The Deathsniffer’s Assistant (The Faraday Files Book 1) (45 page)

Rosemary brightened. “I’ve
really
missed you,” she said, eyes shining.

“I suppose there are things more important than politics and scandals,” Fernand allowed.

Life always goes on,
Chris reminded himself.
You can lose control of yourself now, but you’ll just regret it tomorrow when life keeps going on.
“I’m in the mood some for cribbage,” he said, and was rewarded with a happy squeal from Rosemary. “Who wants to go and fetch the board?” He took another drink of his tea without thinking, and then blinked and smacked his mouth. “…and this is perfectly fine, actually,” he said as his sister scampered away in search of the board and a deck of cards. “Quite good.”

“I thought as much,” Fernand said. A furrow of worry creased his brow. “If you don’t mind me saying, young master…you seem a bit frazzled, today.”

It was all Chris could do not to reach out and slap the old man up the side of the head. As if there was any wonder why. But he forced a smile, like he always did, and took another drink of the tea. The spice and mildness combined to swirl down to his toes and make him curl them in bliss. “I’m just going a little mad, I think,” he said, and that was the truth.

He floated on a lake of consciousness, just barely above the waterline, dipping down and then up, falling and rising, unable to grip onto either state. It was dark and he was in his room and he was dreaming. Olivia sat at a table with Doctor Livingstone, saying, “Fifteen two, fifteen four, and a pair is six.” The doctor looked up and said, “Ah, here she is,” as Rosemary was led into the room by a man without a face, and then someone was breathing heavily, and they were doing it right by his ear.

He twisted to tap the salamander-lantern on his bedside table and he couldn’t move.

Panic rose in his throat and he felt a scream bubble in from all the way down in his toes, fanning out in his stomach, filling his lungs, surging up his throat and then cresting on his tongue. A hand clamped down over his mouth and trapped it inside of him.

“You’re asleep.”

That made him feel better. He sighed and the faceless man led him into the room, where William Cartwright and Evelyn val Daren were still playing cards. “Buckley,” Officer Cartwright said, then frowned. “I told you to call me William.” The Duchess wept, her shoulders shaking.

The faceless man sat Chris down at the foot of the table, and he could feel hot breath stirring his hair. “Where is the list?” a voice growled.

His bedroom was black and still. Someone was in bed beside him and a hand was clamped over his mouth. Chris went to brush hair from his forehead where it clung with nervous sweat, but he couldn’t move his hand. Was he awake? “What…” he whispered into the darkness. “What list?”

A grunt of impatience. “Your father’s list. Whose names are on it?”

His eyelids fluttered closed, and he was waltzing with Rachel Albany in a grand ballroom. She wore green and it brought out the golden flecks in her eyes. Her skirts swirled around his legs and her face was soft and beautiful in the lamplight. Her eyes sparkled as she stared up at him. They moved together like they were made for one another and his hand was on the small of her back. He leaned in and murmured against her ear. “Am I awake?”

His partner pulled away from him to look into his eyes. William Cartwright hummed and sighed. “What did your father tell you about the Floating Castle?” he whispered. “Where is the list, Christopher?”

He smelled like heather and sunlight. Chris buried his nose in the young man’s hair and felt his lips on his neck. “I don’t know about any list.”

His bed springs groaned and the floor squeaked. He heard the door of his room close. The wind blew the curtains at his window. He could see them dancing like ghosts in the corner of his eye. He couldn’t move…he couldn’t move…

Am I awake?

The next thing he knew, birds were singing, sunlight was streaming in, and another year post-Castle to face was laid out before him. He raised a hand to rub his eyes, remembering vivid and confusing dreams, but unable to recall much of anything.

He pulled himself up from bed. Another long day ahead of him.

hy are you here, Liv?”

Chris glanced up from his notebook just in time to see Olivia’s jaw tighten. He slid his eyes to Rayner Kolston, who was holding up a copy of that morning’s paper, its headline proclaiming: ASPIRING POETESS ACCUSED OF BRUTALLY MURDERING DUKE VAL DAREN, INVESTIGATIVE TRUTHSNIFFER OLIVIA FARADAY ORDERS ARREST. The little man raised his eyebrows and shook the paper. Olivia folded her arms. Chris held his breath. That question had been hovering at the tip of his tongue since the two of them had climbed out of the hackney.

“I don’t know,” Olivia grumbled.

“Ah.” Kolston set the paper back down on his desk and spread his hands helplessly before him. “Well,” he said. “Only so much I can do to help you out, then, ain’t there?”

Olivia growled and turned on her heel. She paced. She wrung her hands as she did so, a gesture of restless energy rather than distress, and her trailing skirts rustled and bunched behind her as she moved. Chris could almost see her tail twitching. “I
didn’t
order that arrest. My supervisor did.”

