Leaving Lila with her thoughts.
That’s how it was with Alex now. Anger and betrayal etched all over her face.
Lila deserved such treatment, though, didn’t she? She hadn’t just been a part of the investigation that had netted her friend’s mother and brother. She’d been behind it, had spurred it on.
Lila stepped inside her bedroom and checked for bugs, then opened her snoop programs.
They’d netted no results.
Sighing, she plopped down in her desk chair and pulled off her gloves and boots. She spent nearly two hours altering the program and setting it to run again. Sliding back the panel to the secret compartment in the closet, she hid her clothes in a canvas sports bag. Then she shuffled to the bathroom, stretching her slashed fingers, wincing as she opened and closed her palms.
A long, hot shower washed the sweat from her skin. Tristan’s open window had only done so much to combat the heat from his body and the lack of air conditioning—air conditioning that Tristan would not turn on because of Dixon.
Lila drained the tub and wrapped her hair in a towel, searching for something casual to wear to breakfast with her father, stitched with her family’s coat of arms on the right breast. It would look too official if she wore her blackcoat to Bullstow this morning, and odd if she wore unmarked clothes. She only did that when meeting with spies or Tristan’s organization.
She only wore them when she needed to be anonymous.
She only hid them so her mother wouldn’t send in a slave to burn them.
After settling on a crimson blouse and a pair of black trousers, Lila slipped on a pair of knee-high boots while her computer read out the latest article from Alexandre Bouchard. Tristan used the pen name, as well as a second, to write for the New Bristol Times. It was his attempt to subvert the conversation, to warp public opinion on many issues important to the workborn by using two writers on opposite sides of the same issues, one just a bit more reasoned and persuasive than the other. He did a damn fine job of it, too. Not only could he live well off his salaries, but Mael Faucheux and Alexendre Bouchard were frequently quoted throughout Saxony. It was quite a feat for the son of a slave and a highborn father, a father who had never acknowledged him but had provided for his education.
Tristan had used it well.
After drying her hair, she put her daily coating of ointment on her hands, bandaged them, and slipped on her black gloves, all to keep dirt and germs from her wounds. Then she stared at the ugly purple bruise on her jaw. Concealer had only muted it.
There was a timid knock at the door before it burst open.
Lila peeked out from the bathroom as Isabel entered with a pile of fresh linens. Her red hair had been pulled into a bun, and the white blouse and black skirt she wore fit a bit loosely. The young woman enjoyed Chef’s cooking far too much to miss meals. Alex’s recent attitude had forced her to work harder, to pick up the slack.
“I’m sorry, madam.” Isabel gasped and bowed, desperately backing out of the room. “I thought you’d gone already to Falcon Home.”
“I’m running a bit late. Will you stay for a moment, please? I need a word.”
Isabel fumbled with the linens uncertainly.
“If you need to work while we talk, do so. I know you’re busy lately.”
Busy and too shy to sit down and have a relaxed conversation with the chief of security and former prime. Lila was never sure which title made Isabel more nervous.
Isabel had come into the compound at eighteen, convicted of stealing from a Randolph department store. Bullstow had turned the girl over to the Randolph militia after sentencing, and Lila had nearly signed the paperwork to send her to the auction house.
Chef had vouched for her, had vowed to supervise the girl and take responsibility if the family would retain the girl’s mark. She didn’t give Lila any more information than that.
Predictably, Lila had dug a little deeper.
It turned out the girl had stolen for her little brother and sister, both on the cusp of attending school. Isabel had been raising the pair all alone, or alone in principle, as their father was a useless drunk. The man rarely crawled from their shared apartment, and lately, the money from their inheritance had begun to run out sooner and sooner at the end of every month.
Since the family didn’t have money for school supplies and uniforms, Isabel had tried to steal them. She’d managed the supplies but hadn’t quite gotten away with stealing the clothes. She’d been caught, and only a few days later, her sister and brother had gone into foster care. The neighbors had found them roaming the halls with soiled clothes and empty bellies, crying for their big sister. They still didn’t understand why she’d been taken. Their father hadn’t bothered to explain it, and he’d been too drunk to notice that the children had slipped out.
After meeting Isabel, it became obvious that she was far too dreamy and nervous to spy for another family. Lila had set up a frightening meeting with the chairwoman, and because Isabel was docile a
nd sweet and pretty, she’d been assigned to the great house. The chairwoman had even pulled a few strings with New Bristol’s Family Protection Services. Isabel’s siblings were put in her care while she served her year-long sentence for theft.
It might not have happened at all if Chef hadn’t agreed to sponsor the young family, peeking in and writing the necessary reports, vowing she’d ensure the children got to school, and ensuring that Isabel would work through her online parenting courses.
Isabel was so appreciative that she’d signed a servant’s contract right after her slave’s term ended. It was a damn good job for someone like her, finding herself in the great house of Randolphs despite her poor education, making plenty of money to care for her young family. Plus she was fond of Chef’s food. In fact, that was pretty much all Isabel would talk about if pressed. Books and food.
Lila and Chef saw to it that she had plenty.