Page 36 of Never a Hero

Edith looked impatient. ‘I’m a friend of your grandmother’s,’ she said. ‘Not her,’ she added when Joan looked to the River Room, where the young Dorothy was still waiting. After ‘she grows a heart.’

The commotion downstairs rose: heavy footsteps and loud commands. Nick glanced at Joan, but Joan didn’t know what to do. A wrong call would get them killed. And Gran had never mentioned Edith’s name.

Edith didn’t seem to notice the exchange. ‘There’s a man selling cherries over at—’

‘We know the stall,’ Joan whispered.

‘Good. Show him the mark they put on you. He’ll get you out.’

The winged-lion mark? Joan didn’t like that idea at all. What if Edith was selling her out, like the younger Dorothy had?

‘Go on,’ Edith urged. ‘I have to greet the guards.’

Joan’s gran—the older gran—had told the family that this place was a sanctuary. She must have trusted at least some of the people here. And if she trusted them, Joan surely could too.

Joan made a decision. ‘Thank you,’ she said. And then remembered to add, ‘I’ll owe you a favour.’ It felt uncomfortable to say it, but monster culture was based around favours and debts.

To her surprise, Edith’s face softened. ‘Don’t worry about that.’ She glanced back toward the stairs—toward the incoming guards—and her expression twisted into a complicated mix of sadness and anger that made Joan wonder what she’d experienced at the hands of the Court. ‘Go,’ Edith said. And then she was walking away herself, heading for the market’s entrance.

Joan was grateful for the market’s night-garden theme. The dusk lighting obscured faces, and the stalls were hidden from each other by night-blooming flowers and light-garlanded trees.

Some vendors were still calling out their wares: ‘Hot pudding pies!’ and ‘Fine candles!’ But when Joan and Nick reached the cherry seller, he was standing outside his stall, big arms folded, ready for the raid. His eyebrows drew together when he saw them. ‘I’m closed,’ he snapped. ‘Clearly.’

Joan glanced around. The stall was more exposed than she’d remembered, open to the market’s entrance. Big clomping footsteps said that guards were already on the stairs. She really hoped Edith was right about this guy.

‘You hear me?’ the man said impatiently. ‘Guards are about to—’

Joan backed as far as she could into the stall’s alcove and tugged up her sleeve just enough to reveal the golden tip of the mark. The man’s eyes jerked to hers in shock, and Joan felt Nick shift beside her, tensing.

‘Fucking hell,’ the man breathed. He darted over to snatch Joan’s sleeve down, although no one else could have seen. ‘I thought you were a snitch,’ he scolded, ‘trying to buy information.’

‘I wasn’t!’ Joan whispered.

‘No shit,’ the man hissed. And then, almost in the same breath, ‘Get down!’ Because the guards’ heavy feet were pounding up the last stairs. He shoved Joan and Nick back behind his stall.

Joan ducked behind the red-striped tent, and Nick found a spot behind the heavy pot of a bay tree. They’d ended up in a gap between the market and the wall. From here, the room didn’t look nearly as whimsical. Down the line of potted trees and tent backs, string lights trailed out to electric plugs. Half-unpacked crates and rubbish lay around. This was the part of the market that only sellers saw.

Joan peered around the edge of the tent. The entrance was too close for comfort. Court Guards were streaming into the room, intimidating in their blue livery, winged-lion pins glinting on their lapels. Joan peered closer. Their pins didn’t quite look like the usual ones; there was a curved line around the lion’s right side. Joan pictured that thorned stem on Corvin’s chop, and her next breath shook. Definitely not an ordinary raid. They were here for Joan and Nick.

Edith’s clicking heels sounded. ‘I’m the innkeeper,’ she said, introducing herself briskly to the guards. ‘Can I help you?’

‘You can turn on the lights,’ a familiar voice called.

Joan put a hand over her mouth, afraid she’d make a sound, as Aaron emerged from the stairs. His long stride exuded casual arrogance. Last night he’d been dressed as if on his way to a red-carpet event. Today he was in navy blue. Not the guards’ livery but tailored Savile Row. His lapel bore no pin, but he was clearly in charge of the raid.

Even just standing at the entrance, he seemed to light up the room, so beautiful that he made the raid seem a little unreal. He surveyed everyone, one hand in his pocket, lord-like, and Joan’s heart skipped a beat as his eyes reached the cherry stall and moved on.

‘May I have your attention, please?’ Aaron said loudly. ‘The Court is conducting a search of this premises. Guards will distribute descriptions of two fugitives.’

‘We cleaned up our act years ago,’ Edith said to Aaron. ‘This isn’t a home for fugitives.’

‘Every inn is being searched,’ Aaron said. ‘No one is singling you out.’ He added mildly, ‘I believe I asked for some lights on in here.’

‘Why is a civilian leading this search?’ Edith said. ‘Why are these guards under your command?’

‘Why is an innkeeper asking so many questions?’ Aaron countered. He didn’t sound threatening exactly, but Edith blanched. In her pink uniform, among the guards, she looked like a bird, bright and a little fragile.

Joan swallowed. This was a small raid with a team of a dozen guards, but Aaron seemed more comfortable than she’d have expected in this minor position of power. It occurred to her—for the first time—that if he hadn’t been disinherited, he would have led the formidable Oliver family one day.

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