She could not afford to be caught. Which was why, when a bleary-eyed Cleo burst into her older sister’s chambers without knocking, Elodie was combing ash through her hair.
Cleo did not bother to hide her horror. “What in our lady’s name are you doing?”
Elodie fumbled, streaking dirt across her cheek. “Do you ever knock?”
“Not when my sister, not to mention my queen, is nearing a breakdown.”
Despite their height difference, Elodie shrank beneath her shorter sister’s gaze. “I need a disguise,” she admitted, slumping onto her bed.
“For what?” Cleo countered, stifling a yawn.
“I don’t believe for an instant that you don’t already know,” Elodie said, tersely. “Why else would you call on me this early? More to the point, Artur Anders has been wrapped around your little finger for days.”
Cleo fought back a grin. She held out her hand for the stubs of charred wood, which Elodie handed over reluctantly. “Start with your hair up. Less ground to cover.”
Elodie made a face. “I hate wearing my hair up.”
Cleo shook her head. “Oh, Ellie, it frightens me sometimes, how inept you are at deceit. Come here.”
Elodie’s sister twisted her hair up into a bun and began to methodically coat her white strands with the charred wood. The bun was so tight that it turned Elodie’s taut features even more severe. The dirt on her hair changed her coloring.
“You’re good at this,” she told her sister begrudgingly.
Cleo made a soft noise. “I know.”
Elodie snorted. “Humble, too.”
“I’m a middle child,” Cleo said disdainfully. “I don’t have time for humility.”
When, finally, Elodie’s transformation was complete, Cleo squeezed her sister’s hand. “Be careful,” she pleaded. “Everything is spiraling so quickly out of control.”
Elodie pulled her middle sister into a fierce embrace. “I promise.”
“And a Warnou woman always keeps her promise,” Cleo finished for her. “If you’re not back by lunch, I’m sending out a search party.”
Elodie rolled her eyes lovingly. “Don’t act like you haven’t already asked Artur to spy on me.”
Cleo’s feigned outrage melted off her face almost instantly. “He’ll be”—she gestured vaguely—“around. Just in case.”
The queen kept her head down as she hurried through the corridors. Billowing steam made it easy for her to pass unnoticed through the already bustling kitchens, her footsteps covered by the percussive chopping of knives. She wove past scullery maids and ducked into the pantry, where she heaved away a giant bushel of potatoes to reveal a trapdoor. She scrambled down the rope ladder, straining to shut the hatch behind her before descending into darkness.
Water sloshed loudly underfoot as Elodie slogged through the sewers. She pressed a handkerchief to her nose, grateful for her boots. The first time Tal had revealed this route to her, her silk slippers had become so soiled she had no choice but to burn them. It was not lost on her the way their roles were now reversed: Elodie sneaking through the sewers, while Tal strode confidently through Castle Warnou’s front doors.
Elodie took two left turns and one right before reaching the cold metal of a ladder. She climbed carefully, fumbling in the dark for the handle to push the trapdoor open.
She emerged amidst the lush greenery of the Garden District. In the shadows of the early hour, the flora took on a life of its own, far more sinister than the gentle swaying of leaves in the afternoon breeze. Stems and tendrils curled, creeping up trellises and columns like spiders or snakes, but the most offensive insect was the moth plastered on the posters with the words He is the light in the dark. Beneath the moth there was an address, the one toward which Elodie was headed. Where before the messages had been ominous but vague, now they left no doubt.
On the other side of the bridge, the air was thin and metallic. The Iron District strained at its edges, the dregs of the night sky darker, the stragglers on the street rowdier. It seemed that Elodie was not the only attendee who had chosen to forgo sleep entirely. Almost every building she passed boasted the moth insignia, a creeping devotional to the word of the Second Son.
Elodie fell into step behind a gaggle of young men freshly dressed in tailored coats. Other than their hair, which was shorn short, she might have been one of them. She stuck close to their group as they followed the road to the tavern where the prophet of the Second Son would hold court.
The queue to enter the Whispering Willow moved quickly. The queen tensed at the sight of the red-clad Loyalists guarding the doors. She was a fool to have come here. Some trousers and a charred stick were not disguise enough to avoid recognition. But the guard, whose name was Mott, did not look at her face. His eyes moved immediately to her coat.
“Stop right there!” The guard put out a hand to bar her entry. Elodie froze, fear icing her veins. “Is this your first meeting?”
The queen nodded mutely, eyes wide. Mott exchanged a look with the man beside him.
“Welcome, stranger,” the second guard said, producing a blood-red kerchief that he tucked into Elodie’s front coat pocket. “He accepts you into His fold.”
Now that she knew to look, she noticed the fabric everywhere. It was displayed in pockets, tied around wrists, used to pull back long hair. The handkerchiefs were just as much a uniform as the Loyalists’ coats, ensuring that those who followed the Second Son were easily identifiable to one another.
She had seen this color before, the day Tal had offered up his own handkerchief for her paper cut. I’ve more where that came from, he had said. Elodie cursed her oblivion yet again. The signs had all been there; she had simply been unwilling to see them.
She offered a mumbled thank-you to the guard, hurrying inside the tavern before she could think better of it.
The Whispering Willow was unassuming, all foggy windows and dark wood. It smelled of sweat and stone fruit, the pungent sweet-sour scent making Elodie gag. Immediately it was clear that the crowd was not exclusively composed of locals—voices rang out loudly in the packed room, a cacophony of minutely different inflections and accents; clothing ranged from the standard cut of trousers and boots preferred by the nobility to the coveralls of merchants and the aprons of artisans.
A shout of laughter echoed from a corner. Tal and Rob were tucked into a booth, surrounded by a crowd of admirers. Elodie ducked behind a tall woman in a wide-brimmed hat and found herself moving inadvertently toward the bar, a fish trapped in a strong current. She could not believe so many were willing to gather before work, carefully slotting this meeting into the events of their day.
As she shifted her weight from foot to foot, she tried to observe snippets of conversation, but the voices that bounced about the room were disorienting and distracting.
“… been starving lately, can’t believe that cow had the audacity to redistribute rations.”
“… heard the New Maiden murdered a man with a dagger.”
“No, not murdered, I heard that she was kissing the queen.”
“I’m certain that stubborn girl is good for more than kissing.”
