Chapter 17
Her hands stank of gunpowder when she returned home that night, and the night after. The first night, she tried her best to scrub it away; the second, she simply soaked in her bath, exhausted. She'd spent three hours, in two uneven chunks, in the yard being instructed by Brother Hume on the proper handling of a pistol. She could still hear his nasally voice berating her stance, and her uncle's influence. Apparently, the Abbey and the Watch had different approaches to the handling of guns.
She'd started out eager to learn, but as her shoulder and wrist began to ache, as the pistol got heavier and heavier and her shots went wider and wider, she'd simply become angry. The break had been necessary, after nearly two hours of practice, and even Martin had been startled when, during that break, she'd reviewed the Abbey's food purchases, found discrepancies in purchase price and price actually paid, and rousted out the quartermaster. Confronted with the evidence, he'd been belligerent for only a few minutes (tense, harried minutes, while Callista questioned the intelligence of going in person) before breaking down, confessing that he was using it to buy the men in his unit more than their current rations in elixir.
Her anger had calmed somewhat, and she had checked the budget and ordered an increase in elixir rations for the barracks, remembering Sokolov's advice.
But her rage had come back in the second, shorter lesson, quickly; Hume pricked at her sensibilities, and eventually, when she felt a sharp urge to turn the weapon on him, she excused herself, and went up to the top-floor balcony that she had shared with Martin the day after she'd met Attano.
When she was calm again, she'd shut herself into the library and focused on her education.
But her hands still stank of gunpowder. She was too tired to scrub, so she just sank lower into the tub. A few doors down she could hear Blacky scratching at the floor. She'd let him into the apartment proper to eat, but she wasn't quite ready to trust him to roam free while she tried to relax.
Then he barked. It was a rough, brutal sound, and she bolted upright, water sliding from her skin. She clambered from the bath, reaching for her robe. Blacky barked clearly one more time, before his barks began to roll together into a cacophonous whole. She belted the robe tight, then reached for the pistol she'd left on the vanity.
She couldn't hear a knock through Blacky's barking, but by that token, she wouldn't have been able to hear the lock being picked, or a window being opened. She crept into the hallway, and went first to Blacky's door. As the latch gave under her hand, Blacky shoved his muzzle out along the jamb, then wriggled his body through, dashing out into the hall. He went straight for the front door, and she followed.
He reared up, barking and pawing at the door. She heard a muffled swear from the other side.
She waited for the sound of retreating footsteps. They didn't come. Instead, her visitor shouted,
"Miss Curnow! Call off the hound!"
Martin. She swore, padding up behind Blacky. She caught her hand in his harness and eased him back onto all fours. "Shh, no," she said, then jerked the leather straps, hauling his head around to face her. He tried to pull away, to assault the door again, but she met his gaze. "Sit, Blacky."
He hesitated a moment, judging her resolve, before he obeyed.
"Martin is a safe visitor. Now, stay," she said, and slowly uncurled her hand from his collar. He stayed put, but he shivered from the effort. She considered dragging him back to his room; could she really control him if she let Martin in?
Blacky watched her, closely, waiting for any sign of uncertainty.
She set her jaw and straightened, then opened the door.
Martin stood on the other side, looking more than a little pale. He cleared his throat, craning his head to look inside the hall and ascertain where the hound was.
"So that's him," he said, attempting to mask his nervousness with a slow drawl. "Quite the guard dog."
"That is why I have him," she said.
He dragged his gaze away from the hound and looked her over. He stopped when he saw the gun. "... A bit more paranoid, are we?"
"I couldn't be sure who it was."
"And yet you answered your door in your robe," he said, and quirked a brow. She flushed.
Had it only been three days since he'd had her on the floor, his head between-
The flush deepened. She stepped back, waving him inside with her free hand. Blacky growled, faintly, but remained seated as Martin sidled inside and closed the door after him.
"Is something the matter?" she asked, setting the gun aside on the nearest flat surface. She tugged her robe closed, up around her throat.
