Blood and Veil, page 1
REVIEWS OF SELECTED WORKS
DREADMARROW THIEF
“A novel that celebrates life and love the way only the best fantasy tales can.” —Kirkus Reviews
GRAVENWOOD
“
LAST GIRL STANDING
"Fast-paced, entertaining, and exciting, with a fresh, believable voice." —Kirkus Reviews
“An inclusive cast, a plot that allows for tension and tragedy as well as personal growth, and an adventure for our modern times." —Publishers Weekly
INVADER
“Fans of sci-fi mysteries and strong female characters should snap up this psychological page-turner."
—Publishers Weekly
“Twists and turns and an ending they won't see coming."
—The BookLife Prize
BLOOD AND VEIL
A NOVELLA
MARGIE BENEDICT
FIRST EDITION, JUNE 2020
Copyright © 2020 by Marjory Kaptanoglu
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Publisher: margiebenedict.com
Cover Design: 100 Covers
Editor: Beth Attwood
ISBN: 978-1-954584-17-4 (ebook)
Printed in the United States of America
CONTENTS
And So It Begins
BEFORE THE KILLING Prologue
Also by Margie Benedict
Acknowledgments
About the Author
For Harriet and Kay
My role models.
-With much love and gratitude
AND SO IT BEGINS
Brynn Fowler stands by the window staring into darkness. Her face is arresting, with sharp angles and a harsh, angry gaze. She wears a shawl draped over her nightgown despite the heat of the smoldering fire in the grate.
She doesn’t react to the sound of the bedroom door clicking open, or her husband entering the room and removing his clothing. Without glancing toward him, she goes to the bed, lays down her shawl, and takes off her nightgown. Sliding between the sheets, she lies on her back and looks up with blank eyes.
Her husband comes a moment later, raises the covers, and lowers himself over her. She turns her face away.
He is gone in the morning. After dressing, Brynn puts on a full-length gray cloak and a matching bonnet with an attached veil above the brim. Kneeling, she reaches into her bottom drawer and retrieves a sheathed dagger. She draws out the knife to stare at its long, narrow edge before covering it again and inserting it into the center pocket of her cloak.
On her way to the stairs, she pauses at the threshold of a cold and shadowy room, with long curtains that block the daylight. Her gaze sweeps across the shelf of porcelain dolls, the pairs of tiny leather shoes, the box of building blocks and arches. Everything in perfect, unused condition. As she runs her hand along the smooth edge of the empty cradle, her eyes are bitter.
Later Brynn alights from a horse-drawn buggy onto a crowded cobblestone street. She passes other women like herself, gray-cloaked and veiled. Unlike her, many wear a colorful brooch—a bird or a butterfly—their single distinguishing mark. In this district, only the men can easily be identified, with woolen coats and trousers of different hues, and their faces open for all to see.
Large, bright umbrellas clustered along the next block draw Brynn’s gaze to Spears outdoor market. Vendors hawk a variety of goods from clothing to goblets to jewelry to fresh comestibles. Shoppers swarm their stalls.
As Brynn steps off the curb a carriage cuts her off, nearly hitting her and splashing her hem with mud. She takes a moment to calm herself before continuing.
At the top of the hill, she finds the vendor of finely carved wooden chess pieces and leather chessboards. He is slender with pleasing, delicate features and nervous eyes. Brynn positions herself nearby, pretending to browse other merchandise.
The wait is longer than she expects, but finally the man approaches the chess vendor. With his silk jacket and thick sideburns, he looks just as he was described to her.
“You have a parcel for my wife, Madame Hunt,” he says in a haughty tone.
The vendor fetches a bundle wrapped in red ribbon from under the table and hands it to him. “I heard about the accident that befell your good lady. I hope she’s improved.”
When the haughty man leaves without answering, Brynn follows him. Perhaps a dozen other women pour into the main throughway from side streets and vendor stalls. They surround Brynn and the haughty man, pressing close. Soon only the top of the man’s head protrudes above the sea of covered ladies, until that too falls from view.
The women disperse in all directions. In their wake, the haughty man lies sprawled on his back, his torso marked by a slash of crimson blood.
Red roses line the walkway to Lavencia House, its name artfully painted above its fine mahogany door. Sufficiently grand to satisfy its gentleman patrons, the three-level building is as gracefully decorated as the courtesans who live there.
In the drawing room, seventeen-year-old Gabrielle Dardenne has her hand splayed over a cloth on the table. Beautiful, cultured, and pampered, she wears a silk dress with a low-cut bodice. Annie, in the plain, neat garb of a handmaid, paints Gabrielle’s nails. Her childlike face is sprinkled with freckles.
“Should I play ‘Bound to You Forever More’?” Gabrielle says, glancing toward her friend.
