Sweet Beauty

Part Fifty-Four

I pause. What did he mean by that? Has he found me out? But nothing in his eyes speaks of recognition. More likely, he sees another delusional girl who has convinced herself she loves one of the handsome Handriell brothers, boys she will never have a chance to say one word to.

"What reason could anyone have to dislike the Handriells?" I say, playing up the act. Across the bar, a man hits another in the face with a pitcher. The maid they were fighting over ducks away, screaming.

Thatcher eyes me, like a father worried for his daughter. "You must be new to Morlana." He makes eye contact with the barman and signals for a drink.

"We're from Colth," Beth chimes in. I want to kick her—neither of us have ever been there, and our cover story should leave no room for doubt. What if he asks us about the province in detail?

"That explains it." Thatcher shakes his head. "During the war, Morlana was sacked twice. While the nobles sat safe in their palaces, the lower city burned to the ground. We all lost kin and property. Wadrethar Handriell was the man who sent us to war. Small wonder some here hate him.""

"I thought Gideon said he hates the king for ending the war," Beth says, confused.

I sigh. The fight in the corner is growing larger—if it gets too big, we'll need to make a quick getaway, but for now, we're safe. "Of course he does. He wants to believe the deaths of his friends were worth something, that they gave their lives for the country, fighting desperately to defend it. The fact that the war ended so easily makes him wonder if what happened was all for naught."

Thatcher nods and sips his beer. "Very wise, and right. That's the truth of life in the lower city. People hate the crown for starting the war and hate the crown for ending it."

I meet his watery grey eyes. This is my chance. "You don't happen to know anyone who is . . . acting on that hate?" Anyone with enough hate to aid Azra, perhaps. She'd need accomplices in the palace, someone who could get into the king's chambers and attempt to steal The Book of Beasts. How else would she hope to obtain it?

He laughs, and ducks as someone throws a platter overhead. "By the Dog, you two believe you've walked straight into a rebellion! Such talk is as normal as night and day. Nothing beats a good laugh at your overlords after a long say's work. We all have our grievances against the crown. It's never worth ending as a head on a spike."

But to Azra, expressing her grievances is worth dying for. Once more, I wonder why she's acting as she does. I would understand a beast lashing out against the royal family. The curse leaves one with very little self-control. Under its influence, a man like Gideon might very well turn to outright killing anyone associated with the Handriells. Azra, though, was not cursed when she started on this path . . .

Something presses at me: an idea, floating just below the surfaces of my thoughts. But then Beth pulls me sideways to escape one man lunging at an enemy with a broken bottle in his fist, and the inspiration is lost.

"This'll need the guards to clean up," Thatcher says, angrily surveying the fight. "Not that they'll come. They sure didn't care yesterday when that crow snatched Widow Miller—"

"What?" I leap to my feet and nearly step on a groaning patron. "A crow? Where?"

Thatcher looks confused. "As I says. A crow the size of a horse swooped down on the market and carried her off. Guards said they couldn't hunt down a bird and left it at that, even though what we all wanted was for them to get the enchantress who did it." He sighs. "Lazy bastards."

"Hey!" Beth says, angered by the insult to her fellow guards.

No, I think. The poor woman is as good as dead if Azra has her, but she will not be sacrificed until Azra has all three victims on hand, and one torn-out heart. She was hasty the last time—now, she will prepare slowly and deliberately, make bigger minions instead of many small ones. Is she waiting to get the spellbook, or will she risk beginning her ritual without it? "Have there been any more abductions like this? Or strange killings?"

Thatcher looks at me like I've grown a second head. "I'm not sure that's a proper thing for a young lady to be concerned with."

"Tell me!" I command, and all at once my common disguise is nullified. Beth is quiet enough to blend into this crowd, but I am not. I need too much, want too much, ask for too much. I do not know if I am a pampered princess or a feared enchantress. But I will never again be plain, common Isamar Brock. People may envy me, fear me, hate me—but they cannot ignore me. Not anymore. Even without using magic, I shine like the sun.

Thatcher lowers his eyes. "Of course," he mutters. "My apologies. There was a similar abduction the day before. A crow of the same size grabbed a sailor from the docks. I thought it was only a rumor, but—"

I cut him off with a lifted hand. Two abductions in as many days. The third must have happened sometime in the last few hours. "We need to go, Beth. Hurry—"