"I wanted to let you know that everything's been taken care of - about yesterday. Their corpses were dropped into Rudshore this afternoon. And I wanted to make sure you were feeling alright." Martin's brow lifted again, even as he crouched and offered his hand to the hound. Blacky sniffed it, then grew disinterested.
"Go back to your room," Callista said, waving a hand. Blacky stood up and padded off in the right direction. "I'm fine. Just tired."
"I'm not sure I've ever seen you as angry as you were today," Martin said, standing and stepping closer.
"Anger is better than fear."
"Sometimes. But you're used to fear, Miss Curnow. Callista." His voice deepened. He stepped closer again. She didn't retreat. "You know how to make wise decisions even when you're caught in its grips. Today you seemed- out of control."
She looked down, at his throat. He was right, of course.
"I understand," he said, voice now a low murmur, "that it will take some time for you to learn your balance. But I want you to think back to when you stole this apartment back from Timsh. You were at your peak, then, of what I've seen from you. You're gaining in skill and knowledge, but you've left that poise behind. And understandably so - the events of this last week would have strained anybody."
"Have they strained you?" she asked, looking up.
He worked his jaw, then swallowed. "The night before we rescued the Empress- that's your answer. I lost control of myself."
"And do you have it back?"
He rubbed at his jaw, glove scraping over stubble. "I'm adjusting. It's- dangerous to ignore strong desires. But my point is- you need to be taken back in hand, Callista." His lips curled, and he clasped his hands behind his back. Leaning in, he whispered in her ear, "You need me to set your boundaries, to restrict your excesses, to channel them to something more... fruitful."
Her eyes widened, then narrowed to slits as her belly twisted in anticipation.
She'd missed him.
"I agree," she replied.
She could hear his grin, the pull of his lips across his teeth, and her back arched slightly in response. She tugged the belt on her robe loose, then shrugged her shoulders, letting the fabric slide from her skin and puddle on the floor.
He groaned, a faint, dark sound in his exhale, and leaned back. His gaze drank her in, and she thrilled at the contrast between them - him still in his uniform and slightly unsettled, her naked and more confident than she would've expected a week ago.
"Get on your knees, Miss Curnow," he murmured.
She sank down in front of him, eyes fixed on his as he undid his belt in sharp, fast movements. She could see how his breath hitched, how he kept moving forward so as not to stop entirely. She felt powerful, the way she had when she'd crawled across the floor to him and he had watched, helpless.
Did he realize how vulnerable he was, or did he think he was in control?
He undid the fasteners on his trousers, and her breath caught. In all their games, he'd never been naked, or even close to naked, in front of her. She'd felt his cock through his trousers once or twice, but suddenly that was very different from seeing it. Her mouth went dry.
He chuckled, and she tilted her head up to look at him. "Surprised?"
"Strange," she managed, licking her lips, "to see you as just a man."
"Just a man? Miss Curnow, I'm wounded," he purred, settling his hand on top of her head. His fingers rubbed small circles against her scalp before he nudged her head closer to his cock. "Must I recite to you all that I command as High Overseer?"
Her heart stammered, and she licked her lips again, but could find no answer. Instead, she leaned forward and swallowed down the head of his cock. Whatever quick jibe had been on his lips evaporated in a breathy gasp and the tightening of his hand. A glance up revealed his brow furrowed in exquisite delight, and her breathing turned to desperate pants of her own. She engulfed him by degrees, and when she'd taken him almost to the root, she lifted a hand to brace herself against his hip.
His hand in her hair tightened, and dragged her back. She whined.
"No touching, Miss Curnow," he breathed. She nodded, his cock sliding along the roof of her mouth. He hissed, but released his hold on her.
As she took him to the back of her throat again, she sank down, her hips widening and her body loosening. Finally thundered in her head, over and over again, with each bob of her head and swipe of her tongue. She was out of practice, certainly, and had never been very good at sucking a man off to begin with, but the relief of finally just wanting Martin, with the freedom to take and give because of it, made her eager. She lavished attention on the tip of his cock, then took him deep again, her lips tightened so that the head of him popped into her mouth with just enough resistance to make him moan and buck.
