Chapter 19
That night, she didn't sleep. It took several hours for Martin to declare that the room he'd found for her was safe enough, and she spent the time sitting in his office, staring at the fire. Even after he led her down to the bowels of the building, past the kennel door and over to an oddly-placed bust of Holger, she didn't feel sleepy. Exhausted, yes, and very done with being conscious, but there was just enough fear in her to keep her alert.
"Here," Martin said. "You press his eye. The door opens. It can be locked from the inside, and I would like you to do that."
She nodded, watching as the heavy stone door rolled up into the ceiling. The winches that made it move must have been huge. She thought she could hear them rumbling.
It revealed a very bare, very clean room. There was a narrow cot bed, borrowed from the barracks, a desk, and a chair. An old rug was stretched across the floor.
"I would have thought," she said, stepping inside, "that Campbell's private chambers would be more... decorated than this."
"They were," he said, dryly. "You wouldn't have liked it. I had it all cleaned, top to bottom."
"So it's not a private room anymore," she said.
"No, it's not. I would have done it myself, but there was nowhere else I was comfortable putting you." He motioned to a slot up near the ceiling that had been newly filled-in with bricks. "There was a window there. Once we're sure it's safe, I'll have them unbrick it, but it was only street-level. Not the best source of light, or fresh air."
"I understand."
"I'll have your hound retrieved from the apartment in the morning, and set up in one of the kennels across the way," he said. "And I'll bring your food myself, or send Windham to do it. We'll rap on the door, like this," he said, and struck his hand against the wall in a short, but distinctive, pattern. "There is a sword by the cot and a gun in the desk drawer," he added.
"Thank you."
He nodded, trying to hide his grimace. "You'll be here for- several days. You can obviously leave during the day to do your duties around the office, but I'd prefer it if you stayed within the building. We'll sweep your apartment, and I'll get Billie's face posted on every street corner. It should only be a couple days."
"It's fine," she said, sinking into the chair by her desk.
"There's a music box on the bottom of the desk, as well," he added. "Same system as-"
"Thank you, Martin," she repeated. "You should go. Sleep, or set up the raid. I'll be fine."
He hesitated, then shrugged. "Of course. Sleep well, Miss Curnow," he said, and his lips did quirk almost to a smile.
She smiled back, tiredly.
"I'll see you in the morning."
And she did; she napped fitfully, then rose shortly after what she supposed must be sunrise, given the sounds outside her room. No light filtered in and the room was dark aside from her candles, however, and the switch to the electric bulbs was across the room. She resolved to get a few more reliable, easy-to-use lanterns that evening to put by the bed. With the lights fumbled on, she dressed, then received breakfast from Windham.
And then her day began in full.
The raid on Rudshore had only been a partial success. They did find three of Daud's old men in the Commerce building, along with a depleted cache of weapons and supplies. Only one of the men was captured, and he broke the capsule in his tooth before any information could be extracted. Still, Hume and Martin declared it a victory, combined with the wanted posters Martin had printed. If anybody questioned where Martin had received his information, they didn't do it where she could hear. Callista penned an announcement for the propaganda officer, and it boomed across the city that evening.
The infamous assassin Daud was dead, executed by the Abbey of the Everyman; his fellow assassins were routed, their base destroyed. The Regent sent a formal letter thanking the Abbey for its services to Dunwall.
It was a win, to be sure, but when she and Martin toasted over dinner, it felt hollow. It had been an accident, not a concerted effort. Still, if it buoyed the hope of the city...
She was still living out of Campbell's room five days later when, as she finished a patrol around the memorial rooms and headed to the kennels to see Blacky, an Overseer stopped her. She recognized his voice immediately as Jasper's, the Overseer who had attended the interrogation of the Morlish thugs. He held out a letter, saying that it had appeared in one of the watchhouses, addressed to her. Did she want it destroyed, or inspected?
Callista took it without an answer. Jasper's grasp tightened for just a moment before he relinquished his hold. Thanking him, she'd stepped around him and continued on her way to the kennels.
She never made it, however; she pried open the back flap of the envelope, and pulled out another encoded letter. Thirty seconds later, she was safe in the privacy of her room, lights on. She lit one candle, in case its flame was necessary.
And then she decoded, and read.