Mirah Bloom expels a short laugh. Five years Gabrielle’s senior, she plays solitaire at another table and drinks from a flagon of beer. The right half of her lovely face shines in the light of the window. “You may as well wear a sign that says ‘Pledge Me Now, Master Fowler.’”
“Hmm. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Play anything you like. It only matters that you look like an angel holding your harp.”
“I shouldn’t despair then, if my fingers stumble across the strings?”
“You play better than you think.” Mirah places a card. “Besides, half our patrons are deaf.”
“You mustn’t malign them like that.”
“We can trust Annie not to tattle.”
“Some of us has work to do, and no time to listen to nonsense,” Annie says.
Mirah turns to smile, revealing a jagged, disfiguring scar that runs from below her left eye to the corner of her mouth. “You worry needlessly, Gabrielle. I can tell he adores you just from the way he looks at you.”
“He does have brilliant eyes, doesn’t he?”
“Do you prefer his handsome face or his seat on the Council?”
“I prefer his fine intellect.”
Madame Langford, the proprietress of Lavencia House, steps into the room. She has a refined countenance, though marked by pain and fatigue. “Mirah, my dear, I have unhappy news. Your patron was badly wounded at Spears market. He is home now; physicians are attending him.”
Confusion fills Mirah’s face. “Damian?”
“Sweet god. What happened?” Gabrielle says.
“He was stabbed. Whoever was responsible got away.”
“At the market?” Gabrielle rises to comfort Mirah.
“Stay,” Madame Langford tells her. “You must be splendid tonight. You know what Master Fowler’s pledge will mean to the House.”
Madame Langford holds out her arm. “Come, Mirah. We’ll have Lily fetch a draught of wine.”
“I’ll find you later,” Gabrielle says.
After the others leave, Annie says, “Isn’t this the third time, mistress?”
Gabrielle is distracted with concern for Mirah. “What?”
“Three attacks since summer. I’ll be afeared when my sister and… and her daughter go to the market.”
“But Annie, they’ve all been men.”
Two women with their veils drawn enter the kitchen of a small row house from its back entrance. Elise Baines, whose home this is, bolts the door and removes her headdress. She has a pale, masklike face and an intense gaze that rarely connects directly with other people’s eyes.
Her servant, Ginny—sharp-nosed with thin, frowning lips—washes dishes in the basin.
“Leave us. Leave us,” Elise tells her.
Ginny shuffles out.
Brynn, Elise’s companion, raises her torn veil. Three bloody scratches mark her right cheek.
“After I… I thought he would die at once.” Brynn’s voice is edged with hysteria. “But then he reached under my veil. He dug his claws into me.” She takes the sheathed dagger from her pocket and flings it on the table. “I’ll never touch this again!”
Elise pours vinegar into a bowl and finds a clean cloth. “The cuts aren’t deep.”
“I didn’t think it would be like this. How could you make me do it?”
“Come now, the choice was yours.”
“You said we must learn to be soldiers.” Brynn winces as Elise dabs her cheek with vinegar. “You must get me out of the city.”
“After this, the borders will be doubly guarded.”
A pounding on the backdoor startles Brynn.
“It’s me,” a man says.
“My brother.” Elise opens the door to Blake Ravenshaw, the chess vendor from the market. “Any news?”
“He’s not dead yet.”
Brynn lets out a small gasp. “What if he… what if he saw my face?”
“He doesn’t know you,” Elise says. “Be calm. I doubt he’ll last the night.”
“I can’t remain here. My husband will send someone to find me.”
“You can go home. Make up a lie about your wound.”
Brynn’s eyes are wild. “Impossible. I can’t face him now. Not like this.”
It takes several hours to arrange lodgings for Brynn at an empty apartment belonging to a friend of Elise. They walk the short distance and upon entering, Brynn eyes the single room with its four-poster bed and claw-footed tub in the corner. A heavy curtain shields the only window.
“Charming,” Elise says.
“I’ve no strength to go anywhere else.” Brynn undresses by the bed.
Elise takes out a porcelain doll from her bag and sets it on the table against the wall.
“I’m not a child,” Brynn says.
Elise turns. “I thought something familiar might help to calm you.”
Brynn stiffens at the sound of horses outside.
“It’s only a passing coach,” Elise says.
“I’m not accustomed to sleeping so close to the street.”
“We could find nothing else on such short notice.”
Brynn pulls on her sleeping gown.
“In a few days, your wound will be healed and you may return home,” Elise says.
“John will know the note was a lie. He’ll come looking for me.”
“He won’t find you.” Elise pauses by the door. “I’ll have Ginny bring food in the morning.”
“He’s not the man he appears to be.”
“Rest now. Rest now. Let your fears slip away.”
Brynn lies down and shifts uncomfortably. “Even I don’t know what he’s truly capable of.”