And the more she worked him, the more he responded. His hand tightened in her hair again, and she arched her back, balancing with her arms crossed behind her as if bound at the wrists. His hips snapped forward in answer, and he began to dictate the movements of her head, pulling and pushing. He stopped just short of hurting, but it wouldn't have mattered if he hadn't; her world narrowed to him and the brush of his jacket and trousers against her cheeks. Once or twice she gagged and shivered; each time made Martin moan louder.
He stopped, abruptly, deep in her mouth. He hunched over her, shivering. When she tried to work the flat of her tongue along the underside of his cock, he swore, and pulled away, shoving her back. She rocked onto her heels, staring up at him, eyes wide and lips parted.
"Sitting room," he rasped. "Sit in your armchair. Legs over the arms, hips at the edge of the seat." He swallowed, rubbed a hand over his face.
When she didn't move, he snarled, "Now, Miss Curnow," then tipped his head back and closed his eyes, breathing hard.
She smiled and rose, her reddened knees protesting. Her jaw and scalp ached, but it was faint, especially in comparison with the marks he'd left on her the other night. She padded out to the sitting room, and eagerly draped herself over the armchair, arranging herself as he'd asked. She felt exposed, her legs spread wide, and she wondered what he was preparing. Would he remove his belt, and swat at her? She almost closed her legs at the thought, caught between desire and fear of how much it could sting. Or would he just pin her wrists above her head, and hold her open to him while he finally fucked her?
Callista groaned, head falling back against the chair. She lifted her arms above her, wiggling her fingers, considering.
The floorboards in the hall creaked, and she flushed, lifting her head. But the doorway was empty. No Martin. Had he gone to the kitchen to get himself a whiskey? She shivered, shifting awkwardly in her seat. Just like him, to keep her waiting - but for how long?
Somewhere in the house, Blacky paced, his claws clicking against the floor.
Minutes ticked by. She frowned. She opened her mouth to call his name.
Something slammed into a nearby wall.
Blacky erupted into screaming barks, and he tore past the door to the sitting room. She jerked herself from her seat, staggering to her feet and racing to the hall. The gun- the gun was still where she'd left it, and she grabbed it as she ran towards the kitchen, after Blacky. He was snarling and snapping now, and she could hear more thuds, more scuffles. Martin shouted.
She burst into the room, pistol up and cocked. Martin was backed into a corner, his cock still hanging from his trousers. He clutched at his ribs. Blacky was between him and the man staggering up from where he'd fallen on the floor. The man wore red, with high leather gloves and a knife in his hand.
"Get out!" Martin bellowed.
Callista took a step back, but didn't lower her gun as the man straightened and turned towards her. His eyes terrified her, sparking with a dark, violent light.
He disappeared.
She swore and turned, but she couldn't see him. Blacky barked, and she backed into the kitchen, staying close to the wall. Martin reached for her, but before she could get to him, she was pulled up short by an arm around her neck, squeezing tight and hauling her back. She shouted, kicking back, but she couldn't dislodge him.
He dragged her towards the hall, and she fumbled with her pistol, shoving the safety on and tossing it to the ground. Martin lunged for it. The man behind her crossed the threshold, then staggered. His grip tightened, loosened, then tightened again.
His fist clenched, and she felt a cool, dark emptiness rush in her ears. She thrashed, but her body obeyed on a delay. By the time she'd pulled her arm around, the man holding her was gone. She spun. He was at the other end of the hall, and she lifted her hand, forgetting for a moment that the gun was no longer there.
He's going to get away. Martin shoved past her, aiming his gun, but the first shot went wild as the man staggered and fell to one knee, clutching his chest. The second met its mark, piercing the man's skull and throat.
His corpse jerked once, then slumped into a heap at the end of the hall.
