Instead of waiting around to see if the old witch known as Molls returned, I left the apartment via a creaky back staircase and started for the square.
Women in fine gowns strolled between buildings on the arms of their men. A couple of them occupied an iron bench near the church, chatting about slippers. A horde of men were already drinking in the pub. Sailors loaded cargo onto ships docked in the port. I passed them all without a second glance on my way to the seamstress’s shop.
Three women, one older than the others—the mother, perhaps—were just leaving as I arrived. When I heard no one else inside, I opened the door. Meranda and I had never been friends—I didn’t have any of those—but we’d tolerated one another through the years, hadn’t we? I didn’t want to believe she would’ve betrayed me.
If she had . . .
The bell on the door jingled when I shoved the barrier aside.
The place was a mess, with bits and bobs everywhere. No rhyme or reason to the room whatsoever. The dresses were fair enough, and the cloth on bolts felt fine. Was that Vellanian lace? That shite cost a fortune. And cotton from Iodale. The colors were much more vibrant than their Airren or Vellanian counterparts.Faesilk. No feckin’ way. If I had to kill her, I’d be taking the silk with me.
“Good afternoon, sir. What brings you in—” The red-headed witch froze on the other side of the counter, her face white as snow. “Are ye outta yer feckin’ head? What’re ye doin’ here?”
Glamours were a tricky thing. Not everyone could use them—and not everyone who used them was any good—but the one thing no one could hide: the eyes.
Even with an exceptional glamour, it was nearly impossible to fool those who knew me.
I tugged a blue ribbon free from its spool, smiling when Meranda cursed again. “I heard a rumor that someone in Graystones has been using my name.”
“Well, it wasn’t me.” She snatched the ribbon out of my hand. “I wouldn’t call the devil down upon myself even if someone had an iron blade to my gullet.”
Truth. Not Meranda, then. It must’ve been the other witch. “Have you seen Molls?”
“Arrested—day before last.”
I glanced at the jail’s rooftop across the courtyard through Meranda’s windows. I’d have to pay her a visit, now, wouldn’t I? I thanked the witch for her time and went back out into the gray day.
When two women with their arms locked together stopped to gawk at me, I pretended not to notice.
“Who isthat?” the shorter one with mousy blond hair asked. Her skirts billowed twice as wide as the other one’s. Must’ve been wearing a hoop beneath. Those wretched things had gone out of fashion decades ago.
The other one swatted her friend with the fan dangling from her wrist. “Don’t waste your time, Nettie. He’s probably just another suitor from some far-off town asking for directions to the Bannon estate.”
“She can’t marry them all, Sienna.”
A suitor to the Bannon estate? Maybe they were calling on Aveen’s sister. I should probably check, just in case. “Pardon me, ladies,” I said with a tip of my head, “but you wouldn’t, by chance, know where the Bannons live, would you?”
The taller of the two nudged the other with her elbow, giving her an “I told you so” glare. “Of course, milord.” She bobbed a curtsy. The silly hat pinned to her hair flipped forward before falling back into place when she righted herself. “Lady Aveen’s father lives just outside of town. Take a right at the fork, and it’s the first large estate you come across. Tall, white gates on either side of the drive. You can’t miss it.”
Not the sister, then. Aveen. On the hunt for a husband, was she? Not on my time. She could marry whichever pillock she wanted once she’d saved me. Assuming the Queen didn’t kill her first.
I thanked the women for their time and started for the road leading out of town, giving the jail a final glance as I passed. The old witch wasn’t going anywhere, but if I didn’t get over to the Bannon estate, my savior might be.
* * *
Two black carriages had been parked in the Bannons’ driveway, their drivers chatting to one another. I evanesced closer, to a wide glass door leading to what appeared to be a parlor, listening intently to a fat man with a high-pitched voice telling Aveen how beautiful she looked today. Was he here on behalf of his son or nephew? Some matches used to be made like that, with the couple never meeting before their wedding. But if this man’s son looked anything like him, Aveen would be smart to run far and fast.
The man withdrew a handkerchief from his breast pocket to dab at his sweaty forehead. It wasn’t even warm out. If anything, there was still a winter nip to the air. Aveen sat there with her hands folded in her lap, smiling demurely, the picture of subservience. Where was the spark I’d seen the other night when she’d kissed me? The defiance. The fire.
The man reached for her hand, and it took everything within me to keep from strangling him with his own cravat. “My dearest Aveen, would you do me the great honor of entertaining a match with me?”
A match withhim? The fat oaf would squish the poor woman if he took her to bed. She couldn’t honestly be considering such a thing. It was preposterous.
“I’ve two thousand a year, an estate almost as fine as this one. My first wife—rest her soul—seemed very content there.” He dug through his stretched waistcoat pocket, a hideous thing the color of aubergines that made his already pallid complexion worse. “I’ve brought you a token of my affections.” He held out a large enough diamond ring. From the sound of it, he’d only just met the woman. She was fair, to be sure, but a proposal on the first day? That screamed desperation.
“I appreciate your proposal,” Aveen said, refusing to take the proffered ring. “You’ve certainly given me a lot to think about, but I think you should hold onto that until I’ve made my final decision. Thank you for coming all the way from Burnsley to see me.”
“I would travel the entire island for a woman as fine as you, Lady Aveen.”