“You certain?” Waxillium asked. “She might have been hiding it.”
“She’s not an Allomancer,” Marasi said. “Nor a Feruchemist. I can promise it.”
“Well, there’s a theory rusted away,” Wayne said.
“I need to think,” Waxillium said, tapping the table with his fingernail. “Too much about these Vanishers doesn’t make sense.” He shook his head. “But, for now, I should bid you a good evening. I’m exhausted, and if I may be bold enough to say it, you look the same.”
“Yes, of course,” Marasi said.
They stood, walking toward the exit. The constables didn’t stop them, though some did shoot Waxillium hostile looks. Others seemed disbelieving. A few looked awed.
This night, like the four previous, lacked any mists. Waxillium and Wayne walked Marasi to her uncle’s carriage. Lord Harms sat inside, staring straight ahead.
As they arrived, Marasi took Waxillium’s arm. “You really should have gone for Steris first,” she said softly.
“You were closer. Logic dictated I save you first.”
“Well, whatever the reason,” she said, voice even more soft, “thank you for what you did. I just … Thank you.” She looked like she wanted to say more, staring up into his eyes, then went onto her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. Before he could react, she turned away and climbed into the carriage.
Wayne stepped up to him as the carriage moved off into the dark street, horses’ shoes clattering on the paving stones. “So,” Wayne said, “you’re going to marry her cousin?”
“Such is the plan.”
“Awkward.”
“She is an impulsive young woman half my age,” Waxillium said. An apparently brilliant, beautiful, intriguing young woman who also happens to be an excellent shot. Once, that combination would have left him completely smitten. Now, he barely gave it a passing thought.
He turned away from the carriage. “Where are you staying?”
“Not sure yet,” Wayne said. “I found this house where the folks who lives there is away, but I think they might be back tonight. Left ’em some bread as a thanks.”
Waxillium sighed. I should have guessed. “I’ll give you a room, assuming you promise not to steal too much.”
“What? I never steal, mate. Stealing’s bad.” He ran a hand through his hair and grinned. “Might need to trade you for a hat to wear till I get my other one back, though. Do you need any bread?”
Waxillium just shook his head, waving for his carriage to drive them back to Ladrian Mansion.
7
The morning after the assault on the wedding dinner, Marasi stood before the imposing mansion at Sixteen Ladrian Place, holding her handbag before her in both hands. She always liked to grip something before herself when she was nervous, a bad habit. As Professor Modicarm said, “Obvious visual tells must be assiduously avoided by a practitioner of the law, lest he inadvertently give criminals an insight into his emotional state.”
Thinking over quotes from her professors was another of her nervous habits. She continued to stand on the stone-paved sidewalk, indecisive. Would Lord Waxillium find it odd or invasive of her to come? Did he think her a silly girl with a silly hobby who foolishly assumed she could be of use to a seasoned lawman?
She should probably just go up and knock. But didn’t she have a right to be nervous when confronting a man such as Waxillium Ladrian? A living legend, one of her personal heroes?
A young gentleman passed on the sidewalk behind her, walking an eager dog. He tipped his hat to her, though he spared a brief distrustful glance for Ladrian Mansion.
The building didn’t seem to deserve such scrutiny; the venerable structure was built of stately, vine-bedecked stone, with large windows and an old iron gate. Three mature apple trees spread limbs over the front garden, and a member of the grounds staff was lazily sawing off a few dead branches. City law established by the Lord Mistborn himself required that even ornamental trees provide food.
What would it be like to visit the Roughs, she thought idly, where the trees are scraggly and short? The Roughs must be a fascinating place. Plants here in the Elendel Basin grew bountifully with little need for care or cultivation. A final gift of the Survivor, his munificent touch upon the land.
Stop fidgeting, she told herself. Be firm. Control your surroundings. That was something Professor Aramine had said just last week, and—
Damn it! She strode forward, through the open gate, up the steps, and to the door. She slammed the knocker down on the door three times.
A long-faced butler answered. He looked her up and down with dispassionate eyes. “Lady Colms.”
“I was hoping I might see Lord Ladrian?”