Taya squared her shoulders. "It just — it doesn't feel right. I might be getting your brother into trouble. You should be angry at me!"
"I'm not. I'm grateful for your warning." The decatur studied her. Taya flattered herself that he looked disappointed that she'd pushed him away. She certainly was.
But she also knew she was right. To share a first kiss, now, after that kind of news — she didn't want the moment to be tainted by anything bad that might happen afterward.
"Talk to Cristof first," she pleaded.
Alister sighed, turning and looking out the window again. "Perhaps that's wisest, under the circumstances."
"Thank you." She felt a pang of regret as she gazed at his strong profile and watched the morning light gleam in the jewels and gold that caught back his long hair and brightened his neck and hands. The wave tattoo was dark against his cheek. A muscle there tightened as he stood, lost in his own thoughts.
"I wish you had brought me a pair of wings, instead of this news."
"I'm sorry." Taya took another step backward. "Will you send me a message when you know more?"
"Yes." He paused. "Fly safely, Taya Swan."
"I will. You be careful, too, exalted." She bowed and took her leave.
Chapter Eight
She hadn't lied, and she wasn't breaking her promise. She was going to avoid Cristof.
Just not his shop.
She picked up another set of messages from Dispatch, on her way down, and spent an hour and a half delivering them. Once they were gone, she flew to Gryngoth Plaza and landed by the statue, then hurried to Jayce's dressmaking shop.
Cassi's nephew allowed her to store her wings in his shop, but it took her half an hour to get away from his interrogation about the party. At last she promised to tell him everything over lunch later that week and grabbed another cloak to cover her flight leathers.
"That's two you've borrowed," Jayce pointed out as she left.
"I'll bring them both back tomorrow," she promised. "Really. And the dress, too."
"It's intact?" he asked, disappointed.
"Well, it was close," she admitted. "Or it might have been. But Viera Octavus was looking out for my virtue."
"Damn," Jayce muttered, waving her off as he turned back to his dressmaker's model. "Try harder next time."
She made a face at him and left, thinking ruefully about her almost-kiss.
Next time, I won't pull away
, she promised herself, heading down to Tertius.
When she reached the marketplace, she pulled the cloak's hood up to cover her face and hair. An "Open" sign hung on the front of Cristof's shop, but the door was closed against the autumn chill and the sooty air. Taya settled in to wait, crouching in an alley across the street.
I'll stay for an hour,
she promised herself.
Then I'll report back to the dispatch office. And I'll work an extra hour this evening, to make up for all this lost time.
Half an hour later, a man descended into Cristof's shop. Taya couldn't get a glimpse of his face, but shortly after his arrival Cristof left with him, pulling on his coat and, characteristically, frowning.
Taya waited until they were around the corner before she scurried down to the shop door.
The quality of locks in Tertius hadn't improved since she'd been a little girl. The loose frame wiggled under her hand, and with some ruthless jabbing with her utility knife, she managed to jimmy the locks and yank the door open. Cristof would notice, but this was Tertius. Break-ins happened all the time.
The dimly lit shop was still filled with whirring and clicking. Taya went straight to Cristof's desk, searching his papers.
Diagrams for clockwork mechanisms abounded, but none of them looked like a bomb to her untrained eye. She searched through the drawers, not sure what she was looking for. A torn punch card, maybe, or a half-constructed bomb. Instead, she found tools and broken clockwork.
Nothing. She turned to his filing cabinet. Bills, receipts, work orders. Cristof's filing system was as orderly as his brother's was chaotic. Even his handwriting was neat, each letter tiny and precise. He'd been telling the truth about getting most of his commissions from Secundus and Primus, she noticed.
She stepped through the curtains into his living quarters. Shelves of books; a wardrobe; a small, neatly made bed; an icon of Our Lady of the Forge on whitewashed walls. The room was monastic in its simplicity.
She opened the wardrobe and grimaced. Black, black, and black. And Cassi thought Taya's wardrobe was limited. Cristof had no imagination whatsoever. Wait — a spot of brilliance squashed in the back caught her eye. Taya pushed aside his suits and coats to see what secret vice Cristof was concealing in the back of his armoire.
"Oh." She stared.
It was an exalted's robe, wrinkled and musty-smelling. Its gems seemed dull in the dim light, and its gold-and-silver embroidery was dark with age. An ivory mask hung by silk cords from the robe's hangar. Taya touched the mask's smooth surface, feeling gritty dust covering it.
The robe reeked of old secrets and strong emotion. Of something hidden and tainted that Cristof couldn't quite bring himself to discard.
Of guilt, maybe.
Taya let the rest of the suits fall back to cover the robe and closed the wardrobe door. So far she hadn't found anything to warrant her trespass. On the one hand, she was relieved. Alister would be happy if his brother turned out to be innocent. But on the other hand, Taya couldn't help but hope she'd find something that would excuse her ugly suspicions. If Cristof didn't have anything to hide, she was going to owe him a very humble apology.
She looked at the books and felt a twinge of optimism. Most of them were about clockwork and clocks, but a number of other titles sat on the shelves, as well. She examined the spines. Books on programming and foreign customs, explosives and religion, exalted genealogies and icarus armatures. Weapons, poisons, anatomy. She shivered. The bottom shelf was full of dog-eared directories. The official directories weren't surprising, but her eyebrows rose as she pulled out badly printed, back-alley directories to gambling houses and brothels, "gentlemen's shows" and animal fights. Was this a side to the outcaste that she hadn't seen yet?
She found the wireferry map and opened it. Cristof's neat notes indicated time and distance from station to station. Other numbers were marked, too, and it took her a few minutes of reading to realize they were notations about repairs.
She refolded it, not certain what to think.
At the very end of the shelf she pulled out a small bundle of letters and official documents. Crouching, she paged through them, handling the old paper with care.
Coroner's Report: Emeline Forlore, Exalted.
The notes were taken in Cristof's small, neat handwriting. She skimmed the medical jargon, noting the words that stood out. Lacerations. Perforation. Fracture. Hemorrhage.
She looked at the date and the age of the victim. Emeline Forlore had been thirty-seven when she'd died. Violently.
She grimaced, set the report down, and moved on to letters signed by Viera, dated twenty-five years ago, written in wide, childish script.
Don't worry, Father says everything will be all right. Give Alister kisses for me. Three more weeks!!! I can hardly wait to see you again. We are painting two rooms for you. You will love them.
A small clipped obituary:
Emeline and Tadeus Forlore. No cause of death given. Survived by sons Cristof, 12, and Alister, 10.
A tabloid-sized page from
The Keyhole Peeper
Taya had never heard of it before. It was typeset on yellowing paper and dated around the time of Viera's letters.