Callista fell back against the doorframe, gasping for breath as her ears buzzed and rang. Martin remained immobile, staring at his victim. His free hand went idly to his healing ribs.
Blacky limped out from between them, making his way over to the corpse. He sniffed at it, then settled down beside it, as if to keep watch.
"Who-"
"An assassin," Martin whispered. "... A Whaler. He- it's soaked in dark magic." He reached out and took her wrist, pulling her into the kitchen, away from the hall. His gaze flicked around. "There could be more coming. It's not- it's not safe."
Callista craned her head back, but could no longer see the body. "If there were more... wouldn't they have come when he began to falter?"
Martin didn't respond.
She turned back to him, then froze as he kissed her. His lips were hard against hers, and he worked her mouth open with desperate passes of his tongue. She groaned as he gripped her hips, lifting her and shoving her against the high counter behind her. The edge bit into her back, and she squirmed in his arms.
His mouth left hers and kissed a searing trail down her throat. He lifted her again, fitting her this time against the flat of the wall, and he pinned her there, wedging himself between her legs. His cock stirred to life as he bit and suckled at her throat. Her head fell back, and she fought to keep her eyes open, her attention on the room. If he was right, if she was wrong, if there were more assassins-
He thrust into her, and she cried out, eyes closing tightly. He thrust hard, and she scrabbled for some kind of hold against the wall. She hooked one hand against the corner where the counter went back, and tangled the other in his harness.
His rhythm was brutal, desperate, and soon he forgot to lap at her throat and instead could only bow his head against his shoulder. Each thrust made her toes curl, made her moan and gasp, and she bit down on her lip, trying to stay silent. His belt rubbed against her clit and belly, and she bucked against him. He pressed her harder into the wall, then lifted his head. He met her gaze for one long moment, before he closed his eyes and kissed her again.
She was swept up in a rush of terror and relief and pleasure, and she clawed at him, tore at his mouth with her teeth. When he pulled away to kiss at her shoulder, she pressed her face against his throat and breathed in the scent of his sweat, of the starch in his uniform. His harness caught on her nipples, and she whined, writhing, until it was enough, he was enough, to send her careening over the edge in a wild freefall.
The snap of his hips and the relentless rhythmic press of her spine into the wall were the only things allowing her to keep track of time, and when they finally stopped, his cock buried in her belly, his body shaking, she lost herself in her ragged breaths and the shivering thrumming of her body.
At last, Martin pulled away, easing her back to the floor. She reached for the counter to steady herself as he tucked himself back into his uniform. Glancing down at herself, she could see pink and red tracks where her skin had been rubbed raw. She touched one trail, wincing as it began to sting.
"Get dressed," Martin rasped. He peered at his muddy reflection in her kettle as he smoothed his hair back into place. His lip was swollen from where she'd bitten him, and his hands shook. "I'll leave, go somewhere safe for a few hours. Inform Hume and Windham that you were attacked, let their men clean up the body. Then... then come to the office. I'll make sure you have a safe place to sleep."
Callista nodded, wrapping her arms around herself.
"I'll be there," he said.
She nodded again.
"Don't tell them I was here. Say he tried to kill you. I'll... find a quiet way to look into who sent him."
"Of course," she said.
He managed a faint smile. "... And thank you. For saving my life."
She glanced at the hallway door. "You killed him."
"But if you hadn't brought your gun- if you hadn't rushed to help me-"
She stepped forward, reaching up to touch his jaw. "You're safe," she said.
He swallowed. Nodded.
"Safe," he agreed.
The next morning, the examination room was cold and bleak. The body laid out on the slab looked inhuman, the bright, stark lights illuminating all its crevices and bumps and scars in unsettling detail. Where the face had been was only a pit of chewed up blood and bone, flesh and brain, but nobody's attention was on the brutal destruction of the cranium.
Martin sneered at the corpse's hand.
"As I suspected," he pronounced.
"From our reports," said Hume, standing close by, "and from Miss Curnow's description, I believe we can determine with little doubt that this was Daud. The head of those heretical butchers."
