Alaric had never in his life drunk tea so magnificent. The tea Ms. Snow had prepared was of such splendor that an untrained orphan like Alaric simply lacked the vocabulary to describe it. Simon Smith, however, would thank her in surprised delight — so he did.
"It's Ms. Blackwood's favorite," Ms. Snow said. "Black tea."
Funny.
The maid had led him and Mr. Red — Simon and Thomas, to her — into the guest wing. A blasted guest wing! Alaric's entire childhood home would have fit in here, along with all its unwilling, little inhabitants.
He could see it in his mind's eye as he took in the room: the ivory paneling, the red wallpaper, the deep armchairs upholstered in some butter-soft leather, and he thought:
We'd have played tag here.
They would have called the brass lamps with their fine cogs the stars, skidded across the rug bearing the Blackwood crest until, one day, the threads stood up like summer grass. On the table before him — polished to a shining mirror — they'd have rolled marbles that clicked against porcelain cups.
They'd have hidden in the curtains, even though the fabric probably cost more than a year of soup. And the hearth, with its low flicker, would have painted their faces orange as they pretended to be courtiers of the Royal Family.
Alaric took another sip and forced Simon Smith's grateful smile onto his lips. So much wealth for one single family.
In the end, someone really ought to thank him and Mr. Red. The Blackwoods had more than enough to spare.
Meanwhile, inside his partner's head, there seemed to be no barefoot ghosts racing across expensive parquet. Thomas crossed his legs and addressed the motionless Ms. Snow:
"Ms. Blackwood keeps an impressive servant, if you're looking after this entire estate alone."
Ms. Snow gave a slight shake of the head.
"Thank you, but you misunderstand. The rest of the staff comes up from Nex City monthly to keep the estate in peak condition."
Simon nodded, then said,
"Even so, I can't see so much as a speck of dust."
"They were here only yesterday," Ms. Snow explained.
So it's just you and Victoria Blackwood here.
Perhaps his worries had been misplaced as well. In a house this large, one could get lost quickly — or something could go missing before any of the few present noticed.
Of course, Alaric and Mr. Red hadn't come without a specific aim. But it had to wait. Without a conversation between Thomas, Simon, and Ms. Blackwood, the plan could go no further.
At the thought of the mistress of the house, Alaric had to will back a bead of sweat.
She hunts the Creatures. Who does that alone besides the idiots from the sects?
Rich people had truly peculiar hobbies.
"How long has Ms. Blackwood been out?" Simon asked casually.
Without glancing at a clock, Miss Snow answered,
"Four hours and eleven minutes."
Simon frowned.
"Four hours… nothing's happened to her, has it?"
Ms. Snow's brows lifted and she gave a brief, involuntary giggle. She covered her mouth at once. Simon cursed the hand that had stolen the view — yes, definitely Simon, not Alaric.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to laugh," Ms. Snow said, the mask of professionalism slipping neatly back into place.
"It's just that Ms. Blackwood isn't the one you should worry about. Her quarry will fare worse."
Was that a threat? Simon might have missed it, but Alaric found the line a touch too ornate for a normal reply.
"Why should I worry about a creature? The fewer, the better," he said.
"Well, by that I meant... of course you're right, young Mr. Smith."
"Please, Simon is fine. Mr. Smith is my father."
His father, who had already finished his tea. The old man was so stereotypical sometimes.
Alaric would gladly have learned more about Ms. Blackwood or the history of this house. Any information was welcome — they'd researched hard to locate the pearls, but within the villa itself they were blind.
Before Simon could set another snare, his tea began to tremble.
Is high quality tea supposed to do that?
No — the tremor just showed first in the wavering surface of the liquid. A heartbeat later, he felt it too.
He heard it as well. But it was a peculiar sound, like listening to thunder underwater.
"What is that?" Simon asked, gripping the armchair.
Ms. Snow stood unruffled and briefly closed her eyes.
"Why, my mistress, of course."
Alaric flicked a glance at Mr. Red. No reaction.
All right. Then we stick to the plan. Whatever comes…
What came was a violent slam of a door and then footsteps beyond the guest wing. Then the unmistakable voice of wealth:
"Elis! Where are you?"
"Here, Ms. Blackwood!" Elis called, taking measured steps toward the door.
...which flew inward, narrowly missing the maid's slender frame. Ms. Blackwood swept into the room without losing so much as a sliver of speed.
"What are you doing in the guest wing? We don't have—"
Guests.
Ms. Blackwood fell silent. At least Alaric assumed this small woman was Ms. Blackwood. The entire family was intensely private — even though he and Mr. Red had gathered information and seen photographs in the papers, he had never laid eyes on the young lady herself.
"Ms. Blackwood?" he asked anyway. For had he seen her on the streets of Nex City, he would have given her a wide berth... at least in her present state.
