Page 113 of A Tower of Half-Truths
“Still, he seems like a good fellow. Why did you never tell him about Conor? I figure he would understand more than anyone.”
“Because Declan couldn’t keephis own marriagea secret. I doubt he’d be tight-lipped about—”
“Shit!”Mavery cried, making Alain jump a solid inch off his chair.
“What is it?”
“The bathroom!” she whispered. “When I took a bath this morning, I forgot to gather up my clothes—including my drawers.”
Alain gasped. Not only from the horrific mental image of Declan stumbling upon Mavery’s undergarments, but from the decidedlynothorrific mental image of Mavery disrobing, then soaking in the bath. She must have done that while he’d been across town, arranging the appointment with his mother. Of course, it was within Mavery’s right to make herself at home. And, of course, it was only natural for Alain’s thoughts to meander in that direction while his lips still tingled from the memory of their kiss.
But this was no time for wanton thoughts. Alain cleared his throat—and his head.
“Let me handle this,” he said.
He walked to the sitting room, and as he waited outside the bathroom, he formulated a cover story: Mavery had left her clothes in the bathroom after spilling a potion on herself. But wouldn’t that imply she’d happened to have a change of undergarments with her?
Perhaps being truthful would be best. Mavery was only staying here temporarily, and their relationship was strictly professional. Then again, that was hardly atruthfulstatement, considering recent events—
His heart skipped a beat as the toilet flushed, then the tap ran for considerably less time than the healers recommended. The door creaked open, and Declan startled at the sight of Alain standing in front of it.
“Whatever you saw in there, I can explain,” Alain said quickly.
Declan’s eyes widened. “Er, yes, you definitely have some explaining to do.” Every muscle in Alain’s body clenched. Declan grinned. “Didn’t anyone tell you broken mirrors are a bad omen? You ought to get a mender to come take a look at that.”
Alain furrowed his brow, then remembered how the bathroom mirror was still cracked from Mavery’s accidental magic surge. It had happened almost a fortnight ago, and Alain hardly noticed the cracked glass anymore. He sighed with relief as Declan clapped him on the shoulder.
“See you on Onisday, lad. Until then, behave yourself. Don’t do anythingIwould do.”
He nodded toward the kitchen, where Mavery stood at the threshold, then threw Alain an exaggerated wink. Alain’s stomach plummeted as Declan left the apartment, whistling an upbeat tune.
Thirty-Three
The midday traffic was lighter than Mavery had anticipated, and so she arrived in the Garden District with plenty of time to spare. She decided to take advantage of the sunny, cloudless weather and peruse the main plaza before heading to Tesseraunt’s Boutique.
Compared to the Night Market, the Onisday market was a dull affair. Only a handful of merchants had posted up shop today, and they made few efforts to attract the scattered market-goers. But there was no shortage of food merchants. They offered everything from fruit pies and fried dough, to seasoned nuts and spit-roasted meats.
Mavery’s stomach growled at the pungent aroma of spices. As she’d never been to a dressmaker’s before, she hadn’t a clue if her appointment would finish in time for a midday meal—or even afternoon tea. Conventional wisdom would likely recommend against eating immediately before being fitted for a dress, but she wasn’t about to face Priscilla Tesseraunt on an empty stomach.
She tracked down the merchant who sold the flatbread she’d enjoyed at the Night Market, then sought an empty table to sit and enjoy her food.
“You are a woman with exotic taste!”
Mavery turned, then frowned as she recognized something elseshe’d encountered at the Night Market.
“I hope your taste in the exotic does not end with food,” the merchant said, gesturing grandly to the rugs draped over his stall. “May I interest you in one of the finest rugs from my homeland?”
The broad daylight revealed that, behind his kohl-lined eyes and colorful tunic, this man was no more Maroban than Mavery was—exactly as she’d suspected the first time she’d heard that terrible attempt at an accent. To darken his complexion, he’d slathered bronze makeup over his face, but he’d neglected to do the same to his hands. His true skin tone was pale and ashen, and he was missing two fingers on his right hand. Not to mention, though he was a head shorter than Mavery, his build was too lanky for a Maroban. There was something vaguely familiar about this man, but Mavery couldn’t pinpoint what, aside from him being an obvious conman.
“Not interested,” she said coolly.
He must have noticed her glancing at his hands, for he shoved them in his pockets. His eyes lingered on her face—her nose, to be precise. Up to this point, everyone Mavery had met in Leyport had been too polite to draw attention to her most visible scar. She’d all but forgotten how uncomfortable it was to be stared at while a stranger pondered what could have marred her face. She narrowed her eyes. In return, the man bowed his head politely, then cajoled an approaching couple.
Mavery found an empty bench a short distance away. The first bite of curried lamb sent a wave of warmth rippling through her body from head to toe. But that comfort dissipated as she realized she was being watched. Sure enough, the rug merchant’s eyes kept darting in her direction. If he truly was a conman, he could stand to learn a thing or two about discretion.
Either he was sizing her up as a potential mark, or his intentions were even less savory. She had no desire to find out. Suppressing a shudder, she binned what remained of her flatbread, then continued to Tesseraunt’s Boutique.
A bell chimed as she opened the door, but the hum of activity inside the shop quickly drowned it out. While the right-hand wall was lined with racks of dresses, each one more elegant than the last, the bulk of the room was dedicated to alterations. Seamstresses flitted across the shop floor with pins clenched between their teeth, arms laden with swaths of colorful fabric, tape measures draped over their shoulders and trailing behind them like capes. Their customers were all young women in various states of dress. Some wore puffy-sleeved ball gowns and were scrutinizing their reflections in the mirrors. Others had been stripped down to their chemises to have their measurements taken. With no men around, propriety hardly mattered.
