It was the Wilmerian. He’d followed her out of the hall. The hood of his cassock was down. His eyes were watery and unfocused and his jaw hung slack. She probably wouldn’t have heard anything if he’d been sober. An alarming thought.
“Bertram.” His voice sounded breathless, with none of the aloof piety it had held earlier.
“I’m sorry?” she said, carefully.
“Bertram. Before I took my vows. My name was Bertram.”
The back of her neck prickled. “All right.”
“You have to give up everything when you join a Guild. Even your name. I—” He hesitated, and took a step closer. The words tumbled out of him all in a rush. “I want to touch your hair.”
“No,” she said.
Bertram’s thin lips were dry and as she watched, he licked them. His hands reached out like talons, those bleary eyes glued to her hair. “They say you’re witchborn. That you stole Lady Clorin’s soul. Killed her.”
Judah hadn’t heard exactly that variation before. She didn’t believe in witches and she didn’t believe in souls, but this didn’t seem like the time to mention it. He stood between her and the open end of the gallery; the only door behind her led to the chapel, and was no doubt locked. She’d been stupid. She should have circled around him as he spoke so he couldn’t trap her. Even if she did manage to bolt past him, her shoes weren’t made for running any more than they were made for snow. Drunk he may have been, but he could still probably catch her, and if he caught her she would be well and truly caught. The Wilmerians were all broad-shouldered. Judah was sturdy but small. The gaslight above her burned steady with its creepy purple glow. Six months ago, it would have been an oil lamp, or a torch, and she could have thrown it at him. Now she had nothing.
“Hair like blood,” he said. “It looks soft. Is it soft?”
She imagined Bertram’s fingers sliding into her hair—questing, invading, clenching, pulling—and decided that her head would be on a spike before she let him touch her. He came closer.
Suddenly, she heard boot heels. Not Gavin’s or Theron’s formal leather boots, but hard wooden soles, with the staccato clip of high heels. The pomaded courtier who’d sat on Judah’s other side appeared over Bertram’s shoulder: neither young nor old, earrings sparkling in the gas lamps and visage unsullied by anything so common as emotion. Only the wryest lift of an eyebrow suggested that there was anything odd about the scene before him.
Bertram hadn’t seen him yet. His fingertips brushed against Judah’s hair just as the courtier, sounding bored, said, “Guildsman. Lady Judah,” and then the guildsman’s whole body flinched, as if he’d been doused in cold water.
He snatched back his hand and his face filled with horror and shame. Staggering backward, he said, “Forgive me.”
“Forgive you?” the courtier said with benign interest. “Whatever for?” But Bertram was already stumbling away down the gallery, a tangle of coarse robes and fumy sweat. The courtier watched him go, then turned back to Judah, one eyebrow lifted in what looked like curiosity. Contemplating the poisonous hay he could make of what he’d seen, probably. It was what courtiers did.
Quickly, Judah circled him, putting the length of the gallery at her back. Normally, no courtier would acknowledge her existence, let alone chase her. But for all she knew, this particular courtier was as drunk as Bertram. Surely there was an aphorism in that. From the grasp of the guildsman to the grip of the courtier.
“You should be more careful. It’s a strange night.” Mocking, but they all sounded like that, so it was impossible to tell if the mockery were directed at her. His kohl-lined eyes drifted up to the gas lamp overhead. “And oddly lit.”
“The House is full of drunk courtiers,” she said, bolder with an escape route at her back. “Nothing strange about that.”
The corner of his mouth moved. “Nothing particularly safe about it, either. You might find yourself running into unsavory characters. You might find yourself owing them favors.” Courtiers trafficked in favors, and reputation, and fear.
“A favor? In exchange for walking down the hall? Seems like a low threshold.”
“Oh,” the courtier said, “but think of the rumors.”
“I try not to. Good night, lord courtier.” Giving him a wide berth, Judah walked past him and away, acutely conscious of his gaze on her back.
“Good night, foundling,” she heard him say, as she left the gallery by the