Dearest Callista,
I never meant to write so soon after my first - and last, I had hoped - letter, but I've received word that not only do you remain in Dunwall, but that you are working alongside the High Overseer. My sources are varied and not all trustworthy, so what I've heard in fits and starts is no doubt wrong, or exaggerated. I can't comprehend a world in which you are feared, and yet there are whispers that you are more dangerous than Teague Martin.
I feel responsible. I told you to go to him for help, and so I sent you straight into his path. I never expected, though, that he would take any interest in you, beyond maybe a passing physical fancy. What has happened?
The news has spread; the Empress is found.
Callista paused, frowning. He had to be close, then, to have heard the news and then passed this letter into her hands in such a short amount of time.
Everywhere, there's some level of rejoicing, but I can't join in. I've heard the Abbey was involved and so, therefore, were you. Which means that you have angered the Lord Regent. You've done Gristol a great service, but I fear the price of it.
We only needed one foolish revolutionary in the family!
I will say it again: Get out of Dunwall. Get out of it quickly. Use your newfound power, if you must, but I beg you not to be seduced by it. Living in a fine set of rooms is better than your tenement, and with the plague raging, you're no doubt safer for it. I understand that, after your small, cramped life as a governess, being able to sip wine and smoke cigars must be like a dream. Abandon it. I've seen what power can do to a man. I won't let it happen to you.
Come to Potterstead. You'll figure out what to do when you arrive. Please. Please, listen to me, Callista.
All my love,
Geoff
She stared down at the letter, then swore and tore it into pieces, before feeding each into the candleflame. She watched the paper curl and blacken, and ignored the echoing feeling in the pit of her stomach.
He didn't understand. He'd never fully understood her dreams and desires and thoughts, of course; he'd judged what was best for her, and stood in the way of all her attempts to go out to sea, or to find work somewhere, anywhere, in the whaling industry. At the time, she'd forgiven him (except for the one bleak day when she found out he'd had a man who had promised to show her the slaughterhouses arrested - she had raged for a week, before finally resigning herself to her studies).
But this wasn't just a lack of understanding. She could have forgiven that. He didn't know the details of her life now, and he wasn't entirely wrong; before Martin, she'd never killed a man, and the greatest threat she'd faced had been men leering at her in the street, or a scuffle that broke out in a tavern while she ate her dinner. He was right that the wine and the cigars were thin comfort, and barely balanced out the horror and danger.
Potterstead, though! To put that in a letter! To imply that the Lord Regent was against the Empire in a letter! The last letter had been dangerous enough, with its list of men she could, perhaps, trust, and confession to his crimes. But he must have been drunk when he'd written this letter, and sent it, or else she had no explanation for the sheer stupidity-
The door rattled in its frame, rolling up to the ceiling, and she looked up to see Martin stepping inside. She waited for the door to close behind him.
"Another letter," she said.
He blinked, taking a moment to shift gears from whatever had brought him to her. "Who delivered it?"
"Overseer Jasper," she said, grimacing. "The envelope showed no signs of being tampered with, but he didn't take many precautions to make that difficult."
"Where is it?"
"Burned to ash."
"You don't look pleased," he said, approaching the desk.
"He gave me a meeting place and accused the Regent of conspiracy," she said. "If anybody read it-"
"Do you still have the envelope?" Martin asked.
"Yes," she said, and handed the oiled parchment over to him. He inspected it, turning it over several times.
"I agree. It doesn't look like it was opened before you," he said at last. "Is this the sort of envelope he would have picked?"
"I'm... not sure," she said.
"It would have been much easier to repackage the letter than to repair the envelope," Martin said, leaning his hip against the desk. "For safety's sake, do nothing mentioned in the letter. Don't even avoid the meeting spot - act as if you never heard of it. Do you understand? I'll keep an eye on Jasper, in the meantime."
"Of course," she said, sagging back in her chair. She closed her eyes, and massaged at her temples. "I just can't figure out why he'd be so stupid, as to write all that he did. But it was his handwriting, his code. It would have been monumentally difficult to fake."
"He's scared," Martin said, reaching out and tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. His gloved fingertips brushed her cheekbone. "And he can't stick you in a basement room like I can."