Shit. Callista hoped her frown would be taken for solemn consideration, and not the sudden panic she was feeling. With Daud and Attano dead, there was no way to prove that Burrows was behind Jessamine's death. They should have thought ahead, thought to capture the assassin before-
Before what? How could they have known that Daud would have come after Martin?
Of course, it made sense - if Daud was Burrows' man, then Burrows would send him after whatever threat he was most afraid of. Callista looked over at Martin.
Martin managed a thin smile for her. "Well, then. It seems some commendation is in order for Miss Curnow, for exterminating such vermin."
"With any luck," Hume said, "his creatures will fall to pieces without him. High Overseer, this may be our best opportunity to raid what I suspect is their hideout."
"And where is that?" Martin asked.
"Rudshore, High Overseer. A fitting place for them, to be sure, but it would be best to stamp them out."
"Indeed." Martin crossed his arms over his chest, frowning at the vivid black mark upon Daud's hand. "Very well. Please bring me any evidence that might point to who hired Daud to kill Miss Curnow, as well as anything you find on the nature of their black magic."
"Of course." Hume waited a moment, then cleared his throat. "If I might suggest- is it possible that Daud or his employer sought to kill you?"
Martin quirked a brow. "And why would he have lain in wait at Miss Curnow's apartment to do that?"
"You are well-defended here," Hume said, shifting uncomfortably.
"And yet I do not frequent Miss Curnow's apartment. Besides, that did not stop Captain Curnow from killing High Overseer Campbell," Martin said, blandly. "No, my guess is that it was a first step. Kill Miss Curnow to make me panic and drive me into foolish action. Luckily, your training of Miss Curnow yesterday seems to have come at just the right time to save her life. We will remember that, Brother Hume."
"Of course, High Overseer." He saluted. "Permission to begin organizing the raid? I would like to strike this evening, or early tomorrow morning, before they have time to regroup."
"As you will," Martin said. "Bring me a roster and requisition order for approval."
"Yes, sir," Hume said, before turning and marching from the room.
Martin's jaw worked as he stared down at the corpse in the ensuing silence.
"... He was our last potential piece of proof of Burrows' misdeeds," she said.
"If I had known who he was, I would have aimed for his knees," Martin murmured. He sighed, passing his hand over his eyes. "But he's now very dead. We can only hope that Hume finds... something. In the meantime, we'll continue as as usual. Hume and Windham are doing an admirable job of keeping the death silent. I'll have the body chopped up and fed to the hounds before noon."
She nodded. "I'll make no mention of this to anybody."
"Good." He offered her another tight smile. "Because Burrows sent for you. The letter was on my desk when I arrived this morning."
Callista grimaced. "And he doesn't know?"
"He knows that I should be dead, or will be dead soon - depending on what their timeframe was. If, of course, he was the one to hire Daud this time. But no, as far as I know he doesn't know that Daud's dead."
She nodded, considering, wondering if she would be able to remain calm and aloof.
"... How are you?" Martin asked, dropping his voice to a bare murmur. "If you're feeling unbalanced, I'll send an excuse on your behalf."
"Afraid I'll expose us?" she asked, looking away from him and approaching Daud's corpse. She reached out to touch the mark on his hand. It didn't look like a brand, or a scar, but neither did it look like any tattoo she'd seen before. It reminded her mostly of the paint upon the back of her hand.
Martin's hand closed around her wrist, stopping her.
"Don't touch it," he breathed in her ear. "There is black magic in this world, Callista; there are curses. Not so many as my brethren suspect, I think, but this... is undeniably something tainted." Slowly, he backed her away from the body, then reached up to take her chin, turn her face away.
She stared up at him, brow furrowed.
