Page 62 of Court of Shadows
“You are the sort of daughter every father hopes for and rarely gets,” he said fondly, chuckling again. With his spindly fingers he reached into his coat pocket, withdrawing a long, wide slip of paper. A banknote. “There will be more,” he said, handing me the money. It was for a bank in London, and the sum was more than I could digest. Ten thousand pounds. A girl could live off that for the rest of her life.
“Enjoy it,” Father said.
While you can, I added silently. I saw the coolness in his eyes as he handed over the note. He knew it would not be mine for long, that as soon as he had the book I would be useless and therefore a burden. I tucked the banknote away in my apron pocket, folding it and sliding it against the spoon.
“I will wait outside the tent or risk being revealed,” he murmured. “I wouldn’t want them to know of my return too soon.”
“Oh, trust me,” I said with a beaming smile. “Nobody will be looking at you, not when I make utter fools of our enemies. But it would be wise for you to conceal yourself. Listen nearby and you will hear me give the signal.”
Father sighed and reached up for my face, touching his thumb to my chin. I went rigid to avoid recoiling and giving myself away.
“My beautiful daughter, what did I do to deserve you?”
Nothing, I thought, my smile cracking. And everything.
If this was what a bride felt like on her wedding day, then I never wanted to be faced with marriage. But this was that permanent, that unavoidable—I had come to it, and my nerves were on fire.
“Are you afraid, my dear? You’re trembling.”
Mr. Morningside stood beside me, flickering in and out of his many faces, every color of skin, every possible combination of features. I tried to look at him, but I was racked with uncertainty, finding that courage was fleeting now that we were in the pavilion and the Court had reconvened. Instead, I looked straight ahead at the dais, at the empty spot where a third throne should be.
Had I become a radical? A rogue element? I didn’t belong at the center of so much turmoil.
“Yes,” I told him truthfully. “I’m terrified. Do you think anyone will believe us?”
One of his faces smiled, and it bled onto all those that came into view next. “Take heart, Louisa, I will be the one Judged this night. We have done all that we can. Nobody will know where the third book has gone. You burned the journal, did you not?”
“I did.” And I had. After our last meeting in the cellar library I had done as Mr. Morningside asked and tossed Bennu’s work into the fireplace. For a long time I watched it burn, feeling asif I had deeply hurt a friend I had never even met.
“Good.” He stared placidly out over the milling crowd. “Then only you have the secret. I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
I flinched. This was not only the night I betrayed my father, but the night I perhaps lost Mr. Morningside’s regard. Forever.
“Just don’t forget our deal,” I said. “I did as you asked.”
One of his less regal faces lifted a brow at me. “Getting nervous I’m going to slip your net, Louisa? We put it in writing.”
“And you’ve never used a loophole to your advantage?” I asked with a snort. “You’ll really let them go?”
One eye on a new face—a sly, handsome one—winked. “You will just have to trust me, won’t you?” He paused, and I thought perhaps the conversation was over, but then he said softly, “You didn’tactuallyhold up your end, you know.”
I spun on him quickly. “What?”
“The journal,” he drawled. “You skipped some entries.”
“Because you told me to!” I cried.
“Don’t panic, Louisa,” Mr. Morningside said with a chuckle. “I’m just pointing it out.”
The shepherd sat low in his throne, his gold, liquid angels surrounding him, all of them in the midst of a heated discussion. The translated pages that Mr. Morningside had given him days ago were piled on the shepherd’s lap, his fist tucked up under his chin as he took counsel. I could hardly see any of it. My mind was spinning. According to Mr. Morningside, I hadbroken the contract, which meant he might not let us go at all.
Suddenly, my pledge to help him against the shepherd felt far less important.
Mr. Morningside said nothing about the bag hanging from my shoulder. He either didn’t notice it or didn’t care to comment. This was not a carpet in front of me but a precipice, I thought, wishing I could roll back time and do everything differently. I should have shut the door in my father’s face the moment he appeared. I should have trusted myself, and trusted that a man who’d run out on his infant daughter was not to be heard or seen or respected. I might have told Mr. Morningside Father’s secret, but selfishly I had assumed I could handle this all myself. Whether that was true or not was about to become painfully apparent.
The tent was as dazzling as ever, the fairy lights bouncing and shining, everyone glittering in their dark, beautiful robes or their ivory gowns. Even the angels burning on the stage were lovely, suffusing the back half of the pavilion with their light. The crowd of onlookers drank and laughed, though they stayed largely relegated to their own kind; no brave mingling would happen on that night.
“Let us begin.”