She made a sound low in her throat, then opened her eyes, gazing up at him. "I'd appreciate a break from this, to be honest."
"Billie is still out there," he replied.
"With a wounded leg. If you have to, send me with an escort. I just need some duty that takes me outside the compound."
"Wait a few more days."
"Her leg will have healed more by then. Martin-"
He pulled his hand away, waved it. "Fine," he said.
She frowned in surprise.
"I've got an errand that need to happen."
"And what about your fear?"
"If I were afraid, I'd go tell the feeling to shove itself," Martin said, smirking. "Now- how do you feel about a trip to see the Empress?"
Waverly Boyle's governess of choice was a strange echo of what Callista might have become. She was thin, quiet, highly controlled. She didn't crouch on the floor next to Emily, but instead stood primly nearby, watching the girl struggle with her sums. And when the guard announced Callista, and Emily waved her away, she hesitated only a moment. Her brow furrowed.
When she passed Callista on her way out of the room, she gave her one appraising look, and said nothing.
The guard shut the door behind her, leaving Callista and Emily alone.
"What took you so long?" Emily asked, pushing away her book and climbing out of her chair. "I sent for you this morning."
"I had things to set in order at the Abbey, Your Highness," she replied, easily. Martin hadn't been able to give her the reason behind the summons, though he hoped it was the girl reaching out to them, strengthening their alliance. Burrows, she'd noted with relief upon entering the room, wasn't in attendance. "How may I be of service?"
Emily hopped up into the window seat. She was still dressed all in white, though her clothes were new, now, and finely trimmed with expensive lace. Her hair was pulled back from her face with an elegant headband. "I wanted to know what's going on in the Abbey. Burrows doesn't tell me anything that I believe. He never goes into enough depth, either."
Callista glanced at the door. "This could be delivered publicly, you know. Instead of shutting out the guards-"
"I always shut out the guards," Emily said. "Besides, I don't want to hear what you'd say in public. I want to hear what you'd say to me." Her gaze was still sharp and strong, and when she fixed it on Callista, Callista felt the slight urge to bow.
She resisted, and instead settled into the chair that the governess had vacated. "Very well. The Abbey is increasing its patrols of the city, as we believe that in times of fear, more people will turn to the Outsider, which will, in turn, propagate the plague. We have arrested twenty-eight souls on charges of heresy, and are investigating two others who have been reported but who have been evicted from their homes. Their current locations are unknown, but we usually find people in their situation within three days."
"What does the Watch think?" Emily asked.
"Excuse me?"
"The Watch. Waverly told me the other day that the Watch and the Abbey don't get along very well."
"What do you think of Waverly?"
"She's like Burrows, but I don't think she's picked a side yet. Except she wants my support. I know that. So what about the Watch?"
She was determined.
"We have had... clashes," Callista admitted. "Brief ones. Many of the Overseers on patrol think that the Watch overreaches or doesn't do enough. There is not much order to their objections. The High Overseer and I, of course, support an alliance, but it is taking longer to convince the men of that."
"Is it because Burrows pays the Watch?" Emily asked.
Callista flushed. "Ah- at a basic level, yes."
"It's not actually him paying them, you know. It's the Boyles. Waverly doesn't like who Lydia is funding, though. She says it's leading to more- more- divisiveness. That was the word she used."
"Internally?"
"No, between the Watch and the city. She said that Lydia likes to give it to the passionate people, but the passionate ones are the ones who like to make trouble."
Callista filed that away. "My uncle- if I might speak of him?"
"I liked Captain Curnow."
"I'm... glad to hear it, though don't say it publicly."
Emily beamed, for just a moment. "We're not in public right now, remember? I can say whatever I want."
Callista glanced around, at the service hatch near the top of the wall, and at another side door. She cleared her throat, and came closer. "But perhaps not so loudly. People could still be listening."
"... I know." Emily's smile turned sour, grim, then fell completely. "But your uncle?"
She nodded. "He did not approve of how the Overseers were acting. He said they were causing more fear than they were settling, and that they were often brutal to innocent people. Beyond that, though, they were arrogant, and did not appreciate the Watch. As for the Watch... many of them had lost family to the Overseers, or just thought that the Overseers were all uncontrollable zealots. So there were clashes."
