My sleep is fitful. The Lord of the UnderworldâVictorâhaunts my dreams. He stands before me in the fog of my mind, his body shrouded by loose robes and his face covered by his deer skull mask. But this time, the eyes of the mask are dark. A hollow black, like a real skull with eyes long since rotted to nothing. I can hear his voice echoing in my head, as though I'm standing in the middle of a giant cavern and he's calling to me from the other side.
No one has ever been able to guess.
When I wake, I wonder how many people have tried to guess the Silver Prince's greatest fear. For someone as irresponsible and stupid as he, it must be something mundane. Something so dull that no one could ever guess. And, as a prince, I'm sure he's been taught extensively to hide his fear, since losing control of his shadow could mean utter ruin for the kingdom.
I lay against my thin pillow and stare up at the low, scuffed ceiling as I go through the most obvious possibilities. Death, darkness, losing a loved one, contracting the plague, going to war... Most have to do with death, or the imminence of it. All humans, at their core, harbor an intense desire for survival. I myself am a testament to thisâI've had to survive on my own for the past five years, and while it was difficult at first, I eventually figured it out. Now, I'm as deadly as any member of Victor's criminal underground. And he's noticed this. I wonder if he'll offer me a place among his lieutenants once I capture the prince's shadow.
But fears may be different for a prince; royalty are nothing like us commoners. Perhaps examining the Duchess of Vaelune will help me. Her fears may be similar to the Silver Prince's. Or, at least, they will lead me on the right path.
I climb out of bed and dress in my leather pants, white shirt, and leather vest. As I secure my pouch to the belt around my waist, I wonder how much money I should keep on my person. I settle for the entire sum I stole from Eamon and stash Victor's advance beneath a loose floorboard under the bed. While I'm there, I pull out two of my trapping jars.
These jars are special: if I have one while I capture the prince's shadow, I can trap his shadow in it. They're made of obsidian glass, which is derived from black sand, a rare material that can only be found in the deepest of Itoria's mines. I stick the jars into my pouch alongside the gold. They're only about two inches tallâit's surprising how compact a person's essence can be, to fit in one of these things.
Two years ago, when I had a decent number of spare ducats, I bought three trapping jars from the black market. They're pricey, but fairly easy to find since they're so versatile. Sorcerers keep raw materials in themâthings like the eyes of crows or the wings of dragonfliesâso the ingredients don't lose their power. Occultists keep herbs in them for the same reason.
My sole use for them is storing shadows.
I've only done it once. Last year, the Earl of Ferrenmur hired me to steal the shadow of his love rival, a man who was nothing more than a silversmith yet had captured the heart of the woman that Ferrenmur loved. Once the shadow was trapped in the jar, whoever possessed it could command the person whose shadow was taken. I turned the jar over to Ferrenmur, and I have no idea what became of the silversmith. But I got a hundred gold ducats for my efforts, so ignoring my guilt was almost simple.
A knock at the door jolts me from my thoughts.
"Nyx?" Blythe, the building's owner, calls. "You have a visitor."
"Just a moment." I make sure that all my knives are in their placesâone in its thigh holster, one strapped to my belt, one stuffed into each boot, and two small ones up my sleeves, their hilts pressing against my wrists.
Once I'm satisfied that everything's in place, I unlock the door and yank it open. Blythe is standing on the other side, her white hair in copper rollers. A girl who looks about my age is next to her, wearing the long blue dress and white apron of a lady's servant. This must be the girl that Victor promised would come, the servant meant to escort me to the duchess's side.
The girl's lips twitch into a nervous smile and she gives me a little curtsey. "Ms. Madden?"
"Call me Nyx," I tell her. "What's your name?"
"Morwen," she says. "Please come with me, Nyx. Her Grace doesn't like to be kept waiting."
Blythe's eyebrows rise almost to her hairline. "Her Grace? What are you up to, Nyx?"
"Nothing." I flash her an innocent smile, then lock my door and tuck the key into my shirt.
