stone wall. The commission was the meeting house for the guild when it was in session. In a few weeks, it would house the exhibition, where the members would vote on the recipient of the merchant’s ring. When the Roths walked through those doors, they would turn every head. I would make sure of it. My reward would be Henrik’s trust. And the more trust I had, the closer I got to my own stake. My own power and safety.
I pulled the folded parchment from my pocket, glancing at the crude map Murrow had drawn for me of the Merchant’s District. I would need to memorize these streets and the shops, along with the names of their proprietors, in the coming weeks. Every detail mattered and there was no telling when I’d need the fragments of information at my disposal. It was all part of the task Henrik had given me and while there were some things that were true everywhere in the Unnamed Sea, the guilds in Bastian would have their own little secrets.
I paused when my eyes followed a small side street labeled with Murrow’s messy handwriting as Fig Alley.
It’s just rotting at the end of Fig Alley.
That’s what he’d said when we’d gone to the watchmaker’s shop.
I watched the busy district around me, searching the blue placards on the corners of the buildings until I found the one that read Fig Alley. I walked toward the break in the street, where the pavers ended and a narrow path opened up between the shops. It was lined with shorter streetlamps on either side, where a few windows were scattered along the brick walls. But the storefronts didn’t come this far. It looked to be more of a shortcut that led to the other end of the Merchant’s District than an actual path. It wasn’t until the curve in the alley took me out of sight from the main thoroughfare that I saw it.
A single wood-framed building was set between two brick walls with a boarded-up door. The glass of the tall windows was hazy with the salt in the air, but the sign that hung above them was still legible.
Eden’s Tea House
I stopped, the soles of my boots sinking into the soft earth. It was run-down and forgotten, much like some of the storefronts I’d seen in Lower Vale, but my mother’s tea house was still here, tucked back into the shadows of the Merchant’s District.
I walked toward it slowly, cupping my hands around my eyes to peer through the glass. It looked as if it hadn’t been touched since my mother died. Inside, I could see tables and chairs and wood-carved booths along the wall. Above them, dingy chandeliers hung from the ceiling.
Rotting was the right word. The fabric covering the chairs was eaten through by moths in some places, the large mirror behind the bar losing its silver backing. It was like the inside of a sunken ship, left to decay in the dark.