"Is that all true?"
"As far as I can see, yes. We're working to leash our men more. Campbell was a poor influence on them."
"Is that why your uncle killed him?"
Callista considered, then nodded.
"I hated him anyway," Emily sighed. "But that's good. I don't want people to be scared. I want the Outsider stamped out, because he helped kill my mother, but I want the people to be safe, not... scared. The only person I want to be scared is Burrows."
"Your thoughts are good, Your Highness." She looked at the girl's drawn features, the twist in her fingers as she clutched at the hem of her breeches. "... But you should take time to relax. To find your balance."
"I don't get time for that," she said, shrugging. "It's all sums and geography and history, then talking with Burrows, then meals with him or with other people I don't want to see. And when I sleep, I-" She cut herself off, shook her head. "I like drawing, though."
"Drawing is very good."
Emily nodded, nibbling at her bottom lip. She clearly wasn't sure how much she wanted to confide in Callista. She had her personal, internal life locked down tight, letting out only the determination and rage.
How she must cry at night, when she's alone, Callista thought, but said nothing.
"A woman came to paint my portrait yesterday," Emily said, propping her chin on her fist, legs swinging as she twisted and looked out the window.
"A woman?" Callista asked, frowning. "Not the Royal Physician?"
"No, he's supposed to come next week."
"Who was the woman?" Callista asked, running through the list of known associates of the Regent. No artists were on it, save for Lydia Boyle and her skill with the harpsichord. Certainly no painters.
"Her name was Delilah. She used to be a friend of my mother's, I think. She told me nice stories."
Callista's hand stilled on her knees. "Delilah?"
"Yeah. She had short hair, and was really, really pale. And wore gloves. I didn't know you could wear gloves and paint."
Witch, her thoughts hissed. That was, if Billie could be believed - but given the frustration and desperation that had been in her voice whenever she'd talked about Delilah the witch, Callista couldn't find a reason to doubt her. This was the woman, then, who had brought down the Empress's killer and his whole order.
Maybe it was nothing. If she really had been an old friend of Jessamine Kaldwin's... if she'd known who Daud had killed...
"Her sketches were really nice," Emily continued. "Burrows hired her. She said he had known her as a girl, too. I think she said something about being Sokolov's apprentice? I left then, though."
"Did you ever feel unsafe?"
Emily shrugged. "Not really. She was weird, I guess. Distant. Spoke strangely. But Sokolov's strange, too. Maybe it's something in the paint. Mother always told me not to eat my crayons and pigments."
"She was a smart woman," Callista agreed, slowly rising from her chair. "Have you been drawing?"
"Sort of." Emily turned to look at her. "My governess doesn't approve of it because she says I should only draw when it's time for art lessons, but Lady Boyle told her to knock it off."
"Can I see?"
"It's private," Emily said.
"Of course," Callista said with as soft a smile as she could manage.
"You look different," Emily said, kicking her legs against the windowseat's bulk, the strike of her heels drawing dull booming sounds from what must have been a storage space. "You kind of looked like a governess the last time I saw you. Now you don't."
"Well, you still look every inch the Empress, my lady," Callista said, straightening uncomfortably.
"Have you killed anybody?"
Callista opened her mouth, but couldn't find words.
"You look like you've killed people. I think, anyway. You don't look mean, though. Not like the man who killed my mother."
Ah. There was an opening. "I have some good news for you, my lady."
It was Emily's turn to go very still.
Callista approached, and dropped to one knee before her. "The man who killed your mother- did you ever see his face, behind the whaling mask he wore?"
Emily nodded, slowly. "He didn't wear one."
"Was his face craggy and marked with scars? Did he wear a red coat, and black gloves?"
She nodded again, hands clutching the hem of her shirt.
"He is dead, my Empress. The High Overseer shot him through the skull. His name was Daud, and we have routed his men, the ones wearing the masks."
Emily didn't move, but she let out a high, soft whine. Her expression grew rigid and tight as she fought to control herself.
"Before he died, he was pathetic, stumbling and falling before us. He suffered."
"Good," Emily whispered.
"His name was Daud," she repeated. "And we have our suspicions as to who paid him. He was a hired assassin."
"It was Burrows, wasn't it?" Emily asked in a sharp, cracked whisper, leaning forward. "It was him, wasn't it?"