Morwen hurries down the steps. Before I can follow her, Blythe grips my arm with shocking strengthâespecially from a rather frail-looking woman of her ageâand holds me back. "You need to be careful when dealing with royalty, Nyx."
She looks worried, the same way she looks worried when she tells me that I shouldn't stay out late all night. The same way she looked when I first moved in and she patiently dressed the wounds I arrived with. There's an almost grandmotherly care in the way she regards me.
I wrench my arm free, pushing away the knot of guilt in my stomach. "I know. It's none of your concern, Blythe; I promise my rent will be on time."
Blythe remains at the top of the stairs, watching defeatedly while I follow Morwen outside. A large coach, painted a shade of blue that reminds me of robin's eggs and ornamented with solid gold fixtures and designs, is waiting just outside the building. Several people passing by stop and gape at it. There has never been a coach like this down Lockard Alley, and there probably never will be again. It's probably worth more than every building on this street combined.
The footman, dressed in indigo livery, opens the door for me. Morwen motions for me to enter, and I hesitate for a moment.
"Don't keep me waiting," an imperious voice snaps.
I climb into the coach and am greeted by a solid-gold interior, velvet-cushioned seats, and the duchess.
To steal shadows, I must understand people, and to understand people, I must be discerning. As a result, I can instantly tell what sort of woman the duchess is. Her blonde hair is piled on her head in a large, elaborate design that's decorated with peacock feathersâprobably to hide the graying strands that are inevitably beginning to appear on a woman of her age. She is wearing a pale pink gown with at least three layers of petticoats and an overabundance of ribbons and frills to make it exceedingly fanciful. The overlay of her dress, made of delicate golden silk, depicts the fan-like leaves of the maidenhair tree, which is considered sacred to Lady Dimitraâthe goddess of beauty and maidenhood, naturally. I don't understand how a woman can wear a dress like that; it must be ridiculously uncomfortable and swelteringly hot. And, considering the drapes of heavy fabric, it must weigh at least twenty pounds. A torture device disguised as clothes.
Already, I know who she is. She's vain and haughty, and believes that everyone in the world is beneath her. A true noble, through and through. Her greatest fear is probably losing her beauty.
The coach lurches into motion, and I practically fall into the cushion across from the duchess. Morwen must have taken a seat with the driver outside. I can't see, since the windows are covered by silk curtains that glow with the morning light.
The duchess stares at me with a frown on her plump, red-painted lips. "So you're Victor's girl."
"You could say that." Though I don't appreciate being described as such. I am no one's girl. While I might work for Victor, I certainly don't belong to him in any capacity. Once I deliver him the prince's shadow, if he doesn't offer me a place among his lieutenants, I assume we'll part ways and never see each other again.
The coach hits a pothole, jostling us. "What was that?" the duchess snaps, straightening her still-perfect hair.
"A pothole," I tell her.
"How primitive. My coach had better not be muddy by the end of this trip."
That would be unfortunate, I think, curling my hands into fists. Is that her greatest concern? The state of her precious coach? What about the people who have to walk down that street every day, constantly dealing with its "primitive" state of disrepair?
Of course she doesn't care. Today is the only day that it will affect her. Within an hour, she'll have forgotten about the dilapidated road entirely.
"If you're to be my niece, you must call me Aunt Ethel," she says.
I stare at her pale skin, several shades lighter than my own. "No one will believe that."
She looks me up and down, delicate nose wrinkling in disgust. "Not with you dressed like that. Why would you come to me in those clothes?"
"I don't have anything that you would deem proper." My only other set of clothes is identical to this one. I don't wear dresses; there's no practicality in thieving shadows in a skirt. It would only tangle in my legs and get caught underfoot.
"Hmm," she grumbles. "Victor never told me that I would have to provide a wardrobe for his vagabond."
While I used to be a vagabond, living on the streets, I am no longer. "The ball is tomorrow night. He left me no time to procure a dress."
Ethel's expression shifts abruptly, her frown melting into a smile. "Oh, that Victor. He knows me so well."
"What do you mean?"
"I've brought an abundance of gowns. He knew that, of course, when he put you in my charge. And we're about the same size."