She resembled the storm massing on the horizon more than a lady. Layers and layers lay over a dark riding jacket: first coarse felt, then a rubberized oilskin, then a heavy, fur-lined coat whose fringe at the hem seemed to crackle softly. The fastenings were glass buttons instead of metal, the seams sealed with resin. Her hands were hidden in padded gloves up to the elbow, her red-glinting eyes wide, and her shoulder-length black hair matted with some unknown fluid.
Was she… did she fight a fucking storm?
Alaric was astonished. So was Ms. Blackwood. Her gaze moved slowly from Simon and Thomas Smith to Elis, then down to her own condition. She cleared her throat, drew herself as upright as one could inside that mountain of clothing, and said:
"Well, you could have told me we were receiving guests."
Thomas rose from his chair.
"Ms. Blackwood, my name is Thomas Smith. Ms. Snow is not at fault. We came unannounced, though for good reason."
Simon stood as well to introduce himself, but Ms. Blackwood lifted a gloved hand.
"We'll speak after. After a bath."
With that she beckoned her maid and promptly vanished — rubber boots and all, as Alaric noticed — out of the guest room.
He could have sworn she flushed a little.
***
"Smith Personnel Placement? I can't say I've heard of that firm."
Half an hour later the guest wing stood empty. The four people in the house had gathered instead in Ms. Blackwood's private study. Still not the room Alaric ultimately needed to reach, but already closer to his goal.
"We're a young company, Ms. Blackwood. Someone of your caliber wouldn't have heard of us yet, but if anyone knows how to leverage this potential, it's you," Thomas replied.
Ms. Blackwood arched a brow.
"And what exactly is it that you do?"
"Well, do you know how many new factories open in Nex City every day?"
"Three."
"Three, and... Ah, so you know."
Ms. Blackwood folded her arms and leaned back in her chair. Now she already looked like a different person. Like the lady of the house. A simple black dress, gold rings and silver chains, earrings, and a pretty, well-kept face on which boredom was beginning to settle.
Thomas Smith was not in a good position.
"...and each of those three, and the three-hundred before them, needs a daily influx of workers. Factory work is hard. People quit constantly, even with a family to feed."
"Blackwood Industries offers our employees many benefits," Ms. Blackwood countered.
Inwardly Alaric grimaced. Simon sat quietly, his eyes fixed on the desk. His father spoke for him:
"Well yes, Blackwood Industries owns forty percent of the realm's steel, arms, airship, and rail shipyards. The remaining sixty fight each other daily — but people are still the most crucial resource."
"And why should I care if our competitors find it easier to source staff?" Ms. Blackwood asked.
Perhaps you should care that people find it easier to get a meal…
Thomas laced his fingers
"Money and churn. We recruit, vet, pre-train — and place. Middlemen are the ones who pile up wealth because they control the flow. We employ the workers and lease them on: the yard pays a hundred, the man receives seventy — thirty goes to housing, equipment, liability, profit."
"The Blackwood Academy already exists for that."
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Her silver rings chimed softly.
"It trains and educates the realm's most valuable talents and assigns them to posts. We don't need intermediaries skimming off human capital."
Thomas nodded slowly.
"Allow me one question then, Ms. Blackwood. Could an orphaned boy, with no name and no patron, make it into your Academy and one day become an admiral of the royal fleet? Or a simple tradesman. Would they ever have the money to even show up at the door?"
"That were two questions, but the answer is the same: with hard work, anything is possible," she returned.
Neat. Right out of a primer.
Simon lifted his gaze from the table. There was something too quick in the movement — part of Alaric had risen with him.
"With respect, Ms. Blackwood: 'hard work' is the story the rich tell the poor once they've just shut the door behind them."
Silence fell over the study. Thomas — and unmistakably Mr. Red as well — shot him the look men give when a line has been crossed.
"What are you doing?" Mr. Red hissed, barely audible.
Alaric would have liked to somehow tell him it was all part of the act, but that would have been a lie. He looked at Ms. Blackwood — at the calm and the jewelry in her face — and couldn't help but... feel a little disgust.
Perhaps the words had come out harsher than planned.
Ms. Blackwood sighed. It wasn't so much that she was tired, rather she decided. Her gaze struck Alaric head-on. Some toxic filament seemed to spool between them, as if she were looking through Simon to find someone she might recognize. Then her shoulders eased.
"Mr. Thomas, I'd like to continue this discussion with you. After all, you're the one who made the long trip."
She turned her head.
"Elis, be so kind as to show Simon the house. Start in the trophy room. Perhaps then he'll understand the Blackwood family isn't driven by greed alone."
"Of course, Ms. Blackwood," Elis said, opening the door.
Alaric felt the hinge pins tremble in the frame as the sea kissed the rock outside.
He forced the grin away. It wasn't one Simon should wear.
Perhaps it was true that the Blackwoods weren't only greed.
He, however, very much was.