Callista considered. Could the girl be trusted to control herself around the man, if she had her suspicions confirmed? It wouldn't matter what Callista told her, though- she would always suspect. She was a clever girl.
"Yes," she said. "Yes, almost certainly."
"I knew it. I knew he had something to do with it. I heard the Pendletons talking about him- and he was always so bitter to mother- I'll kill him," Emily replied, her voice becoming cold and calm. "I'll stab a pencil in his eye. I'll gut him. I'll-"
"There are other ways," Callista said, reaching out with one hand. Emily didn't flinch, so she settled it on the girl's shoulder. "A man like him fears being discovered, and having everything he has built stripped from him, more than he fears death. Although he fears death a great deal, you're right. The High Overseer and I-"
"I want him dead, Miss Curnow. Make the High Overseer shoot him like he shot D-Daud."
"Wouldn't you rather see him in chains?"
"If he's in chains, he can always escape," Emily replied, brow furrowing.
Callista swallowed. "I can't make the High Overseer do anything, your Highness- and I don't think he will believe killing the Regent himself would be good for the city."
"I don't care about the city!"
"You will," Callista said, squeezing the girl's shoulder.
Emily fell silent, mouth working, jaw clenched, fidgeting as she thought. She was filled with rage and frustrated power, power she believed with all her might was rightfully hers. It was a dangerous combination for such a young girl, who couldn't be expected to control all her impulses forever.
"Then tell me," Emily said, "the name of somebody like Daud. Somebody I can hire to kill for me. Or somebody like the Pendletons, who I can hire and use and then abandon if it gets dangerous. I need people like that. He has people like that. Maybe even that painter-"
Callista grimaced. "Lady Emily-"
"Tell me. I order it. I command it."
"... I know of a woman named Billie," she said, looking away. "Though I don't know how to find her, and I know that she's injured. The Abbey is searching for her now. She used to work with Daud."
"Can she appear and disappear like him?" Emily asked. "I think- I think I remember a woman, from when they-"
The words fell off.
"No, she can't," Callista said. Was it better that she didn't think Billie had been involved? "She might not even be in the city anymore, though."
"That's the best you have to offer?" Emily asked, and Callista looked up to see her scowling.
"It is. I'm sorry."
Emily sighed, then nodded. "It will have to do. I want you to find her-"
"I can't," Callista said.
"Why not?"
"Because she broke into my apartment, and if- when Martin finds her, he'll have her killed," Callista responded. "This isn't something we can do for you. The Abbey is searching for her to strike her down, not to hire her for the you."
Emily hunched down in her seat, thinking. "He'd kill her for you?"
"Yes."
"He's a lot like Corvo, then. For my mom. Isn't he?"
"I think there's... quite a bit of difference," Callista said, flushing.
"But he likes you and he's determined to make sure you're safe. That's... really good. I think."
Callista said nothing.
Emily watched her, then shrugged and looked out the window again. "You can go, I guess. I'll have somebody else find her for me."
"Be careful with who you ask."
"I'm not a child, Miss Curnow," she said, and for a moment, Callista almost believed it.
She let herself out of the room.
It was drizzling when Callista stepped out of the car a few blocks from Sokolov's apartment, and she tugged up her collar against an errant chill. In another month it would be truly warm again, bordering on hot, but the rains would only pick up in intensity as the wet season began in truth. The dry cold of a few months before seemed like a distant dream.
There was only half a chance that Sokolov would even be in residence, she reminded herself as she walked quickly across the street and turned a corner. He could be at the Cat, or the Royal Academy, or any number of other places. It would have been better to send him a note, scheduling her next sitting for the painting, but Emily's contorted features were burning in her brain. A terrified, angry girl, in proximity to a possible witch…
She couldn't leave it be.
There were guards out front of Sokolov's building. That was reassuring. She passed under the awning and pulled her identification papers out of her pocket.
"Callista Curnow, assistant to the High Overseer," she announced.
"Outsider's eyes," one of the guards said.
Oh. Reginald Black.
"He wasn't joking, was he?" Black said, coming down a few steps closer. "About the assistant bit? And here I thought that was code for-"
"You'll do well to watch your tongue, Officer Black."