It's impossible to ignore the fact that Ethel is rather well-endowed. I may have some trouble measuring up in that area.
She seems to notice the same problem. "Morwen is a magnificent seamstress; she'll have it fixed by tomorrow and I'll have your looks befitting a duchess's niece."
"Well, I appreciate your generosity," I say with a hint of derision in my voice. It's just like a noble to offer up her servant's talents with little regard for what the servant would want. I'm sure that Morwen doesn't wish to sew her evening away, diminishing the bust of one of Ethel's ridiculous gowns for my usage. But if I'm to blend in at the ball, I must look the part.
"I'm not doing it for you," Ethel says with a careless wave of her hand.
Her pursed lips make me wonder if, perhaps, there's something between her and Victor. Has she seen him without his mask on? Does she know what the Lord of the Underworld looks like?
Before I can ask, she's talking again. "I'm sure you're aware that this is a masquerade ball."
"No," I say. "You'll forgive me for not keeping up with the details of whatever events go on at the palace."
Ethel seems unable to pick up on the wryness of my tone. "I brought several masks along. I had so many made that it's difficult to choose just one. But once I make my decision, you are free to have your pick of whatever is left over."
"Thank you." The words pain me to say, but I know that, since I must rely on this woman to secure my place in the castle, it would be foolish to get on her bad side. At least she's oblivious to my disdain for her. I find it difficult to speak to her as an equal, so if my words don't match my tone, it's a relief that she's unlikely to notice the discrepancy. And it seems that she's too enraptured with herself to even entertain the thought that I don't adore her.
"Well, I most certainly cannot have a forgettably dressed girl posing as my niece."
If we are meant to be related, I need to have at least a basic understanding of this woman's family tree. "Am I a brother or sister's daughter?" I ask.
"Neither," she sniffs. "Looking at you, it's very clear that we cannot possibly be related by blood. Your ratty hair gives it away at first glance, and your complexion at the second."
My black hair, though lusterless, is far from ratty. As usual, it's tied back in a simple braid, where it can't get in my way. Though I don't put much stock into my appearance, I do keep myself clean and well-groomed.
Ethel shakes her head. "No, you couldn't be my sister's daughter. We'll say that you are the child of my late husband's brother. You do look rather like him."
"What is my father, then?" I ask. "A lord, perhaps?"
"He is nobody. Disinherited for marrying a common milkmaid, the fool. It is through my humble generosity that you are able to attend the prince's ball under my sponsorship."
I find it amusing that she would disparage her husband's brother for marrying a milkmaid, as though she believes this is something that should be shameful. But it doesn't surprise me how out of touch this woman is. She is a duchess, after all, and likely knows nothing of the real world. She more than likely married her own husband for the status he could give her, rather than for true love.
The coach slows to a stop and the footman opens the door. Immediately, the duchess is barking orders at him.
"Bring me a cloak from one of my trunks. A long one."
The footman hastens to obey and, only a minute later, appears at the door holding a long red cloak. He passes it to Ethel who, in turn, hands it to me.
"Cover yourself," she commands. "I don't want anyone to see you dressed like that."
I fasten the cloak around my shoulders and pull the hood up to hide my face. Then I climb out of the coach, ignoring the footman's proffered handâI don't need help to walk down three steps.
Once I'm on the ground, I can tell how fine the material of this cloak is. It hangs around me, the fabric gently rippling in the slight early-summer breeze that drifts through the magnificent courtyard that I now find myself in. There is a fountain nearby, its shimmering water shooting up in its center before cascading down in a wide, rounded sheet of iridescence. Beyond the cobblestone drive are meticulously kept shrubs and rosebushes that fill the air with the sweet scent of flourishing blooms. Before me, great marble stairs lead upwards to the large, gilded castle doors, a grand entrance to an even grander building. Tall and stately, the castle stretches above me until it scrapes the sky, the beauty of its limestone towers and turrets compromising none of its strength.
Several male servants, dressed in the scarlet of the castle staff, hurry down the stairs. They all bow to the duchess, then all but one begin unloading her many trunks from the back of the coach.