"I don't think you would willingly expose us, or even trip into doing so on your own, but Burrows is a very smart man, and a very scared one. He tried to have me killed. He would not hesitate to have you arrested on some charges, and sent to that mute beast of his in the bowels of the Tower. Right now, you have my regard to protect you, but to him, that's only a formality that must be somehow sidestepped. If you feel unbalanced-"
"I feel fine," she said. It was a lie, of course; her heart still sped up inconsistently, when she thought of the arm beneath her chin, or the barking of the hound, or how close Martin had come to death - and sometimes when she was thinking of nothing at all. When she'd slept the night before, in a small room in the Abbey, she'd seen the Pendletons dead on her kitchen floor, and Attano, and all the bodies piling up at her feet.
But she didn't feel the anger of the day before. She didn't feel the numbness that had come before that. She felt worried, and alert, and wary- but Martin had been right.
She knew how to handle her fear better than her dissociation, her rage.
"I'm the best I could be, under the circumstances, and I don't expect to recover much more." She lifted her chin and he dropped his hand. "Besides, it will give me an opportunity to check on Lady Kaldwin."
Martin frowned, then nodded, stepping back. "That's very true."
"And you?" Callista closed the distance between them once more. "Last night, you were- unsteady."
His throat worked as he swallowed down whatever answers first sprung to his lips. Then he shrugged. "I suppose," he said, glancing away, "that I'd assumed I'd be less likely to be assaulted now that I wear red. I thought the attacks would be more... subtle. Slow. Less violent. I was wrong, clearly."
She waited for another word, any sign that he might have changed his goals - but received none.
"Get ready, then," he said, turning back to her. "He's invited you to lunch. There may be other guests. Hand one of your uniforms over to be properly starched, hm?"
Callista inclined her head. "As you wish."
Lunch was laid out in a sumptuous sunroom, and Callista considered the choice. The windows were large, expansive, and looked out over seemingly endless water. She could see the blockade ships a few miles out, though, and their dark bulk (even as specks on the horizon) unsettled her.
The windows were clearly a weak point, except that they looked out over a sheer drop hundreds of feet down. In fact, barring a wayward seabird, they were entirely defensible.
No, it was probably safer, with its limited points of access, than other rooms in the Tower, and it certainly made an impression. The floors were warm, rich woods, and the entire room seemed softer, more welcoming, than the grand entrance had been with all its cold marble and draped banners. The ceiling was still high, high enough to make her feel quite small, but she didn't get the same sense of guards watching her from perches.
Then, of course, there was the company. Lady Kaldwin was going to sit at the head of the table, if the small cushion in the chair was any indication. Immediately to her right seemed to be Burrows' seat; at her left, Waverly Boyle was already seated, and beside her, Treavor Pendleton.
Burrows, at her side, motioned her towards the seat at his right. "Please, Miss Curnow. Ah- do you have an official title yet?"
"None that isn't a mouthful," she said, stepping around the small, oblong table. "Assistant to the High Overseer, I suppose. Miss Curnow is fine."
Pendleton was doing his best not to acknowledge her, or recognize her. Instead, his focus was entirely on Waverly, who in turn was watching Callista with hawk-like intensity.
"My sister mentioned you," Waverly said. She looked similar to Lydia Boyle, with the same dun-gold hair, but she was noticeably prettier. Her features were sharp but well-formed, and matched her demeanor perfectly. Her hair was combed back into a neat, architectural bun, and her clothing, in a warm, dusky wine, flattered her thin shoulders and small waist. "Though she didn't have much to say, except to remark on the High Overseer having an assistant. Are you Abbey-trained?"
"No," Callista said, settling into her chair. "Though I have, of course, been studying the finer points of the Strictures and what it takes to run such an institution. The sisters of the Oracular Order do not make for good assistants; I was better suited to the administrative realities such an assistant would be expected to handle."
"So you handle pay? Requisition orders?"
"Rarely. The quartermaster and his squad still do the majority of the work. I mainly handle the large-scale finances as well as setting meetings and handling correspondence, freeing High Overseer Martin to focus more on his duties of protecting the wayward souls of the city."
"I see." She inclined her head slightly, eyes narrowing. "I'll admit, I'm surprised your duties are of such a- practical nature. You must understand, had Thaddeus employed a young lady as an assistant..."