"Captain Black," he said, flushing red. "You're here to see the doctor?"
"Yes, if he's in. I just have a few questions for him." She straightened, held her head a little higher. She knew she looked impeccable, save for the dampness from the rain. Her uniform was pressed and starched, her leather belt was polished, the sash and banner brilliant red and hanging proudly around her waist. She kept her expression very still.
"He's in, but he has company."
"I won't be long," she said.
He inspected her closely, then turned away, shaking his head. "Right. I'll buzz up."
He glanced back at her a few more times as he spoke into an intercom, and Callista waited, fighting every urge to fidget. It was important that she maintain a calm, confident air around the Watch, both because of her uncle and because of the more widespread tensions in the city. Besides, it was just a bit thrilling to show this man, who had nearly arrested her, who had mocked her, just how far she had come. She wished she kept cigars on her, as Martin did, even though this was hardly the time or place.
Reginald stepped away from the intercom box. "Right. He'll see you. Go on in."
"Thank you, Captain Black," she said, and waited for him to open the door. He did so after only a few seconds' silent protest.
She was met by a maid just inside the door, who led her up the stairs to the library they'd sat in briefly the last time she'd visited. There were two half-empty glasses on the table, Callista noted, one of which held an amber liquid – maybe the Kings Street Brandy that Martin had sent over, given the shape of the glass? – while another held a pungently fragrant wine. There were lipstick marks on the wine glass.
The maid didn't move to clear them away. Afraid to waste the alcohol when the glasses' owners might return soon?
Callista strolled along the bookshelves, idly worrying at one of the seams of her gloves. There were books on the sea here that she had never seen before; manuscripts and monographs on leviathans and other deep beasts, treatises on the uses of whaling oil, field journals of trips to Pandyssia. Her teacher's mind stirred at all the knowledge on offer. For the briefest moment, she considered what it would have been like if the Academies had accepted women, and if she'd known they held just as much knowledge about whaling as the ships at sea did. Maybe things could have been different.
"Well, what is it?" Sokolov interrupted, and she turned to face the doorway. His lady called wasn't with him, whoever she was. "If it's your portrait, it will have to wait. Schedule it ahead of time."
"It's not the portrait. I have a few questions for you, though."
"Are letters not good enough for the Abbey these days?"
She frowned. Ornery man, she though; he'd been decent enough the other night, but now she felt just as pinned by his glower as when he'd commented on her resemblance to a plague rat. "Letters can be read, and I was already in the neighborhood." A lie, but an easy one. They were growing simpler by the day to manage. "Did you know that Lady Emily is having her portrait painted?"
"Yes, two days from now. It's on my calendar, Miss Curnow. I'd appreciate it if you would-"
"Not by you," she said.
The words hung in the air, thick and liquid and moldering. Sokolov's glower turned to a scowl, before he shrugged and turned away. "Not unheard of, exactly."
"So you weren't aware, then, that a woman named Delilah had her sit for a portrait?"
"Delilah!" he responded with a bark of incredulous laughter. "Really, Delilah? Who the Void recommended her?"
"So you know her?" Good; Emily might've been right about the apprentice bit. Originally, she'd supposed he might know her because he'd helped schedule her, but while his lack of awareness about her was worrying (did Burrows no longer trust him?), perhaps this was better.
"She was one of my apprentices, and she knew Jessamine," Sokolov said, picking up his cup of brandy. He sniffed. "Very bold, that one, but I can't imagine why Hiram would hire her. He's a traditionalist. She's… emphatically not."
"No?"
"No, she uses bright colors, and sees strange planes in people's faces. Her work looks- possessed."
Callista frowned. "Bright colors. I- may have seen her work before, then," she said, seeing before her the portrait in Barrister Timsh's stairwell, and the painting he had fretted over that had been returned to him. "Do you know if she ever painted Arnold Timsh?"
Sokolov snorted. "You know, he's probably who recommended her to Hiram. Before she left the fold, so to speak, she already had him wrapped around her finger."
"Did you ever think she might have an interest in the Outsider?"
"Hm." He finished off his glass, then set it aside. "She once told me my own interest in the Void was foolish fancy. But given her paintings, and the way she shut herself away… it's possible. Definitely possible. Why?"