The one servant says, "Welcome, Your Grace and...madam."
He doesn't know how to properly address me, apparently. I don't know how I'm supposed to be addressed, either.
"This is my niece," Ethel says. "Lady Nyx."
The servant bows again, his hooked nose nearly touching the ground. "My Lady. It is an honor to have you make your debut at Prince Adrian's ball. If I may show you to your chambers, the other servants will follow with your things."
It's strange to hear the Silver Prince's real name. Everyone in Durnwall refers to him as "the Silver Prince" instead, and I have gotten into the habit as well.
Ethel nods graciously, and we follow the servant into the castle. I am instantly surrounded by more finery than I have ever seen in my life. Many great glass windows receive light into the entry hall. Its high ceiling stretches at least thirty feet above my head, and red velvet banners with the symbol of the Bancroft House embroidered on it in gold silk thread hang from the walls. The crest is unique to the royal family: two great lions raised on their hind legs, battling each other to represent strength, with a dove encircled by an olive branch hovering above them to represent peace.
Peace and strength, where strength is shown through war. It's never made much sense to me, but I suppose it sums up the hypocrisy of the Bancroft line. And it's a nod to Lord Charis, surely, a god that I am certain that King Thurstan calls upon regularly. The god of war. His most common symbol is a lion holding an olive branch clenched between its powerful jaws.
The servant leads us up a wide marble staircase that curves gracefully, and then we step onto the second floor. To our left is a row of windows, and to our right are elaborately carved doors spaced at long intervals. The chambers behind them must be large, to necessitate such large amounts of space between them.
We are brought to the room at the end of the hall, just before the hallway turns right and continues down the length of the castle. The servant man unlocks the door and the duchess strides inside as though she owns it. I suppose she does, at least for the foreseeable future. Suddenly, a thought occurs to me: how long does she intend to stay here? I hope she doesn't plan to leave right after the ball; it will take me at least a few weeks to obtain the information I need.
The other servants file in and set up the duchess's trunks around the large room. While they work, I look around, unable to suppress my awe. After living on the wide-open streets, I was able to rent Blythe's tiny fourth-floor room. I went from immense, unsafe space to a cramped bedroom not much bigger than a closet. This place is like nothing I've ever experienced.
The ceiling is at least eight feet high, and the walls are papered with a curling pale blue-and-gold pattern that is reminiscent of the duchess's carriage. A large bed, draped with the same colors, is situated across from a great mirror that takes up an obscene amount of the wall. At the very back of the room, a large window illuminates the space.
"And this chamber is for you, madam," the servant man who led us here tells me. He opens a small brown door beside the mirror and leads me into yet another bedroom. This one is almost identical to the main chamber, only smaller, and decorated in shades of pastel green.
I'm surprised by how much I like it. All my life, I've been surrounded by the coarse plainness of peasantry, but now... I can't deny that there's something attractive about silk sheets and plush carpets. No wonder the rulers want to keep this all to themselves. They must fear that even the smallest drop of luxury would leave their subjects craving more.
I sit down on the bed and allow my body to sink into the soft mattress. For a girl who's never much cared for splendor, I could see myself developing a taste for it. Sometimes, when I'm at the edge of Durnwall and I spare the castle a glance, I can feel hatred biting at my stomach like a strange creature trying to claw its way out. All my life, I've heard about what's hidden in this place. I know that every room in this castle is like the one I'm sitting in nowâand some, like the prince's bedchamber, are perhaps even more grandiose. There is a vast amount of wealth that these people keep hidden from the rest of Durnwall. From the rest of Itoria, even.
I'm glad for the Lord of the Underworld. No one can say that his schemes aren't well-deserved. After what these people have done, they deserve for their lives to be ruined. I can feel my determination to help Victor blaze to life inside of me. It takes much more than gold to force my hand, and the promise of an overturned kingdom is all the motivation I need.
He said that I'm the only one who can help him. I think he must be right. After all, I've never met another who can match my skills. The Silver Prince had better watch his back.