“Eh, I know how these things work. You must have authorized it. Can’t do it otherwise.”

“I had no choice!” Olivia stopped to bark, and then immediately set off again. The old floorboards squeaked and moaned. “I had no choice,” she repeated. “Maris believes it was her. It
looks
like it was her, Gods, how could it not be her? It had to be here. It wasn’t her.”

Kolston scanned the article. His mouth moved in time with the words he read, but Chris could tell the man was making a deliberate show of it. He’d already read the article. And why not? The headline must have caused him no small relief. He was barely a suspect, but he was a suspect. He’d sleep better with someone else under arrest.

In fact, it was beginning to seem the only person who wouldn’t rest well with Vanessa Caldwell behind bars was Olivia Faraday.

When the creditor looked up from the paper again, Chris’s hand itched to slap his face. His simpering expression was so obviously feigned that it was more insulting than a smug grin. “This all seems sorted as gets, to me, love,” he drawled. “The girl had her poem in the
Herald
, found out her unwanted suitor was thinking he might become her unwanted husband, and the poor dearie couldn’t handle it.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Don’t really blame her, I suppose. I’d have shivved Vik myself if I thought I’d have to swear vows to him.”

Olivia paused long enough to regard him shrewdly through the black lace of her veil. “Is that a confession?” she asked.

“You wish it were.”

Olivia sighed. “I do,” she said, and she stopped moving. She dropped her hands to her sides. “I really do.”

No one moved for a long moment.
Can we leave, now?
Chris wanted to ask. He hated this man and this office. Vanessa Caldwell was shackled into a police car on her way from Vernella as they spoke. When she arrived, Officer Dawson would be irritated if they hadn’t questioned her connections. Not that Olivia showed any inclination to. When Christopher had arrived at the office, still shaking off bizarre, half-remembered nightmares, Olivia had been waiting at the curb with a taxicab, restless and innervated. Chris had let himself think she’d had some epiphany during the night and they were on their way to entrap the real culprit. He’d even let himself keep thinking that when they arrived here, right up until the moment Olivia had opened her mouth to speak and nothing had come out.

Now the creditor and the Deathsniffer regarded one another, him all amused bewilderment, her all peckish desperation. When Kolston finally sighed and went to speak, Olivia leaned toward him like a flower stretching for a ray of sunlight. It was almost heartbreaking.

“Tell me, Liv, you ever heard the story of the Faceless Rogue, faceshifting sonabitch and best conman in all Tarland?”

A small, unwilling smile crossed Olivia’s angry face. “Was his real name Rayner Kolston?” she asked lightly.

The sumfinder gave a laugh. “Oh, I only just wish,” he said. “You know why there are so many laws and taboos on faceshifting, lovely? Because any seeshifter brave enough to go ahead and do it is going to rob the trousers off every single person he walks past. When you can be anyone in the world, well…it’s no wonder the Faceless Rogue were the best conman Tarland ever did see, until he made his great mistake.”

Olivia’s burgeoning smile faded. “And what mistake would that be?” she asked.

“It’s a good one,” Kolston said leadingly, but when her icy gaze didn’t melt, he threw up his hands helplessly and sighed with dramatic exaggeration. “Short version, then, right,” he said. “Well. The Faceless Rogue was a right bastard of a criminal. He’d walk into banks looking like the banker and walk out with thousands of royals in his bags. He’d go to appointments meant for members of the Assembly, learn all about their plans, and sell them to the other side. And he’d tumble all the highborn Old Blood ladies by wearing the face of their husbands and slipping right into their beds like it were nothing. He were the best at it, and he were so good, near fifty years of doing it and he never once got caught.

“Well, time comes, the Faceless Rogue wants to retire. He’s getting on in years and ain’t got the stamina for it anymore. But he don’t want to just fade away, eh? He wants one last take that’ll make him into a real legend. He starts looking about here and there for a good score, something that’ll stand out, and he looks and looks and―”

“This is the short version?” Olivia asked. She tapped her foot.

Kolston threw his hands in the air. “You know how to ruin a good story, Liv, let me tell you. Fine, to the good part. He decides to go after the Prince Royal’s favourite cousin. He’s a famous face at court, known to be a bit of a show-off. He’s always talking about his collection. Art, mostly, and worth a bloody fortune, if you fence it outside of Tarland. And why not, if you’re retiring? Civilization is overrated.

“Well, he pulls off the take. Biggest and best heist of the century. He even gives the jackanape’s wife a go while he’s in there, because why not? He’s wearing the fellow’s face, and everyone knows she’s a sight to see. He’s managed to do the impossible, and now all he’s got to do is take all the priceless junk he’s gathered up and get hisself out.