"Because there are rumors that she's a witch," she said, lifting her chin. "And, of course, a witch couldn't be allowed to paint the Empress's portrait."
"Hmph. I suppose not. If I were you, though, I'd look into how Hiram found her; if it's through Timsh, the arresting her for heresy either won't work or will anger the Lord Regent. And I'm guessing you don't want that?"
Callista frowned. "I want the safety of the Empress, first and foremost."
"Of course," Sokolov said, reaching for a dish of nuts set out.
"Thank you for your assistance."
"Martin," he replied, "sent me a very nice set of artefacts yesterday."
And you're afraid of being replaced at court, Callista added, silently.
"But if you'll excuse me, I have a portrait to get back to," he said. "I'll have the maid show you out."
"I can find my own way, I think," she said, leaving the bookshelf. By the time she reached the door to the hall, Sokolov had his mouth open to protest, but before he could speak or she could exit the room, Lydia Boyle reached the threshold.
Callista blinked, rapidly, wracking her brain to make sure her identification was correct. It wasn't Waverly, of course, and Esma was supposed to be the great beauty of the three. Lydia - if it was Lydia - was plainer than Waverly, but had a mischievous smile, and fine fingers - suited to a harpsichord player.
Callista inclined her head.
"Lady Boyle."
"This is Miss Curnow, from the Abbey," Sokolov said, clearing his throat. He sounded less than pleased.
"Yes, we've met," Lady Boyle said. "Briefly, at Attano's execution. The weeks seem to have treated you well, Miss Curnow. Adapting to Abbey life?"
"Well enough," Callista said, straightening. "And I should be getting back, in fact."
"Do stay," Lady Boyle said. "Have you seen Anton at work? He's a master with a brush."
"I have," she said. "In fact, we have a portrait in progress."
"Do you," she purred. "I thought I was the only canvas in his studio."
Callista hesitated. Was it bad form to admit to that? She glanced to Sokolov, who was hiding his scowl by turning to pour himself more brandy.
Brandy from the High Overseer, and not from the Regent or his lover.
Ah. "Of the High Overseer," Callista said. "He's often busy, so I drop by on occasion to consult on the details that can be taken care of without him here to pose."
"Be careful, Miss Curnow. Anton is very good about getting fine ladies alone and naked in his studio," Lady Boyle said with a small laugh. She left unsaid, Rumors are a dangerous thing, you know - there are bad reasons to be associated with powerful men.
Yes, this woman's goals were quite different from Waverly's. It made Waverly seem like an ally by comparison. Callista filed the observation away. "It is a good thing, then, that the Abbey teaches self-control and denial. I believe I can withstand whatever temptations he dangles before me." She said it with as light a smile as she could manage.
Sokolov snorted. "Miss Curnow," he said, "is hardly my type. And, as she said, she has business to attend to. The Abbey does not run itself."
"No," Lady Boyle said. "I suppose it doesn't. Though with the populace dwindling, I can't imagine its coffers are very full anymore. Do let me know if the High Overseer would like to talk finances, hm?"
"We are self-sufficient, Lady Boyle. We are not like the City Watch."
"Well, the offer is open," she said, and shrugged.
Callista said nothing in response.
Lady Boyle waited just a moment longer, then waved a hand. "I'll see you upstairs then, Anton?"
He grunted in response, but she was already gone. Callista moved to follow her, but stopped as Sokolov's hand closed around her wrist.
"Do not mention you saw her here," he said, voice low. "Her coming down here was a test. Her position is an open secret, but if you spread it, she could use it against you."
"Discretion. I understand," she said, eyes fixed on the path Boyle had taken.
"I'm having a maid escort you out, so you don't get your nose into anything else you can't handle," he said, and reached for the pull by the door. She heard a bell ring in the distance. "And next time, schedule, Miss Curnow."
"I will. How about tomorrow morning, for my portrait?"
"I'm giving a lecture," he said.
"I'll come."
He shook his head. "No Abbey representatives in the Academy. It hampers the progress of science."
"I can come dressed down."
"No women, either."
The maid's footsteps sounded in the hall, and Sokolov let go. "The day after," he said.
"The day after, then. Around lunch?"
Her only answer was a hmph low in his chest.