pinched. My wrinkled skirts rustled as I walked barefoot across the carpets, and when I opened it, a small woman stood in the hall with a fresh frock in her arms. It was a delicate pale pink fabric, almost the same hue that colored the walls of the room.
Clove still stood against the banister out on the salon, his box of coin sitting at his feet. He’d stayed out there all night.
“I’ve come to dress you,” the woman said, looking up at me.
“I’m not a doll,” I snapped. “I don’t need to be dressed.”
Behind her, Clove stifled a laugh.
The woman looked confused. “But the hooks—”
I snatched the frock from her hands and closed the door before she finished. The garment shimmered as I held it up, inspecting it. It was garish, with a high neck and a pleated skirt.
West seemed to be thinking the same thing, wincing as if looking at it hurt him.
I dropped it on the bed with a huff and reached back for the closures of the blue frock I was wearing. The fastenings at the top came undone with a snap, and when I couldn’t reach the ones at the center, I groaned.
I reached into the pocket of my skirts and found the knife. West watched from where he stood at the window as I slid the blade along the seam at my ribs, jerking. The tailored waist loosened with the tear and I rolled the bodice down until the entire thing dropped to the floor in a heap. My sore ribs and shoulders ached, finally free of the constricting silk.
West eyed the underdress and panniers fitted around my hips. “What the—”
I stopped him with a sharp look, stepping into the new frock and fastening the buttons in the back as far up as I could. When my fingers couldn’t get to the next one, West finished them with a scowl on his face. The short sleeves would show my scar, and for a moment the thought unnerved me. I was used to covering it up.
I pulled the pins from my hair and let the length of it fall around me before I shook it out. The deep auburn strands spilled over my shoulders, dark against the pale color of the bodice. When I opened the door again, the woman was still standing there, a pair of shoes in the same pink fabric clutched in her delicate hands.
Her eyes went wide when she saw the shredded blue silk on the floor behind me. “Oh my.”
She composed herself, setting the shoes down, and I stepped into them one at a time with the frock bunched in my arms. She bristled when she caught sight of the scar on my arm, and I dropped the skirts, waiting for her to stop staring.
Her cheeks bloomed crimson. “I’ll show you to breakfast.” She gave an apologetic bow of her head.
West was already waiting in the hall with Clove. The woman stepped around them carefully, as if she was afraid to touch them, and Clove looked pleased. He moved aside, letting her pass, and she led us back down the staircase. The corridor we’d walked down the night before was now filled with sunlight coming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Painted portraits lined the inner wall, their deep, saturated colors depicting faces of men and women wrapped in robes and adorned with jewels.
The coin in Clove’s box jingled as we followed the woman, side by side, down the turning steps.
“It’s time to tell me what the hell is going on,” I said in a low voice.
Clove’s eyes cut to West warily. “You know what’s going on. I took on Holland’s bounty and brought Zola back to Bastian from the Narrows.”
“But why?” Clove was loyal to Saint, but he wasn’t stupid, and he hadn’t risked his neck for nothing. There was something in it for him. “Why would you come all this way on Saint’s order?”
He arched an eyebrow, irritated. “He made it worth my while.” He tapped the silver box under his arm. “I’m using the coin to start a new fleet under Saint’s crest.”
“What? Why not strike out on your own?”
Clove laughed, shaking his head. “Would you want to be in competition with Saint?”
I wouldn’t. No one in their right mind would. This was a way for everyone to get what they wanted.
“I’d been trying to convince Zola to come back to Bastian for over a year, but he wasn’t interested. He was too afraid of Holland.”