Callista smiled, thinly. "I am aware of his predilections." She resisted the urge to reach up and adjust the red cloth that was tucked into her collar to better hide the bite marks down her throat.
"I don't mean to offend," Waverly said, smoothly.
"And I am not offended," Callista replied.
Waverly nodded and sat back.
The woman hadn't smiled the entire time, Callista noted. Her expression was coldly analytical. By comparison, Burrows looked furtive, and Treavor looked- flushed.
"Lord Pendleton," Burrows said. "Have you and Miss Curnow been introduced?"
"Our paths have crossed once or twice before, but never for more than a moment." He cleared his throat. "I'm glad to have the opportunity to meet- such a woman. It must be interesting, working at Holger."
"Weren't you a governess, before this?" Waverly asked.
"I was, yes."
"And that," Burrows said, "is why I've asked her here today, and why the Empress is not in the room yet. Miss Curnow- surely you know, better than most, how the young mind may be affected by grief and responsibility?"
"I never tended to any children who had been through the horrors that I imagine Lady Kaldwin has," Callista said. "Though I did lose my parents at a relatively young age. I can merely suggest and hypothesize." She swallowed and smoothed her hands along her breeches. She hadn't expected that this would be his pretense, and having her thoughts turned back to just how alien she had felt when confronted with the girl-
"I," Treavor interrupted, "have my own thoughts and suggestions, based on living with my brothers as a young man. I know their proclivities, and their limits."
He glanced to Waverly, who glanced for just a moment at one of the pastries set out on the table. He reached for it.
"Usually," Burrows said, "I would have had this lunch attended by proper service staff, but I would, of course, prefer this be left... private."
"Of course," Callista said, watching as Treavor took a bite. Waverly watched his throat, inspecting, and only after Treavor seemed completely unaffected did she reach for her own pastry. She didn't take a bite immediately, but she also looked away from him.
Martin had mentioned her paranoia; was she using Treavor to check the foods here for poison? He seemed to know very well how to play his part.
If she was, then the fact that she worried about these foods meant she didn't trust Burrows very far at all. Perhaps she wasn't as close to him as her presence here would suggest.
Burrows tapped his fingers against the table. "She is... very good at hiding whatever grief she feels, but I worry about her more violent impulses, Miss Curnow. You've seen her in action; she is wildly impulsive, and full of a deep rage. Understandably, of course; she trusted Attano, despite my cautions to the late Empress to control that relationship. And that two of her nobility would steal her and torment her in such a way - it's hardly thinkable.
"But, understandable or not, her willfulness and anger will not do her any favors. She had not quite progressed to arguing with my advice, but I can see it building in her. And while I, of course, appreciate her input-"
"We cannot afford a divided head of state," Waverly finished, at last cutting off a bit of pastry and taking a small, careful bite.
Treavor nodded, emphatically. "It is imperative that we stabilize the public's perception of us. There have been threats of riots in the wards where Sokolov's walls of light have been introduced, and without ships from the Isles and with few shipments of food from the surrounding farms, eventually pressures will increase - on all of us. If the public continues to see Parliament as full of wicked men who would abuse the child of Jessamine Kaldwin- if the public begins to suspect that their beloved Empress's daughter does not agree with her Regent- then we will have yet another source of disruption to deal with, beyond the blockade and plague. It's foolish to incubate that."
His voice was wavering on the edges, and he glanced continuously at Waverly, as if seeking her approval. His whole presence was clearly focused on her. Was he- besotted? Callista canted her head, slightly, then took a pastry for herself. "I agree," she said, slowly. "Speaking from my former life as a mid-level governess, I can confirm that the people of Dunwall do have a true love for the Kaldwin line; now that Lady Kaldwin has been safely recovered, they will want to hear happy stories about her. They won't understand that she acts under the pressures and echoes of what's happened to her; if they hear that she's unhappy, they will blame the Regency."