A carriage window frames John Fowler, Brynn’s handsome husband, who has crisp blue eyes and precise, unyielding features. The carriage rolls to a stop in front of their home, an elegant townhouse in a prosperous city neighborhood.
Mason and Liam, two bodyguards armed with slender swords, jump down from the outside seat in the back. Mason has rough features, a crooked nose, and a shark tooth round his neck. Liam is youthful and gangly. His long-lashed eyelids droop lazily.
Mason opens the carriage door for John, who proceeds to his house with a forceful gait. His guards station themselves by the front door.
Inside, John removes his cloak and gives it to the housekeeper.
“Good evening, sir.” She hands him a sealed note. “From your wife. A messenger boy brought it.”
“When was this?”
“Moments ago.”
He reads the note quickly. His brow darkens.
“Shall I tell Cook to prepare supper?” she says.
“No. My wife is paying a visit to her cousin. The woman is in poor health and needs tending.”
“Very kind of the mistress.”
“I’ll be dining out. Send William up to help me dress.”
“Right away, sir.”
He bounds up the stairs and pauses outside the nursery. He decides to go in, closing the door behind him. His eyes freeze on the shelf of porcelain dolls. One by one, he shatters them on the floor by his feet. His fury spent, he rushes out.
Gabrielle plays the harp on the small stage in the Great Room, while her gaze wanders over the sumptuous venue, with seating in front of the stage, a dance floor behind that, tables for playing cards on one side, tantalizing food and drink on the other. Looking for him.
Unattached courtesans not much older than children flirt with gentlemen in the back, while those who have been pledged sit by their patrons in the audience or at the card tables.
At last John Fowler enters the hall. When his eyes connect with Gabrielle’s, her face brightens. She increases the tempo slightly as she brings her song to an end and rises to light applause. An assistant removes her harp and dancers take Gabrielle’s place on the stage. She steps down and accepts praise from a small group of admirers.
John hurries to her side and draws her away to speak in private. “Forgive my lateness.” He kisses her cheek.
“I wish I could say you missed something transformative. I trust all is well?” Gabrielle says.
“I must beg a favor of you.”
Madame Langford approaches them. “Good evening, Master Fowler. We have a ceremony about to begin and would be grateful for your attendance as official witnesses.”
John acquiesces with a nod. A moment later he murmurs to Gabrielle, “We’ll speak of it afterward.”
When the pledge begins, a decrepit Master Marley fastens a chain around the wrist of sixteen-year-old Reva, whose manner is composed if not enthusiastic. “With this bracelet, I thee pledge,” he says.
Reva responds in a monotone. “I accept thine pledge with all my heart. I swear to be thine faithful consort and never to speak to others of matters which are private to thee. My highest purpose shall be to ensure thine comfort, pleasure, and well-being.”
Standing behind the pledging couple, Gabrielle and John exchange a warm glance.
As soon as they are able following the ceremony, they retire to Gabrielle’s chamber. Their lovemaking is languorous; she is luckier than most in having a patron who pleases her as fully as she does him. Nor does he ever hurry away afterward, as most other gentlemen would do.
When their passion is spent, they lie together with her curled into the curve of his arm. He kisses her forehead lightly. “I will offer you my pledge,” he says. “Tell Madame Langford to make the arrangements by week’s end.”
Joy fills her and a moment passes before she’s able to speak. “You’ve made me the happiest of women. Tell me what favor you wish of me.”
His mood grows somber. “Today my wife sent a note saying she’s gone to visit her cousin in Easthaven. Which is strange because she never could abide the woman.”
“Perhaps she had a change of heart?”
“I don’t believe she went there at all. She hasn’t been herself of late.” He breathes out heavily. “One month ago, she miscarried.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s happened twice before. She’s taken it hard, and it’s made her draw away from me. She formed a new acquaintance, but there’s something off about the woman. I believe she’s an evil influence on Brynn.” He leans forward abruptly. “Her leaving couldn’t come at a worse time. For the last week, since the Second Minister passed, I’ve been favored to replace him.”
“The choice belongs to the First Minister, does it not?”
“He can be swayed. My rivals will be only too happy to exploit my dilemma. ‘How can he run Hightown when he fails to manage his own household?’”
“The fault isn’t yours.”
“I need you to find her for me.”
The breath catches in Gabrielle’s throat. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
“With this friend of hers. She might speak to another woman.”
“To a courtesan?”
“You need not tell her that.” He takes her hand and kisses her fingers. “Everything depends on your bringing back Brynn as quickly as possible.”
The dining hall at Lavencia House is filled with the commotion and chaos of more than thirty courtesans eating their morning repast at two long tables. Scullery maids scurry to and fro, cleaning up after the young women.
Gabrielle receives a plate of bread, cheese, sausage, and berries at a counter next to the kitchen. Rosina, one of the kitchen maids, pads up and places a piece of ginger cake on her plate. “I saved this for you, mistress.”