Burrows barely controlled a snarl; it came out only as a wicked, curling tightening of his lips. "Indeed, Miss Curnow. Your insight is much appreciated. I would, if you're amenable, like to call on your help in these trying times. You understand children and grief."
Callista paused, a bite of pastry halfway to her mouth. "My job at the Abbey takes up the majority of my time, Lord Regent. And it would hardly be- seemly."
"She needs an education in the Strictures," he said.
"Which would be much better taught by an Overseer," she said. How much could she politely resist? She glanced to Waverly, and found herself being watched, closely. Her mouth went dry and she looked back to Burrows, who had sat back in his chair and was trying his best to look at ease. He was failing. "I am sorry, Lord Regent- I can provide my professional advice, but I was also never the governess to any woman of Lady Kaldwin's standing. My last posting was working for Mr. Pratchett, of Pratchett's jellied eels. I'm not fit to care for such a lady."
"You'd hardly be her governess, or nurse, Miss Curnow," Waverly said. "For the reasons you just laid out. I've suggested the woman who attended my niece, and she is proving to be a strong fit. However, I concur with the Lord Regent - your occasional presence would do her some good, I feel."
Treavor's chair scraped, and all eyes went to him. He cleared his throat and fumbled for something in his jacket pocket. "I disagree," he said. "With all due respect - the girl does not need an in-depth spiritual education at this time, and while she would benefit from learning the political structure of the Abbey, Miss Curnow is hardly learned enough - at this time - to provide it. Besides, Miss Curnow seems quite invaluable to the Abbey."
Callista's eyes widened, and she reached for a glass of sweet wine. She sipped at it, thinking back on how he'd glared at her, spat at her, in the pub. He didn't trust her anymore.
Or, maybe, he didn't want her in Burrows' circle. Did he worry she would betray him? Betray Martin? Or was he afraid she would report back to Havelock with what he was up to?
Damn - if only she could have gotten him alone. There were too many possibilities.
"Lady Kaldwin," she said, once the wine had slid in a sticky, hard lump down her throat, "is in need of emotional connection. She needs individuals she can trust with all her heart, and not fear. The teachings of the Abbey are not about such trust; I would be a poor candidate to provide it to her. But this nursemaid you've enlisted for her- encourage that relationship."
"I fear," Burrows said, "that one day she will order the woman dead for some imagined slight."
Callista shook her head. "Perhaps, but only if she has reason to fear those imagined slights. We all expect a great deal of our Empress, but it may be smarter to mute those expectations for a little bit. Allow her to be a child in the way she wishes to be a child. In time, she will become resilient again. Balanced."
Waverly nodded, slowly. "I shall let her know, then, that should she need somebody to talk to, somebody... familiar with the pressures of court life, that she can always come to me. It's been some time since I've interacted with a child, but for the good of the Empire..."
And the good of your social standing, Callista thought. Lydia may have had Burrows' support and attention, but Waverly was smart to make herself invaluable, personally.
"Indeed," Treavor said. He fumbled with a match to light the cigarette he'd extracted from his pocket. "I will remain available, as well."
"I appreciate your support," Burrows said, though his gaze was fixed on Callista, his teeth gritted. "Hopefully, the knowledge that she has adults she can rely on will... assist her recovery."
Callista inclined her head. "And if you have need of me, I can see what I can do."
"Thank you, Miss Curnow, though I suspect now that it won't be necessary." Burrows rose from his seat. "Thank you for your insight. I'll have a guard escort you back to your car."
Callista glanced towards the empty seat. No chance to see the Empress, then. Had she made the wrong choice? Burrows' eyes held a quiet fury - but at what? That she hadn't signed onto his side of the conspiracy? That she hadn't let herself be manipulated by the promise of being able to whisper in Emily's ear as she grew? That despite his careful avoidance of anything suggestive of Martin being in danger, she hadn't slipped and revealed that there had been an attack?
Or was it that Waverly and Treavor had taken control of the situation entirely?
Waverly inclined her head as Callista passed to the door.